The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
The Names
by Scarlett R. Algee
The night after Dad’s funeral, I notice the tree.
The cancer took him hard, and I’ve got more than a little whiskey in me now—had to, to get through that—and I find myself standing in the front yard beneath that scraggy old oak. My rope swing from second grade still hangs from one thick branch, the strands soft with rot and swaying in the slightest breeze.
Dad had carved his initials into the trunk of the oak when he was twelve, right at the midpoint. I barely have to search for them; there’s a streetlight across the way that burns yellow bright enough to light up half the neighborhood.
JRC, right below a knot in the wood the size of my fist. I trace the letters with my fingers—they feel almost organic, like cracks in the bark rather than cuts made with an old Army knife. Smoothed. Old, I guess.
But my fingers touch other lines, and I look down.
7-19-25.
That’s yesterday. The day of his funeral. I pull my hand back and jam it into my pocket and frown. The date has that same almost greasy smoothness, like it’s natural rather than manmade, but I wonder what local sicko had decided it would be funny to add that to Dad’s initials.
But there are other initials, other names…and other numbers.
I walk around the trunk and squint upward in the yellow light. Grandpa’s initials are here too, Dad had said, and after a moment I find them, coarse and square: PDC.
And beside them, on the smallish side, 12-31-90.
Heart attack. New Year’s Eve. I’d been five years old.
The lettering is identical to Grandpa’s work, the same blocky bluntness. I can’t reach it, but I think that if I could, if I touched it, the sensation would be the same, like touching glass worn silky with age.
I start to step away, but my attention’s caught.
Eric Coates, a quarter of the way around the trunk. 4-14-02. Eric, my best friend for twelve years of school, until the motorcycle accident. I can still hear Mom’s voice: I’m so sorry, Ricky.
Whoever did this has had time on their hands to make an effort, to make their carvings look organic. I kick at the oak’s trunk and stumble, catch myself on a branch and push upright again. Maybe it’s just being drunk and sad and sleep-deprived, but all I want right now is a chainsaw to cut this damned thing down—
And suddenly I remember being nineteen, and Dad pushing that old Army knife into my hand.
Steady hand, Rick, he’d said.
That was twenty-one years ago. No wonder I’d forgotten.
I walk a little further along the huge trunk until I spot a crack in the sidewalk and drop into a crouch. I’d picked a difficult spot, and some kind of vegetation has wedged itself up into a breach in the bark. I tear and pull and scrabble with my fingernails until I clear a space the size of my palm, and there I am.
RDC. I’d managed to do it in cursive, give it a little flourish. I reach to run my fingers over it—
And I feel other lines beneath the green overgrowth. Smooth. Swooping. Another little flourish.
My heart squirms uneasily in my throat. I take one breath, two, too hard, and reach for my car keys. A metal edge scrapes off the green.
7-21-25.
My calves give out, and I hit my knees.
I look at my watch. My chest heaves.
It’s 11:59.
Fiction © Copyright Scarlett R. Algee
Image © Copyright Rie Sheridan Rose
More from author Scarlett R. Algee:
The Lift: Nine Stories of Transformation, Volume One
The hall is dark and the overhead light flickers. Sounds echo, and there’s a creaking and clanging that gets louder as you stand in the semi-dark. The elevator opens and you’re offered a ride. Step inside and ride it to the story chosen for your transformation. Don’t be afraid, for Victoria, the mysterious girl who operates The Lift, waits to guide you. Set in the same world as the award nominated audio drama, The Lift’s first written anthology features nine all new stories by fan favorite writers and special bonus content by creators Daniel Foytik and Cynthia Lowman. The collection is brought to life with beautiful illustrations by Jeanette Andromeda for each story.
Spreading the Writer's Word 