Theater Macabre
Authors: Kealan Patrick Burke
Theater Macabre
Kealan Patrick Burke
Amazon Edition
Copyright 2010 by Kealan Patrick Burke
All stories copyright ©2003/2004 by Kealan Patrick Burke
License Notes
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"Head in the Clouds" originally appeared on the Subterranean Press website
"How the Night Receives Them" originally appeared in
Legends of the Mountain State, Ghostly Tales from the State of West Virginia
, edited by Michael Knost, Woodland Press "The Acquaintance" originally appeared on the Subterranean Press website. Reprinted in
Shivers V
, edited by Richard Chizmar, Cemetery Dance Publications "Ravens" originally appeared in
Small Bites
, edited by Garrett Peck & Keith Gouveia, Coscom Entertainment "Keepsakes" originally appeared in
The Asylum III: The Quiet Ward
, edited by Victor Heck, House of Dominion "The Wrong Side of the Bed" originally appeared in
The MagusZine
, edited by David Montoya "After" originally appeared in Horror Library, Volume III, edited by R.J. Cavender and Boyd E. Harris, Cutting Block Press "The Tradition" originally appeared on
Horror World
, edited by Nanci Kalanta "Turrow" originally appeared in
Surreal
magazine, Cavern Press
"Not Quite Ghosts" originally appeared in
The Book of Final Flesh
, edited by James Lowder, Eden Studios "Stirrings" originally appeared in
Masques V
, edited by J.N. Williamson, Gauntlet Press "From the Wall, a Whisper" originally appeared in Evermore, edited by Stephen Mark Rainey & James Robert Smith, Arkham House "Visiting Hours" originally appeared in
At Ease with the Dead
, edited by Barbara & Christopher Roden, Ash-Tree Press "Out of the Theater" originally appeared in
Thirteen Stories
"A Letter from Phoenix" originally appeared in Unspeakable Horror: From the Shadows of the Closet, edited by Vince Liaguno & Chad Helder
All Stories copyright 2001–2011 by Kealan Patrick Burke
Other Titles by Kealan Patrick Burke
Table of Contents
They See You When You're Sleeping
“Daddy?”
“Yes, hon?”
“Why do planes crash?”
“I don’t know, babe. I…I don’t know.”
“Why don’t they just land before it ’splodes?”
“I…because they can’t, I guess. They don’t have time to make it to the ground.”
“I know that. But why can’t they land on the clouds?”
“Oh. Be…Because…”
“Or just let all the passengers off onto the clouds so they can wait to be picked up by another plane?”
“Sarah…”
“Maybe that’s what happened to Mommy’s plane.”
“Maybe.”
“I saw the plane on the news.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“It was on fire and broken up in itty-bitty pieces.”
“Yes. Yes…it was.”
“Don’t be sad, Dad.”
“I’m not, hon. I’m okay.”
“You’re crying.”
“I guess I am. I’m tired is all.”
“I saw the plane, Daddy, but you know what? I didn’t see Mommy on the TV. I saw the plane but she wasn’t there. Nobody was there!”
“I know, but baby, you—”
“I bet the plane stopped to let them off on the clouds, and she’s waiting up there right now for a ride home. Isn’t that what you think Daddy?”
“Yeah. Yeah it is. You need to lie down and get some sleep now baby. Been a rough few—”
“Can we go pick her up?”
“I don’t think we can.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t…let’s just talk about this in the morning, okay?”
“You can fly, Daddy, can’t you? Rachel told me at school that Daddy’s can fly if they want to. She said when her little brother ran out in front of a car her Daddy screamed and turned and flew and saved her little brother. I guess Mom’s can’t though or she’d just be able to fly down from the cloud all by herself, wouldn’t she?”
“I can’t fly, honey. I wish I could.”
“Do, then!”
“What?”
“Make a wish and I’ll bet you can! You can go collect Mommy.”
“Sarah…”
“I bet it’s cold up there.”
“In the clouds?”
“Uh-huh. But at least it’s nice and fluffy and soft.”
“I bet it is. Come on now, lie down and let me tuck you in.”
“I won’t be able to sleep.”
“Sure you will. You’re tired.”
“I won’t. I’m too excited now.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re going to make a wish and fly and get Mommy back.”
“I suppose I’ll have to give it a shot, but what if I can’t?”
“You’re crying again. If it’s because you’re worried about leaving me here alone while you go get Mommy, you don’t have to. I’ll stay here in bed and look out the window. I promise I won’t get up until I see you coming back. I do that sometimes anyway.”
“Do what?”
“Lie here looking out the window at the clouds. Those are the days when you have to call me for breakfast a few times, because I don’t want to stop watching them. Then you come in and tickle me and I have to get up.”
“I didn’t know that’s what you were doing.”
“You’re smiling.”
“Because I love you, Sarah. I don’t know what I would do without you. And your mother loves you.”
“I know. She told me about the clouds. That’s why I watch them.”
“What did she tell you?”
“That things are different up there. That you can walk on the clouds. That there are bunches of people up there who have fallen from space, or out of planes, or who jumped too high and got stuck. That’s why I don’t use Rachel’s trampoline. She calls me a chicken, but I’m really not. I just don’t want to get my head stuck in the clouds. Mommy said that’s what it means when someone says someone else has their head in the clouds. Means they jumped too high once—maybe on a trampoline—and because their heads poked through, they’re never the same after that. They’re a bit silly.”
“Is that what she said?”
“Yeah. So I guess because it’s not the same up there, Mommy shouldn’t be up there too long. Will you go get her while I’m sleeping?”
“What if I can’t fly? What if it doesn’t work?”
“It will. Wish hard, Daddy.”
“Okay, babe. I’ll wish as hard as I can, but if it doesn’t work, you think maybe Mommy’ll might be happy up there?”
“Why would she want to stay up there when we’re down here?”
“Maybe so she can always watch over us wherever we go. Maybe…so she can help the other people who have fallen out of space and airplanes and…”
“I guess. But you should go make sure she’s okay anyway.”
“Okay baby, I will, and I’ll tell her you miss her.”
“Promise?”
“With all my heart. Now you lie down and get some sleep. It’s getting late and you want me to be able to see my way up there don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Okay. Daddy?”
“Yes, hon?”
“Don’t get stuck up there okay?”
“I won’t.”
“Swear?”
“I swear.”
“Okay. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
It is not how you walk, or where, or how far. It is all in the sound of the steps and how the night receives them
.
Carrie shakes her head and her hood chafes her cheek. She hates the coat almost as much as she hates the woman who forced her to wear it, but secretly she is glad of its warmth, no matter how heavy and uncomfortable it feels around her thin frame. A sigh sends a cloud rolling out to join the fog. The skin across her face feels tight, like new leather; her eyes water. Her lips are cracked dry and raw.
It is not how you walk...
The dense fog turns the night to silver as it smothers the moon and steals its light. The vaporous clouds are like damp kisses against her face.
The words the man said made no sense to her, and she wishes she could stop thinking about them. But every time she tries to focus on something else—like her mother's worsening habit—those words come again, speaking over unrelated images like a displaced narrator.
It's a quote
, the detective, who she has come to call The Poet, told her when she'd queried their origin,
from the one and only poem I ever wrote
.
It's beautiful
, she'd replied, though she wasn't sure that was true. She'd wanted to ask what the words meant, but refrained from doing so for fear the man with the sad green eyes and hangdog face would consider it rude. All she knew for certain was that the words, whatever the meaning behind them, clearly had greater significance to him than they would ever have for her.
You should
write more of them. Seems like you know how.
He'd smiled then, his car moving alongside her, the window down, the lights picking up the first gathering wisps of fog.
Sometimes there's enough
darkness in the world without adding to it under the guise of something pretty
, he'd said, and she hadn't understood that either. So she'd shrugged, dug her hands into the pockets of her heavy red coat, and stared down at her feet.
I think if you have that kind of a talent, it'd be a shame not to use it,
she told him.
The Poet had nodded, eyes distant.
All my talent, if that's what you'd call it, goes only one way these days
.
Into the worst kind of darkness. And no one ever tries to make something pretty out of it, because there's nothing pretty to be had. Just...darkness.
But you help people, don't you? Your job is to be a voice for those who can't speak for themselves.
He'd smiled at her again, the warmest smile she'd ever seen from him, and nodded.
That's very profound. And true, I guess, though it doesn't always feel
like it. Some of the time it feels as if we're just here to bear witness to the acts of
monsters. To validate their efforts by seeing what they've done.
He'd fallen silent, as he often did. She had less than a mile to walk, less than a mile in his company, but the silence as he accompanied her was so much better than the quiet when she was alone. The rustling of nocturnal animals in the brush between the trees, the grating shriek of possums, the sharp bark of raccoons, the clamor of deer as they fled at the scent of her, the imagined sound of footsteps lost in the echo of her own...none of these things seemed threatening when he was by her side.
Tonight, however, as she reflects on all he said the night before, she is alone.
The fog is thicker.
The silence, deeper.
It is all in the sound of the steps...
The cold tries to infiltrate her coat, tries to creep up her sleeves and down the open throat. She folds her arms and hugs herself tight. Drops from an earlier rain plop to unseen puddles on the road. Leaves fall wetly to the asphalt.
Half a mile to go...
Though there are no landmarks visible by which she might gauge her progress, she knows where she is. Every night for the past six months she has walked this road and the feel of it beneath her feet has become familiar.