Flash Fiction Spooktacular

What You Sow - S. Liongate

One for sorrow, two for mirth, three for a funeral and four for a birth. Five for heaven, six for hell, seven for the devil, his own self… the old rhyme rolled around in my head, sloshing like waves in a tea cup as I peered out the window and across the lawn.

There were seven. Seven magpies on my lawn. They were looking at me. Cursing, I slammed the curtains shut. They’re just birds Synthia, just birds. They are not looking at you. With one twitching finger I pulled the curtain just a crack.

Fuck. Still seven. Beady eyes staring.

“Screw it.” Determined, I clattered around under the sink. It was an old bottle, belonged to my Daddy, God bless his soul. Didn’t like to throw things away. Everything had a use and like my Daddy used to say, ‘they don’t make ‘em like they used to’. Certainly true of this. No bittering agent in this bottle.

Thumping a bowl on the table, I scooped in the mess of seeds I’d scrapped from the pumpkins I’d been carving, and added a big glug of antifreeze. Letting it soak, I went back to carving. A whole hour I’d spent choosing my pumpkins. Each one had undergone the scrutiny of my gaze. They were perfect.

Store assistants had snickered but better them than Joan next door. Last year she had practically sneered at my Halloween decorations. Hence those damned birds just had to go. Couldn’t have them pecking my pumpkins. Plus there were seven, and they kept looking at me. An omen.

People called me superstitious. They could say what they wanted. I knew the truth.

Before bed I tossed the laced seeds over the lawn. Always the early riser I was up at 6am - well before dawn. One strong cup of tea later my wellies were on. Torch in hand I let the light skim across the lawn as I stood on the doorstep. My, my, what a sight.

Furry and feathery bodies, dozens of them, dead on my lawn. Little bastards. Served ‘em right; f*****g on, shitting on, an’ scratching up my lawn in the dead of night.

Armed with Marigolds up to the elbows, a garden fork and my wheelie bin I started clearing the filthy vermin off my lawn. Some twitched, a couple were even breathing but they all went in the bin. The magpies, the badger, the hedgehog, the foxes, the rats, the cats… Vile creatures. My only regret was now I’d have to put up with pathetic, teary eyed, neighbours coming to my door and putting up posters on the lampposts in the hope of finding their pet.

That day I mowed the lawn. Cut it to the recommended 1 ½ inch height for autumn - so says the Royal Horticultural Society. Mostly the grass box was full of crunchy leaves in their varying shades of ugly brown. With the lawn pristine I set out my pumpkins. Their faces were carved in the traditional style; scary pointy teeth and triangle eyes. None of this new age nonsense with cute cats or smiling bats.

Once all my decorations were out I went to the front room to wait for Joan to get back from her knitting club or book club or whatever tedious social activity she partook of on a Thursday afternoon. A rumble of a car engine alerted me. Joan got taxis everywhere. Showy b***h. Flaunting her private pension payments in all our faces. The wrinkly snob didn’t even glance at my Halloween decorations. It was worse than if she had sneered.

It would be dark soon. I’d light the candles, proper candles in MY pumpkins. Then she’d see.

Even with the candles lit Joan’s curtain didn’t even twitch. That old bag was ignoring me. How dare she. Worse, the next day she hobbled out of the house with a suitcase and into a taxi. Not just any taxi, a dedicated airport taxi. Joan just had to let everyone know she was catching a plane. Well, I was hoping she would break her leg on the escalator, or get food poisoning or better yet have a heart attack in the swimming pool.

Sunday afternoon Joan pulled up to the curb in her fancy airport taxi just as I was putting my bins out.

“Synthia.” She greeted me, as if we were wonderful friends. “Still light out Synthia.” Joan tutted, limping up the path with her carryon. Huffing and puffing, I heaved the heavy bin back to my house; muttering all the way. Stupid, bloody, stuck up Joan.

As I slid the bin into place next to the side door there was a discernible thump. It made me pause. One of those nasty vermin were probably clinging to their filthy existence.

“Just die already. Disgusting.” The bin received a solid kick.

My intention was to wait until sunset, the precise time of 4:39pm. Technically dark. Let’s see that sour-faced old bag complaint about that. Even the best laid plans can be thwarted. In this case by a long nap.

The clock chimed midnight. The witching hour.

“Damn it.” I cussed, stiffly climbing to my feet. Stuff it. The bins still needed to go out. Not like the deaf bat will hear me rattling about anyway.

The night was crisp. Frosty breath danced and swirled. The bin wheel squealed, a menacing scream puncturing the quiet night. Wheeling it down the path it caught on a broken slab. Stupid council. It was their nuisance tree breaking up the pavement and pushing up my garden path. God knows I’d written them enough letters about it. With one solid tug the bin lurched. Its hefty weight had me stumbling.

While I managed to catch my balance I couldn’t hold the bin as well. Damn thing clattered to the ground, lid falling open. Dead animals spilled out. I could see the dark shapes gathered at the mouth of the bin. Blast it all. Now I’d have to go get my Marigolds.

One step towards the house and the lamppost began to flicker. Then the useless thing went out. Just my luck. I’d need the torch too. Before I could take another step something moved near the bin. A sound much like something dragging itself across the ground. A low buzz came from above as the lamppost strained to give a little light. All the shadowy lumps on the ground were moving; shuffling unnaturally towards me.

The light died again.

“Ssssssssyntttthia.” In the dark something called my name like its tongue was thick in its mouth.

A flash of light from above showed the bodies piled atop each other, heaving as one mass. Frozen in place, all the air slowly spewed from my lungs like fog in a graveyard.

“Ssssssssyntttthia.” It came louder this time. Scraping, ruffling, claws on concrete - these sounds reverberated in the midnight air.

I should run.

“Synttthia!” The screech of my name, followed by something thudding against my wellie caused a jolt of fear.

“Oh God.” I shuddered, bile clinging to the back of my throat. The lamppost began to flicker rapidly.

Juddering like a model monster in an old black and white movie the bodies rose. A heaving mass of fur and feathers tangled together to create some bloated creature. Arms made of rats, foxes stretched out for legs, the other foul creatures made up the body while the seven magpies made the head. All their faces were together in a circle, wings fanned out behind them. The mass of beaks, a black empty mouth opened, rasping my name. The stench of rot rolled off it as it towered above me, swaying in a jagged pattern.

“Synthia,” Every beady eye opened, all glowing red like the fiery pits of hell, “you murdered my magpies, Ssssssssynithia.”

“The Devil!” I spat, crossing myself. The Demon, formed from the conjoined bodies of the vermin I’d poisoned, roared with laughter.

“The Devil, indeed… you own me magpies, Synthia…” It growled from every mouth. “Seven to be precise…” Black maw grinning, glinting red eyes, filled with wickedness the creature stepped forward; claws scuffing against the slabs. “I will take them from your FLESH!!” The tangle of possessed animals pounced. Claws penetrated my flesh before I hit the ground as the Devil pried flesh from bone. “I will carve you up into seven fleshy magpies just like you carved your precious pumpkins!” The Devil bellowed over my screams.

On the cold, hard ground I watched my last tendril of breath rise into the night sky.

“Aren’t they beautiful, Synthia?” The Devil held out a glistening magpie made of muscle, sinue and bone. “Just the eyes left, Synthia…” The Devil chuckled, reaching with a hand made of rats to pluck my eyeball. Popped from the socket he divided each eye into seven.

“To Hell with the carcass.” He whispered to me as I sat in his hand. “You wicked creature,” He stroked my beak, “you’ll forever be mine.”

Pen name: S. Liongate

Dreame Books:

The Wrong Hope

Convenience Nights: A Collection of Short Stories

Claiming The Remnant