A horror mystery starring a massive worm.
Rosie looked different. Strong and upright, the slight hunch she’d always carried was gone. Her carriage reminded me of an encyclopaedia illustration I once saw of Joan of Arc rallying troops — resolute, beckoning confrontation. Towering beside her, the worm stood in an S-shape, its cavernous mouth dripping fluids onto the parquet flooring. Its breathing was a slow, rhythmic pulsing. Ripples passed through its pale pink body, each ending in a rush of air that…
At 4 p.m., sandwiches distributed, I found myself staring out of the windows again. An old-fashioned lamp on the driveway had come on, likely on a timer to light the way on short winter days. Rain fell with impossible ferocity, though the windows remained free of droplets. Bushes were dragged in every direction across the shingle, pulling small stones and dried leaves from the ground which became briefly airborne, giving the uprooted flora the form…
I heard a door swing and lifted my eyes and hand from the page. I watched Mrs. Tapscott stride across the room to the bottle green door. As she went through, I noticed Mrs. Rabasandratana had joined me. She glared at me for several minutes. As much as I tried to avoid looking directly at her, I couldn’t—for fear of losing track of her. The mental stimulus had already come thick and fast, and I…
Mr. Column stood beneath a suspended plant pot, positioned atop the window outside, seemingly impervious to the heavy rain that cascaded around him. Neither his scraggly shoulder-length hair nor his coat were blowing with the wind. By this point, the rain was so heavy that large pools of water had formed in dips in the shingle where cars had driven through. I could see rainwater dropping onto his shoulders as it spilled from the pot,…
Rosie showed no interest in the story, and despite thirty minutes of persistence, her agitation was palpable. Mrs. Tapscott kept asking what was wrong, and each time, Rosie glanced at the bearded man, almost as if seeking permission to speak. She’d adjust her sitting position and temporarily stop scanning the room. This pattern repeated itself. I noticed Mrs. Tapscott shooting disapproving looks at the man, who remained absorbed in Rosie. The encounter was unsettling —…
We were somewhere in rural Surrey. A thick morning mist made visibility poor, and there were several stops to allow deer crossing the road a safe path into the adjacent meadows. Mr. Column, the school caretaker, was driving, with Mrs. Tapscott in the front passenger seat. My father had warned of the potential for travel sickness, giving a detailed description at the school gate of the time I projectile vomited onto the back of his…
Dermot sat at the same table every day. He rocked his torso and rolled his head aimlessly, humming and hawing in intense conversation that always looked so meaningful, except nobody else was anywhere near him. I couldn’t sit with Dermot again. I had already witnessed two epileptic fits in class, the second of which bloodied my nose as his seizure flung him rigid to the side, his oversized helmet catching me square in the face…