The Halloween Collection

We hope you all enjoyed Halloween last Friday!

As you know, we chose to celebrate Halloween all last week by posting various creative pieces relating to the theme of Halloween. Here are the links to the various stories, poems, monologues and excerpts, we’ve shared on our website for all of you:

Restless Minds Excerpts:
Inspire, Expire, by Emma Lauren Wisher
The Last Taboo, by Clare Stevens
Locking Up, by Marie Peach-Geraghty
London Underground, by L. D. Lapinski

Short Stories:
A Cautionary Tale, by Hayley Tivey
Lady of the Trent, by Clare Stevens
Meowl (excerpt), by Kristian Elliott
Pretty Rosalind, by Silvia M. Lopez

Poems:
Hades, by Kristian Elliott
Knock-a-door run, by Paul Adey

Dramatic Monologues:
Lucifer, by Silvia M. Lopez

Challenges & Prompts:
Halloween Writing Challenge
Halloween Writing Prompt

Pretty Rosalind, by Silvia M. Lopez

I watched her slip away from the party, muffin in one hand and rag doll in the other. She headed for the house and I started to follow. Somebody grabbed my arm and I turned.

‘So how are you liking the new house?’ A man in tweed stood behind me.

‘Well… its not technically new is it?

He forced a polite smile, not happy with my answer. He puffed on his pipe and I tried to pull away.

‘But you’ve just moved in, so it is new for you.’

I sighed. ‘Sure, whatever.’

I couldn’t see Rosie and her rag doll anymore, she must have made it into the house. The man was still talking to me, but I wasn’t paying attention. He seemed to be going on about another family that had lived here ages ago, and how we were the first people to move in since them. I nodded absentmindedly, hoping he would shut up.

‘… seem to be enjoying it here.’

I looked at him.‘What?’

I could tell he was getting annoyed at me.

He fiddled with his pipe.‘I said, your parents seem to be enjoying it here.’

‘Sure, they love it. Apparently its good for their writing. I have to go, excuse me.’

I moved away from him. Rosie was in the house now; I could see her at the window. I made my way round to the front door. I hesitated in the doorway. Rosie was standing at the foot of the stairs.

‘What were you doing at the window?’

‘What window?’ She didn’t even look at me, she was staring at the door.

‘The one in that room.’ I pointed at the door.

She turned to me now, confusion on her face. ‘But that door is locked.’

‘Don’t mess with me, Rosie. I saw you.’

‘It’s true!’ she cried, and hugged her doll closer. ‘You can check if you want.’

I thought about dropping the subject and going back outside, but Rosie looked so sincere that I took a step forward. I put my hand on the doorknob. Rosie started humming.

I tried the door. It was locked. I turned to Rosie who looked at me expectantly.

‘Did you lock it again?’ I asked.

‘No! I told you, it’s always locked.’

‘Rosie…’

‘There’s no key. I swear! It’s always locked. Ask Grayson, he’ll tell you. Why do you never believe me?’ She stomped her foot and ran off.

The humming continued. I edged closer to the door, and put my ear to it. The humming was coming from inside. I tried the door again. Nothing.

Outside, I searched for my mother. She was hard to find with so many people here for the party. I’d never realised my parents had so many friends. They’d gone all out, decorating the garden with fairy lights and coloured lanterns. My dad has made his famous punch, and the crystal bowl containing it sparkled in the light.

I spotted my mother off to a side.

‘Mum!’

‘Oh, here you are, sweetheart.’ She took my arm, turning me to face her friend. ‘Have you met Mina?’

Mina smiled, her round cheeks dimpling.

‘Hi Mina,’ I said and turned to my mother. ‘Mum, have you seen Rosie? She’s being a brat again, playing tricks and stuff.’

‘Excuse us Mina.’ Mum pulled me to a side. ‘Darling, you have to be patient with your sister, she’s only six and she’s still adjusting.’

‘I know! But she’s being stupid! She was in the room, the one by the stairs but when I got there she’d locked it and said –‘

‘The room by the stairs? You mean the old living room?’

‘Yes, that one. Well, she –‘

‘But sweetheart, that room is locked. When we were given all the house keys, Grayson told us the old owners had locked that room and taken the key with them.’

‘Maybe Rosie found a way in.’

‘Sweetheart, it’s locked. And it will stay that way. There are enough rooms in the house for her to play in.’

‘But I saw Rosie at the window!’ I argued. ‘I swear I saw her.’

‘It must have been your mind playing tricks.’ She smoothed down my hair, in a futile attempt to tame my curls. ‘Now go mingle with the guests, darling. We don’t want them thinking we have an antisocial daughter. Go along now.’

I let myself be pushed gently away, but rather than face the party, I decided to find Grayson. Chances were he was in the rose garden.

He was leaning over one of the rose bushes. He held some clippers in one hand and a perfect rose bloom in the other.

I frowned. ‘I thought black roses didn’t grow naturally.’

Grayson turned around and handed me the rose.

‘They don’t,’ he said, a small smile playing across his face. The rose petals were soft and velvety. The rose was a rich, deep red.

I looked up confused. ‘I thought… I mean… It looked black.’ It seemed silly now. I shook my head. ‘Forget it. Have you seen Rosie?

‘Not since the beginning of the party. She was cutting some of those,’ he gestured at a cluster of small white roses. ‘Said she’d made a friend, and that they were her favourites. I haven’t seen her since.’

I played with the rose, rubbing the petals against my cheek.

‘She was in the house before. Playing inside, in the room by the stairs,’ I said.

He frowned. ‘That’s not possible. That room is –‘

‘Locked.’ I sighed. ‘I know, I keep being told. But I saw her. Is there no extra key?’

‘No. Wouldn’t be of no use anyway. Previous owners blocked up the keyhole, they did. Whole door would have to come off to get in.’

I shivered, letting his words sink in. ‘Well, if you see Rosie, tell her I’m looking for her.’

I returned the rose and stalked off.

I didn’t want to re-join the party, and I didn’t want to go inside the house either. The place didn’t feel like home. The air felt cold and oppressive inside there. I headed towards the kitchens, hoping Rosie would be outside stealing some food from the caterers.

She wasn’t there. I sighed. Instead of going inside, I turned around and meandered through the gardens, marvelling at their beauty. Such a contrast with the house, I thought. Mom and Dad might love it (‘It’s just so authentic darling, don’t you think?’) but I found it seriously creepy. And ugly.

It wasn’t so much a house, as a patchwork of many houses. Looking at it, you couldn’t even tell what had been the original building. It was as if every family who had lived there had tacked on its own little bit creating an eclectic, mismatched pile. Which is probably why it suited my parents just fine.

According to Grayson, we were the first family to live here for 50 years. He’d told Rosie he had been a teenager when the last family left for the city, never to come back. His father had been the gardener back then, and Grayson had taken over from him. The rose gardens, he’d told us, were Mrs Janie’s pride and joy. She would tend to them personally with her daughter and that’s why he took such special care of the roses.

He’d pointed out one of the plants, and cut a small, delicate, peach coloured bloom for Rosie.

‘This one here’s the most special of the lot. My father named it Pretty Rosalind, after Mrs Janie’s daughter. And seeing you’re pretty as a picture yourself, this rose is for you.’ He’d presented Rosie with the bloom, while she blushed and giggled with pleasure.

‘Where is she now?’ Rosie had asked.

Grayson’s smile had frozen. ‘Gone.’

A movement by the Pretty Rosalinds caught my eye. I spun around hoping to catch my sister.

‘Rosie?’ I called. I looked around me, but couldn’t see Rosie.

I heard humming, and followed the sound. It moved further away from the house. I looked behind me. From where I stood, the faint sounds of the party reached me. Music and the buzz of conversation.

The humming got louder. I saw the back of Rosie’s skirts turning into one of the walled gardens. I ran after, and peered in.

‘Gotcha!’ I shouted, stepping inside.

The garden was empty. I walked in, looking around in case she was hiding. The humming started again, this time from somewhere behind me. I looked around for another way out. The garden was walled in, and the only exit was the stone archway I’d been standing under.

‘This isn’t funny anymore,’ I said to the empty garden. ‘I’m gonna find you Rosie.’

I turned back towards the house and stopped dead in my tracks.

The floor was littered with peach coloured petals. Someone had ripped every Pretty Rosalind blossom from the bush and trampled them. My breath caught. I clutched my stomach, a sick feeling filling me.

An hour later, Rosie still hadn’t reappeared. The sky was darkening and the moon was visible in the cloudless sky. I’d shown Grayson the ruined flowers and helped him clean them up. The tears he tried to hide while he gathered up the trampled roses made me angrier with my sister. But Grayson wouldn’t believe it had been Rosie.

‘I heard her humming. And then I found them like this. It had to be her.’

‘I don’t think Miss Rosie would do this, she loved these roses. She helped me tend the garden, and always took some blooms for her friend.’

‘She doesn’t have any friends!’ I snapped.

‘She’s young, and has a vivid imagination. Perhaps they’re for that rag doll of hers. She made a daisy chain for it the other day.’

‘I hate that stupid rag doll. Where did she even get it?’

Grayson had turned to me. ‘Weren’t it hers? From your old house?’

‘No. It’s an ugly old thing. I think she found it here.’ I waved at the house.

Grayson had gone quiet, and shooed me away telling me he’d finish cleaning up.

Talking to him hadn’t helped, and nobody at the party had seen Rosie. Some said they’d seen a young girl running into the gardens, but couldn’t tell if it was her. A few others had seen her looking out of the house, standing at the window.

I’d asked my Dad to come into the house with me to help me look for her.

‘Why can’t you go on your own, darling,’ he’d said. ‘You’re old enough to not need me holding your hand.’

I couldn’t even remember a time he’d held my hand. So I hadn’t gone inside. Instead, I’d mingled with the guests for a while, earning me a grateful smile from my mother, and kept an eye out for Rosie.

But I hadn’t seen her at all. I was starting to get worried. I walked up to my mother again.

‘Rosie’s been gone for ages. Why isn’t anybody worried?’ I demanded.

‘Darling, don’t interrupt. It’s rude.’

‘That’s alright,’ the man she was talking to excused himself and left us alone.

‘Nobody’s seen her for hours, mum.’

‘Calm down, sweetheart. She’s fine. Probably off with a friend or just playing on her own.’

‘Mum, please,’ I begged. ‘Just help me look for a bit. She’s been acting weird and I’m worried.’

‘Ah, you just don’t want to go inside on your own,’ she teased. I scowled. She might be right, but that wasn’t the point.

‘Indulge me, Mother.’

She laughed at my tone. ‘Alright then, we’ll search.’

We checked the gardens, our rooms, asked the party guests, the catering staff but nobody had seen Rosie for hours. Grayson joined us. We checked the kitchens and the various unused rooms in the house.

‘I told you, mum. She’s gone.’

‘Let’s not panic, darling. She’s probably just wandered off.’ The worry in her tone mirrored my own feelings, only it was a few hours too late.

‘We can check the gardens again, Miss,’ said Grayson. He led the way downstairs. I brought up the rear, lost in my own thoughts and heard the humming once more.

‘What if she’s in the living room?’ I mused aloud.

Mum turned to me. ‘We already checked –‘

‘I meant the old one.’

“It’s –‘

‘Locked! I know. Ughhh!’

I pushed past my mother heading straight to the locked door and kicked it.

‘Darling!’ she gasped.

‘She’s in here! I know it! She’s been playing in here for days, and she was in here this afternoon. I saw her! Why won’t you listen?’

I started crying. My mum’s eye started twitching. She measured her tone carefully.

‘How many times must we tell you, this door is locked. There is no way Rosie could be inside. See.’ She put her hand on the handle, and opened the door.

We all froze. The door swung inwards, into a darkened room. Stale air reached us, with a faint aroma or roses. I could make out the shapes of furniture under white sheets.

‘Look,’ Mum’s voice wavered. She pointed at the floor, just inside the room.

Inside the doorway were some of the roses Rosie had been collecting for her friend, along with a wilting daisy chain and some stale cookies.

‘Rosie?’ My voice shook as I called out.

I heard the humming coming from the fireplace. This time everyone else heard it too.

‘No, please not Rosie…’ Grayson muttered.

His face had gone pale.

I clung to my mother. ‘What’s wrong? Is she… is she inside?’

‘It has a secret room…’ Grayson’s voice was barely audible.

‘Grayson?’ Mother squeezed my hand.

Grayson made his way forward. He walked up to the empty fireplace. His hand brushed the wall and we heard a click. A small opening to the side was revealed.

I let out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding.

Grayson pulled at the opening, revealing the secret room.

Rosie’s body lay in the middle of the room. A ring of peach coloured blossoms surrounded her, the edges dyed red by the blood trickling from Rosie’s head.

Mother screamed, pushing away from me and backing into the living room.

I took a step forward, kneeling beside my dead sister. I picked up the rag doll lying beside her.

The humming started again. This time, it sounded like two girls.

Behind me, Grayson sobbed.

‘Just like Miss Rosalind.’

This short story by Silvia is not in the Restless Minds anthology. Check out Silvia’s bio here. 

London Underground (excerpt), by L. D. Lapinski

The bar was small and private, and the barman chanced occasional glances at the ancient grandfather clock propped against the far wall. The dark brown wood of the timepiece was swallowed by the scarlet of the velvet booths and carpet so it was often unnoticed by the club goers and workers who chose to have their first drinks in the warmth and comfort of the brandy-stained oak tables.

There were two well-dressed men lounging at the bar, the lights glancing off their pinstripes, elevating their height and lengthening their legs to inhuman proportions. Their highly polished brogues were glinting in the darkness as they adopted Siamese poses. Crossing their ankles and leaning effortlessly over the mahogany, the amber liquid swilled around in the crystal like a turbulent sea. Their identical hair was too long to be formal, yet too short to be immediately fashionable, and left an unfinished feel to their ensemble. Matching sly grins adorned shaven faces whenever a female dared to saunter by, and they followed the anxious trotting legs until they turned out of sight.

Rosemary did not rise to risk the wandering eyes—instead she let her own gaze fall casually upon the pair, taking in the professional dress, yet lack of briefcase, the end-of-day hair without five o’clock shadow. The undrunk whisky rolling in the glasses that was turned and twisted by pale hands escaping from expensive cloth.

Her own clothing was dark, covering and inconspicuous. Her hands lay folded on her lap, so the white skin did not attract attention. She was pleased when a loud, brightly coloured group of revellers fell into their places around the table. She allowed herself to shrink into the velour corner, unseen by the drinking workmates either side of her. The two men, their glasses at the same level as they had been all night, stole glances at the closest girl, who sat flamboyantly and revealing, cross-legged on the arm of the booth. Her skirt was little more than a belt that crept ever higher over her thighs. Rosemary’s eyes narrowed as one of the men stopped smiling, and began to stare at the laughing girl intently with eyes like chips of dirty ice.

You can read the full story in the anthology.

Check out L. D. Lapinski’s bio here.

Inspire, Expire (excerpt), by Emma Lauren Wisher

1. INT. STUDY – NIGHT.
The room is dark, curtains drawn. Yellow light flickers across a blank sheet of paper. Beside it is a small globe, a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey and the paper’s predecessors – sheets scrunched into balls, others torn into confetti.

The nib of a pen is lowered towards the paper. A WRITER, mid twenties, leans across the desk, scruffy and tired. He takes a swig of whisky and writes ‘CHARACTER IDEAS’ at the top of the page.

A male VOICE is heard off-screen.

VOICE (O.S.)
Hello?
The writer looks around. The room is empty.
VOICE (O.S.)
Can anyone hear me?
The writer looks again. He grabs the whisky bottle and laughs.
WRITER
Well, this never happened before.
VOICE (O.S.)
Hey! Can you hear me? I’m lost! I can’t see anything.
WRITER
That’s because I haven’t written the setting yet.
The writer puts the bottle down and begins writing.
VOICE (O.S.)
It’s freezing! And dark. Where the hell am I?
WRITER
Ext. Forest. Night. A wintry forest covered in snow—
VOICE (O.S.)
What are you talking about?
The writer pauses, nods to himself and continues writing.
WRITER
I’m writing a horror movie.
VOICE (O.S.)
Why are you writing out here?
WRITER
I’m not. I’m in my study.
(Pause)
You’re my character.
VOICE (O.S.)
I’m your what?
WRITER
You’re my character in my screenplay.
VOICE (O.S.)
Right, that’s hilarious—
The writer puts his pen down. He speaks down at the paper.
WRITER
You don’t believe me? Okay, then. What’s your name?
VOICE (O.S.)
I, erm—
WRITER
You don’t know, do you? That’s because I haven’t written it yet.
VOICE (O.S.)
No! I remember! It’s Jake!
The writer spins the globe, leaning back in his seat.
WRITER
I prefer Jack.
He writes another word.
JACK (O.S.)
I don’t want to be called Jack! And I don’t want to be in this stupid forest!
WRITER
It’s only a film.
JACK (O.S.)
It’s my life!

You can read the full script in the anthology.

Check out Emma’s bio here.

A Cautionary Tale, by Hayley Tivey

Friday 31st October. The sun will set at 4:39pm and a full moon will rise. People set a lot of store by the moon. And quite rightly too. But contrary to popular belief, it’s not at midnight, when the full moon is at its peak that the crazy stuff happens. It’s when the sun disappears and the moon suddenly takes control – that’s the moment. 4:39pm.

It’s 4:28pm when I’m walking to the bus stop. It’s raining, and the tiny shelter is cramped with people who’re just leaving work, moody and waiting to get home. Back to their warm houses, their loved ones.

The weather plays hell with my arthritis, and I’m practically limping as I get to the shelter. Everyone is so immersed in their damn mobile phones or their music-players that they don’t notice an old man in discomfort. I’m forced to huddle in as best I can, but one of the window panels is broken and the rain ends up hitting me anyway.

But then I’m pleasantly surprised by one young lady, who sees me and moves. She smiles kindly and offers me her seat. Well, what do you know? A diamond in a coal heap. I thank her sincerely and sit, massaging my bad leg as we all wait.

I check my watch: 4:37pm. I can sense that it’s coming, but it’s become a habit to check the time anyway. It’s somehow reaffirming, you know? The pain in my leg starts to fade. I look down at the hand and watch as my fingers elongate, my nails sharpen… It’s an odd sensation, feeling all of your bones realign themselves simultaneously. I never have been able to get used to it – it still makes me twitchy.

The obnoxious guy sitting next to me scowls at my fidgeting. I think I’ll start with him.

At 4:39pm the change happens and I let loose. The obnoxious guy doesn’t even get the chance to look up from his phone before I rip out his throat. None of them have a chance.

It’s 4:41pm when the bus finally pulls up. The moon’s moment has passed, and my leg is aching again. I’ve gotten quite good at keeping the blood off my clothes, but I have to take out a handkerchief and wipe my hands before I can pick up my bus pass. Wouldn’t want it to get it dirty.

Out of politeness, I offer the only other person left in the shelter the first entrance into the bus. She did give me her seat, after all. A very respectful young lady. But the poor girl is frozen. She’s looking at me with wide eyes and doesn’t seem to want to move. It’s understandable – sometimes blood has that effect on people. Still, I’m getting chilly so I wave to her and hope she won’t mind me getting on first.

On the bus, I greet the driver as my pass beeps. I see the girl running wildly down the street through the window and hope she makes it home safely. You can’t be too careful these days.

This short story by Hayley is not in the Restless Minds anthology. Check out Hayley’s bio here.

Lucifer, by Silvia M. Lopez

A dramatic monologue inspired by John Milton’s Paradise Lost

Look at them. The happy pair. His latest distraction. How content they are with the little they are given. They do not think of demanding more, if they think at all. Better yet, they offer him their unconditional love. In exchange for what? His love to them? How can a tyrant be capable of that emotion? Freedom? What freedom lies within those walls? Held down by so many rules, but they think not to question them. But question them they shall. Their eyes will be opened. It will be my revenge, to turn his newly created favourites against him, to have them doubt him.

I almost had her. For a moment she was mine. But he talked away her fears, flushing out the seed I planted. I must start over. But how?

Somehow they are stronger together. Their love making them strong. How can such a soft emotion prove so powerful? My own hate should be enough to overpower them.

I must get her alone, the fair Eve. If only she would turn her eyes from him, just for a moment. A moment is all I need. I almost had her before. But he gazes at her constantly, adoringly beholding her beauty. And she answers his gaze with a loving smile, thus making him smile as well. Perhaps I would be smiling too, if that beauty were mine alone to beheld. But no, never for me. He loves you best, he does. You truly are his favourite.

I was once his favourite too, I was loved as they are now. I was once his finest creation, the brightest of his followers, outshining all the rest. Ah, how the mighty have fallen, you would think. But am I truly fallen? I would not say so. No, I am elevated to a new height. Sole ruler of Hell, Pandaemonium my own dominion as Heaven is his, and Eden is supposedly theirs. I am second to none, my loyal troops look up to me as their inspiration, their leader. How then can I be fallen?

But you will fall, fair Eve and noble Adam . And when you do, your God will no longer answer your prayers. Then you will know what it is to be forsaken by him who claims to love you. Who will you turn to then?

But first you must be tempted. This time, love will not save you.

This dramatic monologue by Silvia is not in the Restless Minds anthology. Check out Silvia’s bio here.

Hades, by Kristian Elliott

I see her clearly. My darling Persephone.
With each step she takes, she graces the earth;
with each seed she sows, life sparkles around her.
She dances through the meadow,
the grass softly caressing her feet;
flowers bloom at her fingertips.
If she were to fall now they would catch her.
Yet as I look up towards her,
she too looks up towards the sky.
Heaven fills her eyes…the Olympian Gods fill her mind.
Hermes, Ares, Apollo.
I hear them call out her name;
her cheeks blush scarlet, but of embarrassment.
They do not know her.
They cannot understand her.
Why she always looks at her reflection,
every day, in the same pool of water.
They can only see physical beauty.

She is trapped by her mother’s expectations;
by her mother’s wishes;
by the sun’s ever watchful gaze.
She feels lonely all the time.
No one can understand her wish-
to be hidden from the heavens and the earth.
Humanity could care less about her happiness,
the God’s of Olympus only care about
satisfying their own indulgence.
Their egos…but I can see what her heart desires.

She yearns for death, she craves it.
She wants to be taken away from the watchful eyes.
Only death can take her to this paradise.
The darkness will shroud her from the sun;
Demeter will give in to despair and free her.
We’ve both sacrificed so much to please my brother.
For once, we shall both have what we have longed for.
I can protect her. I can give her everything.

I reach out my hand, and pull her under the water.
To the Underworld she belongs.
By my side she belongs.
In my arms she belongs.
This is no ephemeral night; it is eternal.

This poem by Kristian is not in the Restless Minds anthology. Check out Kristian’s bio here.

Lady of the Trent, by Clare Stevens

Only the hardy ones stay up on deck. Most of the girls head below, nesh in flimsy dresses. Later, loosened by wine, they will strut their stuff as the barge chugs down-river and the disco beat pulses out across the water.

The face I am looking for isn’t here. She will probably be below deck. I need to get to her. I need to explain.

I am not meant to be here. I was not on the guest list. But so far I have managed to merge with the masses. If I stay in the shadows, perhaps I can pass unnoticed, until I reach her.

The autumn breeze is chilling. This is no Indian summer. But I do not shiver. Today, apparently, I am immune from cold. I find a quiet corner, and watch and listen.

Two men walk by, a little unsteady on the listing surface.  Half-familiar, but I can’t quite place them.

“What d’you reckon? Suicide?” says one.

“Ros says not. She’s adamant Melissa wouldn’t.”

“So have they called off the search yet?”

“No still looking. Following up leads. They questioned everyone in her office.”

“She’s a grown woman. She could just’ve taken off.”

“Yeah, they seem to think there’s more to it.”

The two move on. I wonder, for a moment, what they were talking about, but with my new detachment, I don’t really care.

I’m about to slip downstairs, but more people are coming. This time it’s two women about my age.

“How’s Ros taking it?”

“Not good, she’s very upset. She seems to think something awful’s happened. I tried to persuade her Mel’s probably just gone away for a bit to take the heat off.”

“She shouldn’t have to run away. If anyone scarpers, it should be him.”

“The slime-ball.”

When the women have moved on I seize my moment and slip downstairs, marvelling at how easy it is to mingle, disregarded, with the crowd.

She’s there, on one of the sofas, at the end. She looks ravishing but so sad. I can’t get to her because she’s surrounded. I will have to bide my time.

There’s food and drink down here, but I’m no longer hungry. Someone has left a newspaper on one of the tables. The headline reads: Missing Mel in murder probe. Beneath it: Mayor’s mistress may have been murdered – search continues. I marvel at the alliteration. This story, whatever it’s about, is a headline-writer’s dream.

“You and me, we used to be together.” For the moment, the music is mellow, and nostalgic. The dance stuff comes later. “Every day, together. Always..” The song is fitting, as I observe my friend from afar. Me and Ros were always together. Friends for life. Flatshares, nights out, double-dates, holidays, we shared everything. Until this last thing.

I edge a little closer. People come and go but Ros stays seated. There’s a bloke next to her who is being very attentive. I vaguely recognise him. She smiles politely but her eyes wander. I will her to look at me.

Finally, I’m next to her. I nudge her. She doesn’t notice, or perhaps she is ignoring me. I am, after all, persona non grata. Am I an embarrassment to her?

The guy beside her drones on. Can’t he tell she’s not interested? She barely speaks. I take a good look at her face. Beautiful, as ever, but strained. I’m guessing she’s not had much sleep lately.

I try a little harder. “Ros!” I hiss into her ear. But she shivers and turns away. They’ve upped the volume on the sound system. She doesn’t seem to hear me.

I know this boat, better than anyone. Grant-funded, it was intended for the deprived youth of the city, to teach them team-building skills on the Trent; or for the elderly or disabled, to give them a treat and their carers a break. But once a year, like now,  it becomes a party boat for Town Hall employees.  Nobody guessed at its secret life. This is where he used to take me. He’d pick up the keys and we’d sail off. We’d even made love on this very berth. Once he took me to an island on the Trent. We drank champagne and argued. That’s all I can remember. These days, my memory is not what it used to be. There are gaps, blanks, and I can’t remember people’s names. I know it doesn’t matter.

He was the youngest Mayor in England. When it all came out, people joked about the chains. What did I see in him? Was it some fetish thing?

I’d been so wrapped up in him I had neglected my friend, when clearly, she needed me.

Clandestine meetings in dingy back street bars. Locked meeting rooms.  Working late. Night after night. We even did it in the council chamber. Was it the secrecy? The power? The thing had a momentum that was un-stoppable. But truth will out, and when it did, that’s when things turned nasty…

“Shall we take a look on deck?” the guy beside her asks.

“Ok,” she says. Compliant, bored, definitely not interested. Ros is never this quiet.

I follow them back up the steps. She shivers on deck, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He witters on. People pass by.

“Hi Ros,” they say.

“Good to see you here.”

“So glad you could make it.”

“It’ll do you good to get out.”

I wonder if my friend’s been ill, or had a bereavement. I want to be there for her. I must talk to her. I know that I of all people can comfort her.

There’s a commotion near the river bank. There’s a couple of cop cars on the bank and there are people in wet-suits in the water. Ros gasps.

“Oh my God!” she says.

People spring to her side. “Ros, go back down below,” they say. “You shouldn’t see this!” They try to shield her from the sight, to usher her downstairs, but she pulls away from them.

“Stop protecting me!” she says.  “I’m not a child. I know what’s happening here.”

I don’t.

I watch, intrigued. The people in the water are police frogmen, it seems. There’s a lot of people on the bank. They drag something out of the water just as we draw near. Our boat slows right down.

It’s almost dusk, but although the light is failing I can make out the shape of a body. Short. Female. Covered in mill-weed. Been in the water a couple of days, I’d say. They lay her out on the bank and surround her.

There’s a shout as another frogman surfaces near our barge. He’s so close we almost hit him. He’s pointing to something in the water. Something caught up with the ropes from one of our fenders.  Two of the guys on our boat lean over to disentangle it then haul it, and the frogman, on board.

He lands, dripping, all slime and gleaming rubber, like some creature from the deep. The girls recoil. They don’t want filthy river water on their party dresses.

But I draw closer, intrigued by the object they’ve pulled out with him. It’s some sort of bag. Brown leather, sodden and stinking like the tannery it originated from. And there, on the front, is a pattern made of coins emblazoned on the leather. Ros sees it at the same time as me, and gives out a little shriek.

I don’t need to lean in closer to see it’s the outline of a camel. I’d know that bag anywhere. Hadn’t I bartered for it in the souks of Marrakesh? That bag, the one they’ve dragged out of the water – is ….  MINE.

This short story by Clare is not in the Restless Minds anthology. Check out Clare’s bio here.

Meowl (excerpt), by Kristian Elliott

He didn’t know when. He didn’t know how. But he knew they were coming for him. He just knew. He could feel their eyes glaring at his back. His heart was pounding. A cold shiver slowly brushed across his neck. He had to run as fast as he could. Charlie searched his surroundings for a doorway, or something. Anything that could take him away from this place.

Sneaking into the school grounds at night wasn’t his best idea. But he needed answers. He couldn’t stop thinking about all the strange incidents that had happened over the past month. Charlie stopped to rest behind a classroom wall. He could hear the teachers heading towards his direction now. Their voices were distant, but he could hear them getting closer.

“I won’t let them catch me,” he repeated to himself.

Sunlight faded. Charlie knew that if he was late coming home his mum would phone the school. Eventually, she’d come searching for him, leading her to his school. He couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t risk her safety. But something strange was happening and he had to find out what it was. No adults could help him, not that they would believe him anyway. What he had seen. What he had overheard.

The voices fell silent. The footsteps drifted away. Charlie looked at his watch.

“Ten more minutes, I’ll wait ten more minutes and see if they do it again.”

Charlie peered around the corner of the wall. He could just make out a blurry figure standing outside the doors of the school gym, behind the playground. The lights were still on. Charlie squinted, but the figure was still blurry. His mother was right, too much television can damage your eyes. He’d forgotten his glasses when he snuck out of his house and now he struggled to see things from a distance. He rubbed his eyes and when he opened them the figure was gone. Charlie stumbled back.

Puzzled, he looked quickly from left to right. There was no one. He looked towards the gym. The lights flickered for a few seconds and then went off.

“Oh, no!” Charlie gasped. “This happened last time, I’ve stayed too long.”

He pressed his back to the wall, his breathing became frantic. Two loud familiar voices were coming from the playground. Charlie closed his eyes and clenched his fists. His breathing returned to normal and he let out a sigh.

“Come on Charlie, you can do this, they’re counting on you,” he said to himself.

Charlie thought back to the week before. He had found it tough to adjust to his new school. But the friends he’d made over the last month were the best anyone could ask for. However, witnessed Sam and Chris being taken by a dark figure into the gym after football training. He ran to the door only for them to greet him.

Something was different about them. The way they spoke to him wasn’t quite right. They kept saying ‘meow’ at the end of their sentences, and their eyes. Their eyes were wrong. The colours. Dark green, yellow, gold.

Charlie shook his head to come back to reality. He looked up. Black draped the sky like a curtain. The full moon shone brightly through the clouds. He sighed.

“My mum is going to kill me.”

Bravely, Charlie pushed himself off of the wall and peered around the corner. It was Mr Thompson and Mrs Ellerbe, the two teachers he feared the most.

Mr Thompson had always scared Charlie, he was a muscular giant. He was so large he thought that one day his whole body would rip out of his suit. Every morning, after assembly, he trampled through the school grounds. He was so gigantic that every student feared being stepped on and squished.

Mrs Ellerbe was ancient and wrinkly.  She was thin and frail, but she had unusually long, sharp finger nails. No pupil dared to talk in her classroom. If they did, she would brush her fingers on the back of their neck. They all froze when she did this. Her long nails literally sent chills down the spine.

They stalked the edges of the playground. Charlie watched them in awe. Their behaviour was odd. The clouds passed by. Both teachers stopped at the same time. They looked up at the now visible full moon.

The moonlight covered the teachers in a thick, white, ghostly glow. Rays of light danced and swirled around the teachers’ bodies. The light was so bright Charlie had to use his arms to cover his eyes.

After a few seconds the bright lights faded. Charlie moved his arms away. He stared at the two creatures stood on the playground. They were slightly taller and thinner than the teachers who’d previously stood there. From head to toe the creatures were covered in silky, black fur which shimmered in the moonlight.

“Charlie, Charlie. You need my help now Charlie,” a mysterious voice called out to him in his head.

“Not now, leave me alone, I’m so close,” whispered Charlie. He continued to watch the creatures.

“Charlie, they will find you. If they find you it’s all over for you and your friends.” The voice warned.

“Stop talking. You’re distracting me,” Charlie rubbed his eyes again. His vision was blurry.

“Okay Charlie. But don’t call me when they catch you. I won’t help.”

“Go away!” Charlie demanded. The voice never returned. He breathed a sigh of relief.

The clouds covered the moon again. The creatures on the playground were no longer there. They were the teachers again. Mr Thompson stopped staring at the moon and sniffed the air, while Mrs Ellerbe watched him curiously. He pointed towards Charlie’s direction. Mrs Ellerbe spun around. Charlie ducked his head and hid behind the corner. He wanted to look around the corner again but he knew they would be coming his way. He had to run now. Run hard and run fast.

Charlie ran in the opposite direction of the playground. Although the school was empty, there were still some teachers inside their classrooms. They could spot him if he went past their windows. It was a risk he had to take, he had to get to the school gates.

“They are playing with you Charlie. You’re just a ball of string to them,” the mysterious voice spoke.

“I thought I told you to leave me alone!”

Charlie ran around the corner but Mr Thompson was stood waiting for him. Charlie slipped backwards. Mr Thompson crept towards him. He looked at Charlie with interest. Charlie got to his feet and slowly backed away.

“How did he get here so fast?” Charlie gasped.

“I warned you Charlie,” said the mysterious voice.

“Nightshade, please help me. I’m scared. I’m sorry for shouting at you,” whimpered Charlie.

There was no response.

Charlie’s back bumped into something soft. He felt heavy breathing on his neck. He froze.

This extract by Kristian is not in the Restless Minds anthology. Check out Kristian’s bio here.

Knock-a-door run, by Paul Adey

Prophet in an ebony coat,
throw shadow.
Quote from a line in the psalm,
without tarot.
Low tide slow; the dark pallor of Pluto.
Drawn close; the black wave carrying calm.

To the foot of the door
you hear knocking,
cling to the leg of Lenore;
the black stocking.
Obsidian cloak; the omniscient
thread caught up in your thoughts.
Off shore.

Seraphim pulling the strings,
till your ribs broke
Medicine suffered to taste;
who you miss most.
Fate calling your name, long sentence
“Nevermore” answered; never again questioned.

Flame flick on the hearth,
hear a pin drop.
Noise out of the dark
when the winds cease.
Foul play on the word, at the forefront-
Black thought play on your mind; knock-a-door run.

This poem by Paul is not in the Restless Minds anthology. You can read Paul’s bio here.