Italiks

A Gilded Butterfly

by Glynn Owen Barrass

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!”

—  Lewis Carroll, Jabberwocky

“Vacancies,” the card behind the fly-spotted window stated. The house stood tall and narrow, squeezed tightly between its neighbors. Elanor, discouraged by the dirty windows, the peeling paint, had almost ignored this one. But her walk had been long. The suitcase, holding all her worldly possessions, felt heavy, and her feet ached considerably.

So, stood before a door spotted with peeling black paint, (leprous was the word she’d use), Elanor deposited her case to the floor. 

I have a bad feeling about this. This thought was nothing new. She’d experienced nothing but bad feelings for months, ever since the turn of 1927 and her decision to escape her abusive husband. Raising her hand, she reached for a brass knocker shaped like a lion’s head. and knocked. Three sharp raps.

No answer.

Should I?

Three sharp raps further, and one for good luck.

Nothing. She retrieved her case, turned back to the street. The noise of bolts sliding open made her pause.

In for a penny, Elanor thought, turning back to the door. It creaked open, and her hesitation swelled.

***

“So what brought you to Kingsport?”

The elderly woman interviewing her had probably never been pretty, even in her youth. She wore a black dress, white frills at collar and cuffs. Add this to the severe grey-haired bun, she resembled a widow in mourning. A large tabby cat sat watching Elanor from her lap. He wasn’t the only one. Other cats stared at her from atop cabinets and chairs.

“Mrs.… ”

“You may call me Mrs. Scott Glancy.”

“Mrs. Scott Glancy,” Elanor repeated. “I fancied a break from the big city, Boston that is, and my family came from here originally.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Scott Glancy’s eyes widened at this. “Your surname, my dear?”

“Walcott,” Elanor replied, using her maiden name.

“Oh, I have met many Walcotts over the years.” Mrs. Scott Glancy smiled. “Are you any relation to the Arkham Walcotts?”

Elanor shook her head, relaxed a little further into the well stuffed, slightly threadbare seat.

“Not that I know of, but it’s possible.”

Mrs. Scott Glancy nodded, a slight smile forming on her lips. It appeared she’d come to a decision.

Elanor’s earlier reservations were dissipating. She felt better, better anyway than when the stern-faced, heavily wrinkled beldam had answered the door, led her to this dark, dusty room filled with cats.

“Well my dear, you are welcome to stay.”

Relief flooded her body. After everything she’d been through, Elanor counted this as a win.

“I have quite a motley array of tenants,” Mrs. Scott Glancy continued. “They include a Spiritualist – Ms. Rawlings, a woman quite famous at the turn of the century. She has visitors here on occasion, for seances. There are three gentlemen: a deeply religious German called Hans Glanz, a polite young man named Mr. Smith, I never see him at meals, and Howard Phillips. He is a writer, or so he claims. Your room is located beneath his garret. If his typewriter gets too much for you in the night, let me know, and I will have words.”

Elanor considered this. The last thing she needed was to be on bad terms with a long-standing tenant.

“It’ll be fine I’m sure.”

“Your rent is three dollars a week, which includes breakfast and an evening meal.”

Elanor nodded. With her cash reserves, this appeared quite reasonable.

“Two weeks in advance.” Mrs. Scott Glancy paused, pursing her lips. Could this be the final test?

“Of course I’ll give you it now.” Elanor leant forward, reaching for her handbag.

Mrs. Scott Glancy’s face beamed with approval.

Elanor delved into her purse, counted the cash and passed it over, 

Mrs. Scott Glancy tucked the notes into her dress and began to get up. The perturbed cat leapt from her lap to scurry off into the shadows.

“Follow me dear,” she said, and proceeded to escort Elanor from the room. 

Beyond the door stood a narrow lobby and a narrower staircase. A frayed tortoiseshell carpet covered both floor and steps. It went well with the peeling beige wallpaper. 

The house looked a cramped place, a little claustrophobic even. Elanor’s life had been claustrophobic for so long now, what did it matter?

Mrs. Scott Glancy ascended, her dress bustling against wall and banister. Elanor followed slowly, heaving her suitcase at a discreet distance.

As they passed the second floor, she heard music issuing from somewhere.

“The Spiritualist and the German are on this floor,” Mrs. Scott Glancy said on passing.

Soon after they reached the third floor.

“Here we are.” Mrs. Scott Glancy departed the stairs and entered a short lobby, dimly lit by a small window at its termination. Halfway along the lobby two black doors faced one another. The walls and ceiling were green, while underfoot lay a Turkish Rug that had witnessed better days, weeks, and decades. 

She led Elanor towards the door on the right.

“I hope you enjoy your stay here, my dear. If you need anything, I am just downstairs.”

Mrs. Scott Glancy reached the door, opened it and pointed inside.

“Thank you,” Elanor replied, smiled, and entered her new home.

Mrs. Scott Glancy patted her on the shoulder and departed the way she’d come.

The room had a frayed green carpet, a white ceiling, beige walls with a faded pattern. It appeared clean at least. The furniture consisted of a bed, a dressing table, and a chair. A small trunk stood at the foot of the bed. 

Elanor placed her case atop the trunk and headed towards the room’s single window. A door to the bed’s left led to the bathroom, probably. Unless the house had a communal. She would check on this in a little while.

The curtains were thin, the yellow material patterned with flowers. Dust coated the glass beyond. Elanor parted the curtains and examined the view. 

The street below was cobbled, the sidewalks leading to tall, narrow houses. The gable ends of their rooftops held small, circular windows. Clusters of chimney pots arrayed the roofs, many pumping smoke into an already cloudy sky.

Beyond the smoke, she discerned the hint of a hilltop.

Kingsport was surrounded by hills, the very earth it was built upon uneven and bumpy. When she first departed the train station, Elanor had encountered huge, gambrel-roofed houses mounted upon the uneven land. All private residences, none held rooms to rent. Descending the hilly terrain, she’d headed into the city proper, entering its narrow, twisting lanes. Her explorations taking her close to the docks, she’d smelled salt on the air, heard the distant bells of buoys.

Then she came across Kane Street, a little wider than the serpentine streets she’d already traversed, and less … gloomy? Certainly, the shadow that had trailed her from Boston dissipated somewhat. 

And now, a new life and a new beginning were in her grasp.

Here’s hoping.

Elanor turned from the window and approached her suitcase. Brown fabric with rusted metal corners, it looked old, well-used, a little battered.

Story of my life, she thought, and opened it.

She scanned the contents. Mostly clothes, shoes, and some toiletries, these were her sole belongings. A little miserable really.

Shaking her head, she reached for the zippered pocket beneath the lid. The pocket held underwear and her lifeline: a large brown envelope. She retrieved it, held it to her chest. 

Elanor stepped around to the bed and emptied the envelope’s contents onto the wash-worn bedsheet.

A bundle of dogeared notes and two small envelopes spilled out. All the cash she owned, apart from the coins and dollar bills in her purse. Fifty five dollars in total, it might have to last a long time, depending on how quickly she found a job. And, if she stayed. The white envelope held her references, one from the school she’d briefly worked at, the other from her secretarial job.

I’ll do anything I can get, if it keeps a roof over my head.

The other, brown envelope held her marriage and birth certificates.

Bastard, Elanor thought, thinking of the former. She should just burn it. But for some reason, she didn’t have the heart to.

Well. She retrieved the envelopes, placing them in her handbag. Taking a ten dollar bill from the cash, she replaced the remainder in the large envelope. This she returned to her suitcase.

I should rest, I really should, Elanor thought, but she really wanted to get something done about her work position. I still have my coat and hat on anyway, might as well get it over with. 

With this in mind, she pocketed the ten dollar bill and headed to the door, closed it behind her and stepping into the lobby. Walking towards the stairs, she heard heavy footsteps, puffing, and panting, and encountered the one making the noise. 

The man was of medium height, wide and portly. Dressed in a brown wool suit, he had half a dozen books under one arm. His round face bore a sheen of sweat, his balding blonde head bearing a poor combover.

He looked surprised to see her, but a quick smile turned his face jolly.

“Oh. Oh hello, Miss.” He fumbled with his books, juggled them two-handed for a moment before tucking them under the other arm. “Are you the new tenant?”

“Um … Elanor Walcott. I just moved in.” She held out her hand.

The man took it. She noticed ink stains on his fingers.

The writer then?

He nodded quickly, shook her hand in a gentle grip. He cleared his throat so loudly, the noise echoed through the staircase.

“Elanor. That comes from the Hebrew you know? ‘El’ meaning ‘god,’ and ‘or’ meaning ‘light.’ Your name quite literally means ‘God is my light,’ or ‘God is my candle.’ Very pretty.”

“Oh, thank you.” Elanor found herself blushing.

“Oh. Erm. My name is Howard Phillips.” He performed a short bow. “At your service Miss Walcott.”

She smiled. What a kind man.

“If there’s anything you need, give me a knock.” He pointed upwards. “I’m just upstairs.”

***

The waiter serving her wore a sparkling white apron to match his sparkling white smile. He left the coffee jug on her table, along with a bowl of sugar. Today, Elanor wanted her coffee black, thick with sweetness. Her coat was slung behind her chair, her hat sitting on the seat beside her.

The checkered yellow and white tabletop held the ghosts of coffee rings. Her pocketbook, opened to a page of notes, sat beside her mug. She took a sip of Joe and slumped back into her seat. 

A few hours of Kingsport had led to two conclusions: one: finding a job wouldn’t be easy; and two: her feet needed a day’s rest. The latter was due to the city’s clumsy layout. As she’d witnessed on arrival, the hilly terrain hardly gave Kingsport a level spot to walk on. Everything was stacked haphazardly, from the homes and businesses, to the churches flanked by dark, sprawling graveyards. 

Winding streets descended to dark cul-de-sacs, or rose towards steep hills. This diner though was near the docks, and built upon flatter ground. Empty apart from her and the young waiter, noises issued from a kitchen beyond the counter. She’d removed her shoes, her stockinged feet cooling on the linoleum floor.

Elanor took another acrid, sugary drink, and looked out the window. The view boasted a row of three-storied houses, crumbling with age. This contrasted with the clean, new-looking diner surrounding her. This was something she’d noticed about Kingsport: its buildings were a stark mixture of the old and the new. Wooden steps between two of the houses descended to the beach. She would see the ocean if she stood up. 

If she weren’t so tired, she’d take a walk there. Maybe another day.

She turned her attention to the pocketbook, ran her finger down the penciled notes.

They were few and sparse. During her rounds she’d encountered no colleges and only one school, the most modern-looking building in Kingsport. The receptionist there had advised her to contact The Massachusetts Department of Education, for they allocated teaching posts. Not a complete bust, she’d just have to send a résumé and hope for the best. Perhaps Howard Phillips would type some extra copies up? The Kingsport Chronicle and The Kingsport Historical Society, the two other places she’d tried, held no job vacancies. She still had the courthouse and The Kingsport Public Library to check out, however. But not today.

Staff at the newspaper told her some vacancies might open up later in the year. She’d drop a résumé off there, for the future.

Future. Now there’s a thing. Is Kingsport the right place to be? There’d been other options, Arkham, for example, but Kingsport had appealed to her more. Considering Boston stood less than twenty miles away, she’d hardly ever heard Kingsport mentioned. This was good, if she could just—

The bell above the entrance tinkled. Two men bustled in, fishermen, by their attire. Both had faces weathered by the elements. One strode straight to the counter, the other noted her and smiled politely.

“Hey Bill, Cody,” the waiter said, “The usual?”

“Please,” a gruff voice replied, and she watched the fishermen get into their seats.

She returned her attention to her notebook. A moment later, the waiter reappeared at her table. 

“I need this,” he explained, reaching for the coffee pot. “I’ll bring you a fresh one in just a tic.”

He retrieved the coffee pot, and pausing, examined her notes. “Having any luck?”

Perhaps she wasn’t the first person he’d served here after a futile search for work.

“Ah, no,” she replied. “I’m gonna try again tomorrow. Some of the smaller businesses maybe.”

“Hmmm yeah,” he nodded understanding. “You might have better luck on harborside. Though …” He put the coffeepot back on the table, rubbed his chin. “We could probably use someone here for the morning shift, Miss?”

“Walcott,” she replied, “and I have references!”

***

Today ended Elanor’s fifth day of employment. She had the morning shift, as the waiter, Teddy, short for Theodore, promised. Five early starts and finishes, from 8 a.m. to 1 p.m., the last of which she walked home from through Kingsport’s streets. 

Due to its proximity to the ocean, Kingsport mornings were incredibly foggy. Every day she descended streets carpeted in mist, the winding, labyrinthine paths diaphanous white in the distance. It felt like she headed towards some mysterious fairyland, another realm. 

These flights of whimsey had grown during her time in Kingsport. Never of a poetic bent, something about the place brought out the ethereal in her. Her chilly morning journeys led to docks so thick with mist that the ship masts appeared to emerge from nothingness. Bells and buoys rang from the ether with gentle, numbed tones. Then there was the house, the one atop the cliffs of Kingsport Point, north of the city. Elanor sometimes thought she saw lights in the grey-peaked dwelling, but from the distance, she couldn’t be sure.

Waitressing hardly tasked her. Taking orders, delivering coffee to mostly quiet, taciturn fishermen. At lunchtime, she served the lively, enthusiastic people from the artist colony in Hilltown. It would cover her rent and then some.

Still, the job could be a little tiring to someone unused to being on their feet, so, as Elanor turned the corner onto Kane Street, she anticipated her bed.

She froze.

Kingsport had very few automobiles. She’d only witnessed two downtown, and heard one in the night. But there it stood, parked across from her lodgings. The bright blue vehicle looked out of place on a street of monochrome colors. 

Elanor composed herself, continued walking. 

As she neared, she saw the plates. Boston plates. My god. She went weak at the knees, found herself, without conscious volition, speeding her gait towards home. 

Two shadowy silhouettes sat in the front seats. The glowing cherry of a cigarette end appeared near the one on the driver’s side, followed by a puff of smoke from the window. 

Elanor ran now, the sound of her heels heavy on the sidewalk. 

Any moment she expected the car door to open, the hated, evil form of her husband stepping to the cobbles with malicious intent.

Paranoia, that’s all this is. Look at how well you covered your tracks. She was a dozen yards from Mrs. Scott Glancy’s now.

He knows I’m Boston, born and bred. Doesn’t know I have ancestors here. Why would he even come here? Elanor entered the yard fronting the house. Reaching the door seconds later, thankfully it was unlocked.

Darting inside, she slammed the door, sweating hands gripped around the doorknob. Her heart pounded and her breaths came fast and urgent.

Paranoid. 

Is that a car door opening?

Just a coincidence.

Footsteps?

Elanor backed away through the lobby, her steps leaden. At any moment, she expected the door to burst open. It didn’t, and after waiting some minutes longer, her breathing slowed, her jackhammer heart ceased beating so strongly in her chest.

The fear and apprehension left her weak as a kitten. Mounting the stairs, she ascended like an invalid, using bannisters for support and feeling she might fall at any moment.

After unlocking her door, Elanor found a reserve of strength and used it to hurry to the window.

The car was gone.

A tap on her door made her wince.

Oh. Who could that be. Not someone from the car surely?

Elanor slipped out of her heels, tiptoed towards the door. 

She took a deep breath. “Who is it?”

Silence for a little while, then a female voice, muffled by the wooden barrier. “I am your downstairs neighbor.”

The spiritualist? Elanor opened the door a crack.

A diminutive woman stood there waiting.

Ms. Rawlings. A strong, spicy odor surrounded her. Very pungent, exotic even.

She wore a green coat, a black velvet hat covered in tatty yellow feathers. Dark tinted glasses concealed much of her face, the visible skin pale.

Relieved she was her visitor, Elanor opened the door fully.

“Hello young lady.” Even with the door open, her voice sounded muted. “I am Ms. Rawlings from downstairs. And you are?”

The woman’s elfin face broke into a smile of tiny brown teeth.

Nosey, or overly polite?

“I’m Elanor, here for a vacation,” she lied,  offering her hand. 

Ms. Rawlings hand was small, knobby with arthritis. It felt icy cold in Elanor’s grip.

They shook, and Ms. Rawlings continued.

“I wanted to say hello, and also … On occasion, I have guests come to my room. Tomorrow night is such an occasion. I apologize in advance for any disturbances you hear.”

“Oh that’s alright. I usually sleep like a log.”

Ms. Rawlings chuckled, revealing the brown-toothed smile again.

“Gods bless you, dear.” At this, she shuffled off towards the stairs.

***

I usually sleep like a log. The second night after seeing the car, Elanor still had trouble sleeping. No other incidents had occurred. Still the fear remained. How long would it take to pass? Not long, she hoped.

Tonight, like the night before, she stared at the ceiling and tried to force herself to sleep. A couple of mystery novels sat on the bedside table, borrowed from Howard Phillips, but she was too tired to read, too wired to sleep. Rain had begun falling earlier. Much heavier now, it slashed against the window.

This wasn’t the only sound. In the room above, Howard Philips worked diligently at his typewriter. Some noises had issued from below earlier, shifting furniture and muttering voices. 

The room was silent now. Or the noise was inaudible because of the rain.

Again she tried clearing her head. Difficult, with the niggling doubts, itching at her like a rash. Nevertheless, having avoided the usual nap after her morning shift, the fatigue crept closer. Before Elanor knew it, she’d fallen asleep. And then …

The dream was a familiar one. She’d experienced it many times, long before her arrival at Kingsport. Elanor was running through a house, a house of impossible dimensions. 

Each and every room led to another room. Endless. She couldn’t stop running because something unseen stalked her relentlessly. Elanor’s dream panic sent her hurrying forwards, for to stop … There could be no stopping. To halt was to die. 

In her waking hours, it wouldn’t take Freud to decipher the dream’s meaning. Every time she opened a door, Elanor expected to find the thing pursuing her in wait. Tall and mighty, with biting teeth and grabbing, clawing hands. So, Elanor continued through the unending doors, through rooms she never fully witnessed in her panicked flight.

The next door opened onto a black void. Surprised and unable to halt her momentum, Elanor fell through the darkness.

 She landed heavily on her own bed.

This is unexpected. Elanor tried to move but her limbs felt leaden. A low buzz reached her ears, followed by an unexpected lurch that spun her clockwise.

One, two, three turns of the clock, and she was falling again, not as swiftly this time. Elanor felt herself pass through her bed, the floorboards. Another lurch, and she was upside down, gaining a weird, birds-eye view of the room beneath her own.

What the?

She hovered above a table seating four people. Their hands were joined, little finger to little finger. All their eyes were closed. 

Directly below her sat the diminutive Ms. Rawlings. The woman’s head moved in a circular motion, her glasses catching the light from a candle at the table’s center. Some strange trance was upon her.

To her right sat an elderly man with white hair and beard to match. Dressed from another era, he had the collar of his frock coat pulled high around his neck.

He faced another man, this one cadaverously thin. Olive-skinned, with distinctly canine features, he had brown hair combed over a balding scalp. He wore a new-looking pinstripe suit. 

The final figure sat across from Ms. Rawlings. Large and bald, his scabby head appeared green in places. His eyelids covered a pair of huge, bulging eyes. The man looked oddly muscled beneath a stained black suit.

She’s with the Kingsport Elders. Elanor thought. The Terrible Old Man, The Ghoul, and The Frogman. This thought came to her unbidden.

Is this a dream? It felt real, as real as a thing like this could do, anyway. Elanor’s curiosity started to overcome her fear as she examined the silent tableau. 

Beside the candle sat a large bronze egg, suspended on wires inside a wooden box. Five, starfish-shaped copper bowls surrounded the box and candle. The bowls issued smoke, the same exotic smell Ms. Rawlings had about her when they’d met.

“Ohhhhhhhh.” Ms. Rawlings moaned. “I’ve found him. Now, complete the binding.”

The men started chanting, a monotonous drone in a language Elanor didn’t recognize.

As they continued, she felt a tugging sensation in her chest.

The fear returned. This dream was growing stranger, more frightening.

The chant filled her ears. The tugging transformed into a powerful wrench. She felt her very essence being taken from her.

The bronze egg snapped in two. The insides sparkled, glowed red. 

The egg sourced the tug, its crimson depths hungering for her soul.

And oddly enough, this didn’t seem so bad. The more she stared at the egg, the calmer she felt. Scarlet plains awaited her there, infinite starfields in a ruby red sky.

An end to pain and thought. Just … Oblivion.

Take me.

Ms. Rawlings jerked in her seat, looked up.

The old man pointed a gnarled finger right at Elanor.

“Tis’ the wrong mind we summon!” he said, his deep voice at odds with his frail appearance. “Send her away!”

Ms. Rawlings started shouting, gibberish words in an odd, liquid voice.

The lure of the red world disappeared. All that remained was her vulnerability at being discovered.

Elanor’s body twisted round to face the ceiling. An invisible force shoved her up and through it.

Darkness followed. A moment later, she was awake. Elanor felt disorientated, her body soaked in sweat.

Outside, the rain continued to pour. Above, Howard Phillips tap-tap-tapped rhythmically at his typewriter.

***

Sleep came easily despite her strange experience. The next morning, Elanor felt quite fatigued, however, her face in the bathroom mirror wan and dark around the eyes. She washed and dressed quickly, not wanting to be late for work. 

During her time at Kane Street, she’d never seen her neighbor, the elusive Mr. Smith. Or heard his door, for that matter. Upon leaving her room, she found that door ajar. A foul odor emanated from his room, accompanied by a murmuring voice.

Elanor felt intrigued. Creeping towards Smith’s door, she fought a sneeze from the smell.

Pausing behind the door, she listened. 

“Mount the small quartz crystal onto the Y-clamp. Yes. Adjust mirror two to seventeen degrees. Yes. Take mirror five, turn it three degrees. Angle it to face the scryer. Load up the vibro-needles using gold solder. Invoke the Voorish Sign, then the Elder Sign, second branch ascension.”

What the? Elanor backed up. Whatever he was up to in there, it was really no business of hers. The voice continued as she headed for the stairs.

Her fatigue wore off during a busy morning shift. The usually taciturn fishermen were in good spirits due to a bountiful morning catch. The tips were fantastic, and would go towards buying the gramophone she wanted. She completely forgot about last night’s strange dream.

Later, Elanor returned to her lodgings with a distinct spring in her step.

Stepping onto her floor, she found Mr. Smith’s door still open. I wonder if I’ll meet him, she considered absently, not caring either way.

Upon reaching her door, she inserted her key only to find it unlocked. I must have forgotten earlier. She stepped inside, the figure seated on her bed not registering until she closed the door behind her.

Fear flushed through her like ice water.

It was her husband, Ben, his hat and coat on the bed beside him, her suitcase at his feet. Packed, she assumed.

“Why hello, my sweet, wandering butterfly.” The predatory grin didn’t reach his eyes.

The shock sent the keys tumbling from her hand. Her handbag slipped from her arm.

“How …”

His grin widened. “My father’s money of course. Private detectives at every train station in the county. I got in here after posing as a census taker. Picked your lock myself.”

That car the other day.

“I’ll…” Elanor backed away, pressing her body against the door.

“I’ve packed your things. My car is round the corner.” Ben stood. The action made her feel like a cornered animal.

“Come, get your case.” His tone gave no options for refusal. Not if she was to avoid being hit.

Ever the gentleman. You bastard.

Elanor took a step forwards. Her fear compelled her, like some irresistible charm controlled her movements. 

Ben reached down, lifted the case two-handed, one hand at the top, one at the bottom.

Their eyes met.

His were leering and triumphant. 

She wanted to look away, but felt entranced, fallen victim to the snake’s hypnosis.

Elanor went to accept the case, arms trembling. But something inside her told her to rebel.

“No!”

She shoved the case into his face, hard.

His head snapped back, and he fell floundering to the bed.

Elanor released the case, heard it crash to the floor as she turned to run. Her panicked flight returned her to the lobby. Heading for the stairs, she stumbled to a halt at the sound of ascending footsteps.

Where. Where? The window? Too high. Smith’s?

She dashed towards Smith’s room, had the door slammed closed behind her a moment later.

The room was larger than her own, with a bed beside the window and a square table at the center.

What the?

The table held a device of metal wheels and rods, magnifying glasses and concave mirrors. A man sat slumped behind it. Thin of face with lank black hair, his eyes were rolled back.

She assumed he was the elusive Mr. Smith.

He wore a brass helmet spotted with tiny red gems, and appeared quite dead.

Thinking to hide, Elanor hurried to and around the table. She saw Smith’s hand gripped a metal switch of some sort, connected to the device on the table. The helmet was connected to the device too, by a long, delicate wire.

Has he electrocuted himself?

The door crashed open.

Ben stood within the doorframe, his face aflame with anger. Blood trickled from his nostrils, turning his blonde moustache crimson. His once pristine white shirt was spattered in red, bringing her some degree of satisfaction

 He stalked forwards.

“Just what have you gotten yourself into?” he said, revealing crimson-coated teeth.

He smirked upon reaching her.

Elanor was frozen to the spot.

I’m trapped. Unless … The cap. The switch.

He paused with the table between them.

Elanor said “Catch,” and grabbing the cap tossed it towards him.

He caught it by reflex, the confusion evident on his face.

Quick as a flash, Elanor reached for Smith’s clenched fist. Finding the switch, she pressed it down.

For a moment, nothing happened.

“You crazy cow,” Ben said.

The device came alive with motion and sound.

The wheels turned faster and faster. Rods pumped with life. The device thrummed, vibrating all over. It issued that odd smell she’d noted earlier. 

Ben began to shake, a spastic shudder that rattled his whole body.

Elanor backed away, watched his face spasm, his teeth chatter, his eyes disappear to the whites.

Checkmate, you bastard.

One final shudder, and he collapsed to the floor.

She reached down to Smith’s cold hand, waited a little longer to see if Ben moved, and switched the device off.

The wheels and rods slowed. The device fell silent. Only the odor remained, dissipating rapidly through the open door.

“Oh dear,” said a nearby voice.

Ms. Rawlings stood at the door.

“Hey this isn’t—”

The small woman raised a silencing hand, shuffled slowly into the room.

Elanor watched her, stunned.

Ms. Rawlings paused at the table, pointed to Smith.

“We were hoping to steal this one’s mind, the invading one, before it returned to the past. Long story. We call them “Yithians,” psychic explorers that exchange minds with the people of our time.”

That nighttime vision, she thought. The bronze egg.

“Good. The transfer machine is still here and intact,” Ms. Rawlings continued. “What about the stiff on the floor? Who is he?”

“My husband,” Elanor replied. “Is his mind gone too? The cap wasn’t on his head though. I just thought I’d electrocuted the bastard.”

Ms. Rawlings leant forward, scrutinized the device. “Worse than that dear. His mind is somewhere without a body. Wherever it is, I doubt his sanity is intact.”

“It couldn’t happen to a better man,” Elanor said with satisfaction.

“I saw him snooping around earlier. Is his body of any use to you?” Ms. Rawlings said matter-of-factly. Examining a concave mirror, she turned it slightly.

“Er no. Not at all. Good riddance.”

“Marvelous,” Ms. Rawlings replied. “One of my friends can dispose of these human shells.”

The little woman licked her pale lips. The tongue was black and slimy.

“You’re not quite human yourself, are you,” Elanor said, as a statement more than a question.

Ms. Rawlings tapped her nose and smiled wryly. “I will keep your secrets if you keep mine.”

Mr. Smith twitched. Elanor nearly jumped out of her skin.

Ms. Rawlings laughed. “Oh. He survived the transition. This is the body’s original owner by the way. Will he have some stories to tell.”

She clasped her hands together. “Callooh Callay! Such a productive day. Now be a dear and leave me alone here. You may even want to vacate the house for a little while.”

Elanor didn’t need telling twice.

Glynn Owen Barrass lives in the North East of England and has been writing since late 2006. He’s written over two hundred short stories, novellas, and role-playing game supplements, the majority of which have been published in the UK, the USA, and Japan. To date he’s edited ten anthologies, and is part of the editorial team for the magazine Weird Fiction Quarterly. He’s been the recipient of two Ennies awards for his gaming work.

Website: https://strangeraeons.godaddysites.com/