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carolynmcdowell · 4 years

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I Swallow Voices

It’s not typically deadly, what I do. I don’t go around ripping out throats. No, what I do is more like…borrowing. I breathe in, swallow. Then for a few days my victim thinks they have strep or mono or something. They always get it back. I get to spend a few days telling myself stories in a new voice. It sustains me, and relieves a little boredom. Believe me, when you’re as old as I am, you get bored easy.

I live where I live- that park on the outskirts of town- because it’s not overflowing with voices, but it gets enough traffic from tourists and stuff to keep me fed. New voices, new stories, all the time. It’s great. And then occasionally, people like you come along.

You just have to come and fuck everything up.

I’ll be the first to admit I’m not a big fan of men. Made a mistake of liking one once. Back when I had a shape like everyone else. Well. Now I’m like this. I heard he ended up getting his...but this isn’t about him. Hell, it’s hardly about you.

Do you know what a major upside of being like I am is? I see a lot of things I wouldn’t get to if I still had a body. Mainly nature scenes, a doe and its mother or something. Really heartwarming stuff. A kid and her dad bonding. It’s nice.

But you...you weren’t so nice. I’ve seen lovers tiffs before. Some people aren’t cut out to hike together. You and I both know that what I saw was more than a “tiff” though. That girl, you didn’t even remember her name. A one night stand from some party, right? She found you on the trail easy, because you hike here all the time when you come visit your mom.

Yeah, I’ve seen you before too. Didn’t think much of you even before this, but that doesn’t matter. All that matters is you proved me right. You’re scum.

I watched the panic fill your eyes when that girl told you she was pregnant. I watched you throw a fit when she told you she was keeping it. I. Saw. You. Shove. Her.

That trail’s not for beginners, because of the sheer drop off the left side. Just you, me, and her around. She was falling, and you sure as hell weren’t going to save her. I couldn’t, of course. I don’t have hands. Oh, but I wanted to...for all the lost girls like her. Like me.

The thwack of her head hitting stone, that’s the sound I used to wake you. Her voice, as you know, is the one I’m using to talk to you. I borrowed it right as she breathed her last breath. Lasts longer that way usually, but not this time.

Because this time, I’m replacing it early. With yours.

Remember what I said at the start? What I do isn’t typically deadly. I just take a little breath. A tiny sip. But you...for people like you, I make exceptions.

Don’t bother opening your mouth, I’m already in your throat.

You won’t be able to scream anymore.

#Stories From Midsummer Park #short story #Echo #TW: murder #horror

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carolynmcdowell · 4 years

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Hey, I’m not dead.

I just had a huge block and by the time it broke I forgot about this blog. About to spam this blog with a short story and some fanfic. And also fix my rules post its out of date.

#not writing

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carolynmcdowell · 5 years

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EXERPT FROM MIDSUMMER PARK SCRIPT

INT. PARK OFFICE, DUSK- The park office is small, but neat. There are maps and informational posters on the walls, a small display near the door with pamphlets about the park, a tidy desk with various writing tools in a pencil holder, a love seat against one wall with two accompanying chairs, a table across from the love seat with several old magazines, a coffee machine with a basket of sugars and creams, and a wilting office plant in one corner. There is a closed door at the back, which HAWTHORNE leads SADIE through.

Inside is another desk, messier, with a pair of chairs across from it, and a large wooden cabinet that takes up a whole wall. Other than these and a small metal filing cabinet, the room is empty.

HAWTHORNE takes a file out of the filing cabinet and sits at the desk. He motions for SADIE to sit as well. She does so and he opens the file.

CLOSE UP ON: SADIE’S file is full of personal information, name (blacked out), date of birth, a picture, work and school history, etc.

CUT BACK TO: SADIE’S face, still wearing the customer service smile, though she now looks more nervous.

HAWTHORNE: “Resume’s fine. Relax. You got the job. Wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t.”

SADIE lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, laughs a little.

SADIE: “I wasn’t sure if bringing my bag was presumptuous...”

HAWTHORNE:(Grunts) “So. Ground rules.”

He pulls a handbook from one of the piles on his desk and hands it to her. She takes it and opens it.

CLOSE UP ON: The handbook is super stylized, and not in a modern way. The last time this was updated was clearly in the 70s or 80s.

HAWTHORNE reads along with the rules by heart (excluding RANGER ROWDY’S introduction), which are presented by a cute bear mascot in a ranger uniform in the book.

RANGER ROWDY: Hey there, valued park employee! We at Midsummer National Park love to see new faces, but even more than that, we like to keep those faces safe! In order to do that, we’ve put a few rules in place!

RANGER ROWDY is drawn hugging the 1 next to rule 1.

RANGER ROWDY (CONT’D):1. Keep your cabin’s doors and windows locked at night!

CUT TO: HAWTHORNE’s face, mainly overshadowed by his hat, as he says:

HAWTHORNE: “Two. If you have an emergency situation, call from the land line in your cabin. Do not attempt to reach the park office as you will be the only ranger on site, and it may be dangerous to go outside.”

CUT TO: RANGER ROWDY is drawn sitting in the lower curve of the 3.

RANGER ROWDY: 3. Remember, all overnight guests must register a campsite a minimum week in advance before their visit! If you see someone you don’t recognize, use the intercom located next to your door to tell them to come back when the park is open, and then phone the encounter in to your supervisor!

CUT TO: HAWTHORNE’S weathered hands, calloused from hard work.

HAWTHORNE: “Four. Do not tell your full birth name to anyone. Not the guests. Not your supervisor. Not any authority figure that comes by. Inside the park you refer to yourself as your predetermined work name.”

SADIE is beginning to look more nervous as she looks up at HAWTHORNE.

SADIE: “Which for me is...?”

HAWTHORNE: “Birch.”

SADIE nods, then looks back at the handbook.

CUT TO: RANGER ROWDY leaning on the curve of the 5.

RANGER ROWDY: 5. When out in the woods, eat and drink nothing but what you bring! Better safe than sorry!

CUT TO: HAWTHORNE and SADIE’S silhouettes, framed against the office’s window and the setting sun.

HAWTHORNE: “Last rule. If you hear something calling you from the woods...”

FADE TO BLACK

HAWTHORNE (CONT’D): “Don’t answer it.”

#midsummer park #wip #script

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carolynmcdowell · 6 years

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Haunted

The illness started after my mother died. I was in my study, rifling through a box of her paperwork when I first felt the pressure in my ears. The laughter of my own children through the open door suddenly felt amplified, as if being broadcasted through loudspeakers only an inch from my ears. Just a migraine, brought on by stress, I thought as I clamped my hands down tight over my head. I thought it would go away after some pills, a cup of tea, and a good night’s rest. But it didn’t.

A visit to the family doctor the following week yielded no findings as to why my hearing had suddenly become unbearably keen. Stress, said my concerned physician. He prescribed me some anxiety medication and sent me home.

Three more weeks passed, and I could still barely stand to be in the room with anyone else. My own breathing sounded harsh, much less the voice of another. I began taking my meals in my study, which muted at least some noise so long as I had the door closed. My bookshelves- filled with novels, reference books, almanacs, binders of my old research papers- became my best friends. They served as a sort of primitive soundproofing.

Another trip to the doctor came and went, with no change. Except for a suggestion. Get away for awhile, Dr. Strauss had said to me in a whisper. To where? I had wondered on my way home, ear plugs shoved deep into my ears to keep out the sounds of the five o'clock traffic. I had nowhere I particularly wanted to go, especially because I wanted to stay near to my children.

Nowhere, that was, but my mother’s empty house.

After some careful consideration, I packed a small bag, said goodbye to my family, and drove to the two story victorian that sat in the woods on the edge of town. Its faded yellow facade peeked at me from between the trees as I navigated the dirt road. I hadn’t been here in about two decades. Mother had kept it up well, for her age. The building was a bit weather-worn, but not unkempt. A bit dusty, but it had been nearly a month since anyone had been inside.

Dragging my bag up the front steps to the porch, I noticed how still the woods were. It was eerie, but a relief on my poor ears. I retrieved the key from my pocket and unlocked the door. A puff of dry air greeted me, and I stifled a cough before rolling my suitcase into the front entryway.

The cleaners I’d hired had covered the furniture in white sheets to keep the dust from settling onto the priceless, antique pieces. Mother had always cherished the living room set most; it had been her mother's before her, and her mother's before her, and so on. I’d always hated that room, because the only time I was allowed to be in it was when relatives came for boring christmas dinners.

For now, I ignored the ghostly outlines of the sittie and matching chairs. Going past their gloomy forms I made my way with carefully light steps to the first floor guest room. I had no intention of making the racket that would have been required to take my suitcase upstairs.

Carefully setting my bag onto the floor, I claimed a little corner of the room. It was a habit of mine to be as out-of-the-way as possible in this house. Mother had always demanded that of me. Cruel, to act as though your own child was but an inconvenience...but there was no changing the past now. Only the uncertain future.

I tugged back the sheet covering the guest bed, careful not to accidentally raise too much dust with it. The hiss on fabric on fabric didn’t hurt my ears, as it had of late. I was relieved. Perhaps this was just stress. A week here, alone, would do me good.

Quickly, I set about making the abandoned house habitable again. With my trusty earplugs in place to prevent the clamorous sounds of cleaning from grating at my hearing, I swept, dusted, and uncovered all of the portion of the house I would use. Toilet paper was replaced in the bathroom, along with my travel brush and paste. Windows were opened to let fresh air in. The small cubby that served as a dry-foods cabinet was stocked with crackers, cereal, and bread that I’d brought with me.

Then there was the issue of the refrigerator. Of course, the power had been turned off at this point, but that could be fixed. All I had to do was go down into the basement and flip the breakers on. It would be best, I mused, if I did this soon. It was starting to become dark outside. Moving slowly to the basement door, I hesitated as my hand clasped the brass handle. More than any room in this house, more than the living room, more than mother’s study, I hated the basement.

Cliche as it was, as I stood on the top step of the cramped stairwell, I felt my old childhood apprehension creep back into my brain. The yawning opening had always inspired dread, and though I was now a grown woman, anxiety wrapped a cold, clutching hand around my heart. Yet there was no gurgling moan or pinprick red eyes in the dark. The steps themselves were sturdy and had been replaced recently, according to my mother’s files. The dark wasn’t overbearing, due to a dim light that filtered down into the wide basement from a small window, high on the wall.

My fear was ridiculous and I knew it.

The descent was as uneventful as it should have been. The light from outside wasn’t much, and it wouldn’t last long, but it was enough to find the fuse box. I didn’t actually know where it was, per se. The only times I’d been down here, the fuses weren’t my concern....

No. It wasn’t time to think about that now. Fuse box. Now.

I scanned the walls, spotting sheet-covered shapes that I assumed were storage. I recognized one particular spectre as my father’s tool bench, unused now for close to thirty years. He’d left mother and I when I was around six. Taken a suitcase of clothes, and nothing else. His tools were probably still there, under that sheet...mother had never had it in her heart to sell them. Maybe she thought he’d come back.

Finally, my eyes landed on the grey box set into the east wall. The cover had rusted badly, and I found myself wishing for a solid pair of gloves. I didn’t want to cut my hands on that nasty metal. Turning on heel, I directed my attention to the black plastic shelves that lined the opposite wall. There wasn’t much left on them but cobwebs and junk, but I was fairly sure mother’s gardening gloves were in one of the boxes. Staring me in the face most likely. I sighed and rolled up my sleeves. If I worked fast, I’d find them before the last light faded from the window.

I didn’t want to be caught in the dark, alone in this house.

Meticulous searching turned frantic after the first two minutes. I dug through box after box as the light began to fade, sweat beading on my brow despite the coolness of the room. No, no, no, they had to be here! I knew they did! They had to be here, and I had to turn on the lights!

I screamed as the basement door slammed shut, dropping the box I’d been urgently looking through. Something shattered as it hit the floor, but I didn’t care. I was already pounding up the steps, breathing raggedly and stretching my hand out to the handle. The stubborn “clunk” it made as I slammed down on it made the bottom of my stomach drop out. I rattled at it desperately, pleading with it mentally to open. I heard harsh gasps of breath, and was startled before I realized they were mine. My ears rang with the racket I was making, but I had to get out, I couldn’t do this again-

“You can come out when you’ve learned your lesson.”

My mother’s voice. I swore. It couldn’t be anyone else. Wailing, I threw myself bodily against the wooden door. I was a panicked child again, and gibbered madly for forgiveness, if she would just let me out!

As my body jostled the door in just the right way, the handle gave. I tumbled out, onto the checkered kitchen tile, sobbing. Phantom pain stung the backs of my legs, my body remembering how she used to switch me just as much as my mind. Everything was flooding back now.

I curled up in a ball and stayed there, whimpering in the moonlight. The darkness didn’t seem so bad anymore. It wrapped me in a blanket, softly, as if trying to soothe my whirling mind. Memories of switches pulled from the trees outside. Of being locked in the basement when I stepped even the slightest bit out of line. Of manufactured slights when she felt that she didn’t get what she deserved in life, and decided to take it out on the one thing she could control. Me.

How long did I stay on that floor, silently weeping? I hadn’t cried in years, not since the time in highschool when she found me sobbing over a bad grade and had locked me out of the house in the middle of winter. Crying was for babies, and the cold would teach me to count my blessings instead of whining over mistakes, she’d said. She’d been especially cruel in those days, perhaps because I was growing into a beauty she’d lost with age. Perhaps she knew she wouldn’t have her whipping child for much longer, and wanted to get in all the abuse she could.

Before I knew it, sunlight was streaming in through the window over the kitchen sink. It warmed my face, felt a bit nice on my tear-streaked cheeks. My ears didn’t hurt anymore. I still stayed there for a while, staring blankly at a wall as I mulled over everything. I’d never told my husband about my mother’s behavior. I’d never told anyone. And I’d never let myself truly mourn. Not for her, but for myself, for my childhood. Perhaps all I’d needed was a good cry.

Suddenly, my stomach rumbled. I sniffled. Giggled a little. Wiped my face. Getting up was hard, my body feeling like it was magnetized to the ground, but I did it. I brushed the dust off of my pants and shuffled to the cabinet where I’d stored my food. After a small breakfast of crackers and peanut butter, I decided it was time to go home. For the first time in a while, the morning song of the birds outside didn’t feel like nails on a chalkboard.

As I packed my bag and supplies into the trunk of my car, I glanced back up at my mother’s house one last time. It wasn’t a bad house. Just...bad things had happened there. I decided to sell it to a couple, if I could. They could erase the pain of my childhood, fill the house with joy instead. A good plan, I thought, starting the engine. And when I got home, I should finally tell my husband about my past. Perhaps I’d ring up a therapist. My heart, feeling lighter now than it ever had, was at ease. I pulled away from the house in the woods, turning onto the dirt road that lead home. Yes, it was time for changes. Recovery.

I smiled, and drove off towards the sunlight.

#tw: abuse #horror #short story #one shot

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