The Phantom

A string of pearls decorate her neck and flow down her chest.

There is a beauty to her that was lost long ago but is sometimes found in the oddest of places.

She is a beauty from another time who came back too late for the times, or is this just a perception?

In her hand is an antique brush with a geometrical pattern in blue, silver and white. It is a precious item to her judging by the way she holds it in her hand.

What is this sadness that sinks into the atmosphere of the room to darken the patches of light from overly rectangular windows?

Cassandra sits on the lounge looking at the brush, but she doesn’t know what to do, for when she reaches out to touch the pretty one, her hand moves straight through the pearls, chest and nothing seems to make sense.

Then, without warning, the silent Phantom looks upon Cassandra with a longing so sad. Her mouth moves as she says, “Come to me so that I can brush your hair. It is so beautiful…”

The words linger in the air, for Cassandra feels an overwhelming urge to be with this beautiful familiar lady.

As the feeling gets stronger Cassandra knows not what happened. One moment longing prevailed and then the feeling of her hair being brushed.

Cassandra moves towards the phantom. She is baffled. “Why are you so familiar?”, she wonders.

“Cassandra, it has been a long time since we last touched. I’ve missed you so much…”

“Who are you?”

“I’m your sister, sweet Cassandra…remember now? We played games by the cliffs looking out to the sea.”

Confused, Cassandra looks around her. On the floor her body lays motionless. She is now a phantom too, destined for who knows what.

“What is your name?”

“Cassandra, I am Rebecca.”

Something jolts Cassandra’s memory as she remembers the mansion, “My name was “I”…we were not sisters. We both loved the same demon.”

“Yes! Now come with me…it’s time to make things right.”

Cassandra took Rebecca’s hand.


Alone with thoughts of wolves, the forest and the way her body bent and bowed last night as he moved to the beat of a silent drum, he thinks of primitive sexual delights.

Tarella swept into his world with such force that Matthew finds difficulty in understanding what the day will bring.

It was just a look at the club. There was never meant to be a connection, but it happened and now he’s hooked.

Being with her flesh, bending their bodies together, biting her flesh, the way she pressed her thighs together in anticipation of what she called, “the second coming”, and the beating of her Viking heart all cast a spell that cannot be broken.

Still thinking of her, he’s roused from daydreaming dark pleasures to a knock on the door. He thinks, “Who could be here tonight? I wonder if it’s Tarella? I wonder if my very thoughts willed her here?”

Unable to think clearly, Matthew pads to the door. With a carefree air, he opens the door to a wild and beautiful Tarella. “What is it about her teeth that are different?” he wonders.

“Hello…I wasn’t expecting you…would you like me to cook something?”

“You have to ask me to come in Matthew…you know it’s only polite to do so…”

Matthew falters for a moment, but then denies that his gut is on point, “…Please come in, Tarella…”

She steps across the threshold and they kiss. “I was wrong to think anything was wrong. She is so beautiful and so lovely, yet there’s this feeling…”

A sudden pain grips him tight, “It’s only her teeth in my neck…she wants me…Wait! What the fuck!”

He breaks free from her bloodied lips to run for the cleaver, but her grip is crushing the life from his bones. She sinks her teeth into his neck again and he feels life fall from him as the world goes cold and foggy.

In the darkness, he emerges cold and wired. He struggles to think, “It was a terrible dream. She is close and I’m alive, yet…”

Tarella smiles her sweet smile and says, “Hello my love…now you’re just like me…”

Anger rises in Matthew’s cold heart which fails to beat, “What! What…have…you did?”

“You’re a vampire now you idiot! Get over it and come play with me…”

The Colours

There’s a way with the clouds today. As night approaches, there’s grey, white, blues and pinks.

Anna never gets used to the sky colours, forthose colours make her feel things. Old and new things. Dark and light things.
The sea is out over the cliffs. Tonight it’s still, which is odd. Although cool, there’s this mist hovering. “How peculiar”, Anna thinks, “It’s probably nothing.”
Walking into the house sends a strange chill down her spine. Something’s changed, but not for the better. The light doesn’t help.
Anna mutters in reassurance to only herself, “I’m not scared. It’s nothing. No one can hurt me now…not now…”
The rattling begins. Soft then harder, light then thunderous; it’s as if the house has taken on a life of its own.
Anna screams inwardly, for words no longer escape her lips. Terror grips her heart and then crushes her lungs. Struggling through, she sees three ladies standing before her in 1920’s dress. Their faces sneer and laugh, as they pull her forward. The rattling again. They laugh at her. The rattling comes. They smash her head against the wall. The rattling echoes.
Anna asks, “Where am I now?”
In unison, they playfully answer, “You’re with us now whether you like it or not.”