The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
The Summerhouse
by Alyson Faye
Greg had his video camera out, pointing it at Amber, his latest girlfriend as she drove the stolen BMW down the main road. They were both laughing, her long blonde hair flying in the cool night breeze. Both were buzzing with the thrill of the theft, the car’s speed and capturing it all on film.
‘Ain’t no one ever gonna catch us,’ Greg crowed. ‘I’m gonna make you a YouTube star, babe.’
Amber was more concerned with showing her best camera angle. ‘Greg, darling, don’t film from underneath up my nose, idiot!’ She flicked her long mane of hair.
Their home town of Danesville (christened ‘Dullsville’ by the town’s youth) flashed by in a blur. Then they were out the other side heading towards the countryside and Dennison Woods, named the town’s founder, one Edward Dennison Dane who’d planted the copse back in the 1790s. Dennison had enjoyed taking his pretty, very young bride to his private chalet there. Rumour also had it that this same upstanding citizen abducted his enemies and buried them in the rich, dark soil.
But hey, that was just tittle tattle, gossip, even defamatory PR, not the truth. No one believed it.
There was a light mist rising on the road to the woods, and a weird blue glow in the night sky. The temperature was noticeably cooler.
‘Those trees are well creepy,’ Amber said. ‘Those branches are thick like arms. I don’t like it here.’
At her words the BMW’s engine coughed, once, spasmed and expired.
‘Shit!’ Amber turned the ignition, on/off – nothing. ‘Greg . . .’ she wailed. ‘Stop filming me. We’re stuck. Do something.’
Her boyfriend shrugged. ‘I’m no mechanic, babe. We’ll have to take the short cut back into town . . .’
‘Through the woods? No way.’ Amber shook her head.
‘OK, stay here then.’
Greg climbed out of the car, and strolled into the bushes huddled at the roadside. He vanished.
Amber freaked out and scrambled after him, crying, and stumbling, falling face first into the shrubbery. ‘Wait for me!’ A minute or two went by.
Greg suddenly appeared at her side, now outlined by the same weird blue light that illuminated the woods. He pulled her to her feet, grinning.
‘NOT FUNNY!’ she yelled.
The air pressed down heavier and smelt of – chlorine, like at the town’s swimming pool. Amber’s breath materialised in puffs of icy smoke, and her clothes were soon damp.
‘I don’t like this . . .’ she whined, close to tears.
Greg shrugged. And kept walking. Oddly he had barely spoken since he’d done his vanishing act.
‘Greg? Babe? Please slow down.’
He walked on, as though he knew the path off by heart, or was following a signal. Amber had no choice but to follow him.
‘Welcome to my summerhouse,’ Greg stopped, waving an arm towards a freshly-painted, colonnaded summerhouse nestling in a grove. His figure shimmered in the blue light, his clothes faded, replaced by breeches, white shirt with a frothy cravat and high black boots. His hair grew darker, curlier, his chin jutted fiercer.
‘Greg? Is that you?’ Amber pulled back, nervous, wary. ‘What’s this place. I never knew it was here.’
Greg closed in on her, took her hand, kissed the back of it, bowed and tugged Amber towards the summerhouse. From inside came the tinkling sounds of a music box. Amber glimpsed a chaise longue covered in red velvet. Gold statues clustered around it.
It’s like a love nest, Amber thought.
Her long skirts swished through the leaves, and touching her head, she discovered her hair was now pinned up. I’m going mad. It’s all a dream.
‘Sweet Madeline, come and be mine,’ Greg’s voice was older, more formal.
The trees created a bower above the summerhouse; the branches, laden with cerulean blossoms, bent down.
Welcome … the wind whispered, join us…
Amber’s head swam, her limbs were heavy, like a puppet following its master, she went to Greg, whose face she no longer recognised. He was older, crueller, feral even.
Behind her the gnarly, bark-encrusted branches stretched, elongated and embraced each other, blocking the exit to the grove, her escape path. Creating a cocoon . . .
In her head Amber heard their bark breaths, the sap rushing and Dennison’s honeyed tones –
‘Come lie with me.’
.
Fiction © Copyright Alyson Faye
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com
More from Alyson Faye:
The Lost Girl & Spindleshanks
The Lost Girl
A nailed-up door. An inheritance which comes with a ghost. A missing girl. A fifty-year-old mystery. Parapsychologist Berkley Osgood is hired to investigate. What he uncovers reveals secrets the living want to hide and the dead will never forgive.
Spindleshanks
Adam is having nightmares about a skeletal shadow figure, who he calls Spindleshanks. Soon his whole class are sharing the same nightmare. Adam’s dad, Rob, knows that Spindleshanks can’t be real. But is he? One terrible night Rob has to face his son’s nightmare creature and fight for his son’s life. What would you sacrifice to have your child back safe?
“A decent two-for-one. Alyson Faye brings the engaging and eerie in equal measure.” CC Adams – horror / dark fiction author
Available on Amazon!
The Kitchen Witches
A successful writer/editor in the corporate world for more than two decades, Deirdre Swinden is currently living and writing in North Carolina. She received an MFA in Creative Writing from Arcadia University and has published short stories in Griffel Literary Magazine and Grim & Gilded. Early in her writing career, she won the Popular Short Story Contest at the 2000 Philadelphia Writers’ Conference with her short work, “Shooting Televisions.”
