Screenshot from the film Creature from the Haunted Sea, 1961, Author Roger Corman
Dark Little Stories
by
Marilyn M Schulz
Screenshot from the film Creature from the Haunted Sea, 1961, Author Roger Corman
Sample Stories:
Deutsches Bundesarchiv (German Federal Archive), ca 1956, by Lachmann, Hans
KNITTING THE OLD DAYS
Great-grandma finished her knitting the day before she died. No one noticed, people just came and went with their sympathy. But they knew she loved her knitting, so no one thought it strange when I put it there in the coffin.
She was German, you know, a real one from Germany. She made it through both big wars. Not so her family. Her husband was Jewish and got taken by the Nazis along with his children. It was a forbidden topic at our house, but sometimes she would tell me about it.
The last few years were hard on Great-grandma. Ruffians in the neighborhood would steal her Social Security checks. They’d knock her down and take her groceries too. She tried to fight back, but it was a bitter topic in the end. She said in the old days, with the old ways, a woman was safe on the streets.
Great-grandma always did have spirit, even after losing two world wars. She could swear like a soldier and had the best stories on a boring Sunday afternoon. I would listen for hours as I watched her knit away.
All things considered, she preferred it back then. Most people thought she wouldn't talk about it because of sorrow, but I knew better. She turned him in, you know, her husband. He cheated on her. She knew, because he was married when she met him, and he cheated on his first wife too. She took care of his brats by his first marriage, and did not mourn when they hauled them away.
Great-grandma finished her knitting and it's best to be buried, sealed away under ground just like her old bones. Who would have thought the old woman still knew how to make a swastika anymore, let along knit one.
A mountain stream on the Kodiak Archipelago covered with salmonberry bushes and alders. Author: NancyHeise
RIVER ROCKS
This time, things felt different, and Lynnie didn't want to go. She didn't have any excuse, it was just another feeling like she'd had before--like the time she sprained her ankle or when the twins got locked in the mall.
Usually, she liked fishing, though she didn't actually like to catch fish. She felt sorry for them. They were just creatures going about their business when suddenly they were yanked out of the water with a hook in their lip to end up in somebody's frying pan. It made her wonder how she would feel if something like that happened to her mom or dad.
But then she remembered the sound of the river. Lynnie could listen for hours, watching the tiny white caps flowing over the rocks beneath the surface. There was life down there-- fish and frogs, plants and bugs. It was like looking into a secret world behind mottled glass, liquid and thick. Sometimes she put her hand in, just to be part of the mystery, but it was not the same as being there.
They piled into the backseat of their dad's beloved 1956 Pontiac Coupe while he tried to fit all the camping gear into the trunk. But they weren't little kids anymore, Lynnie and her three older brothers. Gus would be in high school in the fall. He was only four years older, but already he knew everything.
The twins, Jake and Luke, were half-way in-between them in age, but both taller and wider than Gus. They hated books and computers, preferring sports and TV. They made her sit in the middle, then wrestled about who got to sit by the window. It wasn't until she got an elbow to the lip that their mom told them to flip a coin.
"Are you bleeding?" her mom asked Lynnie, but didn't wait for a reply.
It wasn't that her parents were neglectful about these things, it's just that Lynnie preferred not to say. She liked books even more than Gus did, and she didn't like being around people at all. Everyone thought she was weird because she seemed to talk to herself all the time. But really the stories were more interesting when you made the characters say and do things your own way.
They finally arrived at a campsite. Their mom said, "I'll unpack. You go fishing, I need some quiet."
The boys didn't argue, and their dad seemed relieved. He loved fishing as much as he loved that old car. He kissed their mom and handed Lynnie a bamboo fishing pole-- the one he used as a boy. She knew because he told them every time they came here. Instead of a hook at the end of the line, this time a cork was tied.
The boys laughed, but he said, "I know you like to watch the water, Lynnie."
They walked through the woods on a path covered by a tunnel of ferns taller than even their dad. The boys ran ahead. She soon couldn't hear them for the sound of the water.
Her dad said, "I'm going upstream. We'll have lunch in an hour."
Lynnie didn't remember this place. Either they hadn't been here before or at least not since she was old enough to remember. Her brothers were upstream too. She headed the other way, but the bank was overgrown. Lynnie wanted to cross, as it looked easier to walk on the other shore.
She edged around a clump of alder stretching out over the water, then started across a fallen log. When she got to the middle she couldn't help but stare down. The water was hypnotic, but it also made her dizzy. She put her arms out to steady herself, but the log wasn't strong, it was rotten. Even with the sound of the water, she heard it break with her weight.
Lynnie fell into the water, and she let go of the fishing pole. She watched it float away, thinking how their dad loved it like an old pet. She meant to sigh, but felt the sharp sting as water went up her nose.
Never a good swimmer, Lynnie tried to put her feet down. The river had never seemed so deep before, and the current was very fast. She was being swept away.
Her arms flailed, trying to steer, until she finally felt solid ground. She sat near the shore, still in the water, and looked both up and down the river. For some reason, Lynnie couldn't see very far.
Did they see her fall in? Which side was she now on? Lynnie thought to call out, but the sound came out more whimper than yell. She was very tired, and her nose still hurt like she'd snorted up a bee-sting.
It was then that she noticed the rocks. They were the prettiest here that she'd ever seen. She picked up one and put it in her pocket. A breeze brushed her face, it smelled like damp flowers, and Lynnie was surprised that her nose didn't hurt now at all.
But something wasn't right. Every sound was muffled. She looked around frantically to see eyes everywhere. Everyone was staring at her. None of them blinked. They were the eyes of fish, and their fish bodies gently waved in the air.
No, in the water.
She was still underwater!
One of the fish swam forward a bit. He said, "Thanks for the cork, but you must not stay. Close your eyes now, we'll get you home that way."
Lynnie closed her eyes, and the next thing she knew, someone was slapping her lightly on the face. It was their dad, he was holding her hand, and he looked rather pale. Their mom was crying, and her brothers, for once, were quiet.
They quickly packed up and drove straight home. No one said anything all the way, but Lynnie could still feel the river rock in her pocket. She'd always remember today.
Berndl Concert Piano 1908. Photo from catalogue, 1908
PIANO MUSIC
Pianos are wonderful things. Such lovely music— my sister makes her living with pianos. In fact, she's a concert pianist of world renown. I know, because she reminds me of it every chance she gets. She has it all: talent, money, beauty.
And what do I have? A career as her secretary, watching out for her temperamental moods, catering to her whims. If not for me, she would never have made it through that music school. I paid for everything.
It should have been a labor of love, she is my sister, after all. Everybody loves my sister. I love my sister. Tonight, I'm going to love her to death.
Piano wire, great for strangling, that's what they say. And when it's done, I can put the string back. I'll steal it tonight when she is asleep. She won't notice, no one uses the keys that far up on the scale, not even my sister.
When she sits at practice, I'll sneak up and do it. They'll think it was a crazed fan, I'll make sure of that.
Haven't there been letters, threats, fanatical gifts of
devotion? When it's all over, they'll never guess the instrument of
death was her own piano.
The sergeant tried to comfort the woman, it's always hard, these freak accidents. How had the top fallen on her sister anyway? What was she doing, changing the strings? The devoted sister, finally getting all the attention. Sad.
Christian wedding, Beit Jala near Jerusalem, Palestine, 1940, (G. Eric and Edith Matson Photograph Collection)
PENNY FOR YOUR THOUGHTS
"What are you thinking, beautiful?"
"I'm thinking the groom should be marrying me. He only picked her because of the money. Penniless cousins aren't nearly as attractive."
"Why do you want that sort of man anyway? Why don't you stick with someone harmless and faithful, like me?"
"You’re nice all right, but you're also boring.
"Nice and boring, the death toll for a guy's ego."
Death toll, what a lovely thought, the wedding bells turn to sorrow. I could write romantic suspense, she mused, the idea sprouting like a weed.
Who could have known her thoughts would turn out to be so close to the truth. The bride choked on her wedding cake. Dead on her own wedding day. Fortunate for the groom in the long run, he would get everything. Once he got over the sorrow, poor sap. A few hundred million should do the trick. Death not divorce, so much for pre-nuptial agreements.
The cops took the cake to be tested. Cops are stupid. It wasn't in there anyway. Just luck that the groom stuffed it into the bride’s mouth first. Or was it? A bit too much celebration, sugar kills. Too funny.
"I wonder," she mused, glancing to the powder in her purse. The little vial was ever so convenient. Champagne, cake, it could be mixed with anything. She didn’t care about the bride, she wanted him dead too. He was crying, poor sap. Well, perhaps it might be useful after all.
"I'm ever so devastated for you," she cooed to the weeping groom as she slipped the vial into his pocket.
Mannequins at the Holt Renfrew store in Montreal, Canada. Photo by Colin Rose.
AVERAGE JANE
Before all this happened, Jane lived her life through her books. It was her only avenue of escape. In real life, daring meant buying printed toilet paper or super chunk peanut butter, or even sneaking a peek at the supermarket tabloid headlines. Just a glance though. Too much was trashy, and she wasn’t that kind of girl.
Face it, Jane, she thought, you are boring.
Harmless, calm, polite little Jane. Always predictable, people just look right through me. Never a word out of place, or even a hair. Funny how I just ran out of patience.
Up until recently, the most exciting thing she had ever done was change the panty hose on the mannequins. How risque, dealing with naked, plastic people with not much detail at all. Not unlike dealing with customers, only the dummies were nicer.
Working in the accessories department of the huge clothing store was never any girl's dream. Still, customers didn't have to be so cruel; shop girls were people too.
It was just malicious, saying the only way she could tell her from the mannequin was that the dummy was better dressed. Why do people think they can be so mean? Just because they have money to spend?
Just because you are plain and unassuming doesn't make you dumb and without feelings, she thought.
They were sorry in the end, all of them. But that wasn't the point, they would never be rude or mean or spiteful again. That was the reason I did it. No, that's not true, it was also for the excitement. Just like glancing at those tabloid headlines. Scarves and belts all worked very well, and a good strong jewelry chain could cut like a piano wire. She was strong from lifting all those stock boxes and wrestling with mannequins. And of course, they were all caught off guard . . .
The police watched the emotions play on the woman's plain face. She was smiling slightly, her hands twisting on her lace handkerchief. The lovely monogram was frayed, and the frilly edges were now tattered.
The sympathetic detective watched her in dismay. She was dressed like a street person, with layers and layers of clothes. Only Jane was cleaner. And she was missing the prerequisite bags. The poor woman was from a by-gone era when women were called ladies and liked it. And when ladies were certainly not capable of such a murder.
The detective watched on as his partner rudely questioned the woman. It was routine, for the report. They would close her case, just like every other time she had come in to confess.
The other detective said calmly, "You claimed to be responsible for the murder of six women, Miss Smithers. That's quite a feat. Tell us what happened."
She said, "At first, the murders happened in my mind. Don't some athletes do that, picture the whole thing in their mind? Muscle memory; I read about it, it's when..."
He almost yelled, "We don't have time for this! We have the report and your confession, just like every other time. I want to get home. You should stop wasting our time. Women are dying in that store and you're here talking about the Olympics and something you read, when was it, years ago?"
No need to yell at me, she thought. What a rude man. She smiled politely and asked, "Are you going looking for evidence in the store today, Detective?"
Poupée_de_collection (Antique Doll) Photo by Vassil
GINA DOES
"What a pretty little dolly! What's her name?" said the priest.
"Gina," replied the little girl. It was clear she had been crying, but was acting brave now.
"What a pretty name! Is Gina your very best friend?"
"No. Gina is a bad girl. She wets the bed."
"Well, nobody is perfect," said the priest, hiding his indulgent smile.
"My daddy says good little girls don't wet the bed."
"What about your mommy?"
"Mommy went to Hell. Daddy said she was bad, and that's why he had to hit her so much."
The priest was taken aback. "My goodness, child, is that why you hit Gina?"
"No, I hit her because I love her. Only parents who love their children hit them."
"Did your daddy tell you that?" the priest said, trying to control his anger.
"No, my mommy told me the night our house burned down."
"The night of the fire? Is that how your mommy died?"
"No, my mommy isn't dead. She's only in Hell."
"But isn't that the same thing, child?" the priest said, gently.
"No, my daddy's dead, my mommy is in Hell. It's got bars and wires and other women in funny clothes and I can't see her very much anymore."
"Did your mommy kill your daddy? Did she start the fire?"
"No."
"Do you remember what happened that night?"
"No, but Gina does."
"Will Gina tell me what happened?"
"No, she is bad and can't talk about it."
"What do you mean? Can you tell me why she can't talk?"
"She's like daddy."
"She's dead?"
"No, he was mad at my mommy and hit her because he loved her. Then he laid down for a long time and wouldn't talk. My mommy said he was dunk, again."
"Dunk? You mean he was drunk? Is that what Gina told you?"
"No, Gina can't talk. I told you, she's like my daddy."
"I don't understand, child."
The little girl searched her pockets, her face intense with purpose. She pulled out a bright red lighter, a prized possession it would seem. To his horror, she expertly flipped open the flame.
She held it to the dolls clothes, her face innocent and clear, like an angel. The priest watched in horror as the flame spread.
The little girl murmured softly, "Goodbye Gina, I love you so much. Say hello to my daddy."
Viewing (museum display), Casket, Museum of Funeral Customs, Springfield, Illinois, 2006. Robert Lawton (self)
FAMILY TRADITION
Jade and jasmine and balsam wood. That's how the old man made his money. That was back in the old days when a man could make his fortune on the misfortune of others.
The old coot must have had a good laugh, stealing from those innocents in the Orient. But that was almost a hundred years ago. Why begrudge the old man now?
It will all be mine in a matter of minutes, thought Jack, as he adjusted the cravat of his expensive tuxedo. It seemed fitting to buy one for the wedding. He could use it for the funerals too.
He brushed at his slicked-back hair and smelled his hand in satisfaction. Fancy man, that’s what he looked like. Something the old man would have called him. He thought: Who would have thought that I would be living the high life? Me, a high school dropout. Dad would be jealous. Good.
"Too bad you can't see it now, but can't say I'm not glad you're probably dead somewhere. Serves you right for running out on me when I was a kid. Always dreaming, making big plans, even after Mom died. Leaving a little kid like that. . ."
Jack wasn't really dumb, he just lacked enthusiasm for hard work. Make that any kind of work. He wasn't a mechanic in the garage, he just went to get broken down cars, or delivered them to people too rich or too busy when the work was done. That's how he met the old ladies.
That’s how he met the two rich old women on the hill. Jade and Jasmine, the celebrated Heeley twins of legendary beauty. Of course, that was decades ago. They were the innocent daughters of a fanatically over-protective, outrageously rich father. Jack was too young to know about the rumors.
The old man had left them his fortune when he died. They were past middle age then. Too old for the realities of life like marriage and children, but still too full of hope to just wither away.
Jack was planning on marrying one of the hags this morning. He rarely remembered which one, so he called her sweetie and darling girl. He knew the money would go to the surviving sister; but he had plans for that one, too. In fact, he planned on the first to go not being his dearly, next to be departed wife. How could the cops suspect something like that? If anything, they’d probably suspect the old woman for pushing her sister down the stairs in a fit of jealousy.
Jack laughed. No way could he lose, not on this one.
One old lady said to the other, “It’s only to be expected, it’s morbid curiosity, you see.” The other nodded and smiled sweetly to their last departing funeral guests.
Jade and jasmine, and balsam wood. Do they still make coffins out of balsam wood? Jade and Jasmine's father did. He made plenty of them, one for each of the suitors that came to call. Bounders and rakes, after their virtue and his money in that order, he had claimed. He never regretted having shot them. Jack had seen the graves in the basement too, when he went down to shuffle their coal. That’s how he had pursuaded them to let him marry into the family. It was perfect, everyone would win. Blood tells.
It had been a quiet ceremony, with few in attendance. Even fewer came to the funeral just days later. Jack looked so handsome stretched out in his fine tuxedo. They wouldn't even have to fuss much this time. Not like his father. That man was a mess, struggling so much that it tipped over their favorite tea table, and smashed all their father’s lovely china. They had refined the technique since then, no more convulsions or pain.
Jade and Jasmine decided to lay Jack next to his father there in the basement. It would be another family tradition.
World Calendar
CALENDAR GIRL
JANUARY - My New Years's resolution: lose weight, as usual. Incentive: Jeremy, the hunk who just moved in on my floor.
FEBRUARY - Kaye gave me chocolates for Valentine's Day. She knows I'm trying to lose weight. Oh, well, just this once. . . or twice. . . or three times!
MARCH - Spring is coming, I'm joining a health club. Jeremy loves to work out, and Kaye said she would go with me.
APRIL - Easter, Jeremy stopped by to talk. Kaye was here.
MAY - Memorial day weekend, went camping at the lake with Kaye. Jeremy showed up at the campground, we went fishing and stayed up late talking around the campfire. He looks even better in the dark!.
JUNE - School is out, no teaching for two months! Kaye and I have big plans for tans this year. She has a new bikini, I’m still not able to fit into my new suit. I’ll try harder, Jeremy and Kaye both said they would help.
JULY - I have reached my goal, 30 lbs lost. Kaye says we should have a party and invite everyone, especially Jeremy. It will give us a chance to spend time together in some place other than a stinky gym all covered in sweat.
AUGUST - I saw Kaye and Jeremy together, they didn't see me. How long has this been going on? That two-faced bitch! That bum!
SEPTEMBER - Jeremy came over, he was so upset about Kaye. But accidents happen. How could she have known those mushrooms were poisonous. She just loves. . . er, loved mushrooms on pizza. I’m just lucky I am still watching my weight, else I’d be dead too.
OCTOBER - Police were here again, asking about Jeremy. Jeremy, the jealous type, and Kaye was such a tease. How should I know how much time they spent together? After all, they kept some things from me.
NOVEMBER - Jeremy was found innocent. I really must congratulate him, maybe take him some cookies, or that pizza he loves. Maybe it will remind him of Kaye. He said that he loved her, maybe he should love her to death.
DECEMBER - I should lose weight, but who cares? Prison food is so fattening and there is nothing to do around here but eat anyway. I don’t regret workouts at the gym, but I sure do miss teaching my botany class.
Queen Mary of the United Kingdom, Queen Consort of George V and the Empress of India. Photo by Bain News Service
THE BUTLER DID IT
"The police have arrived, madam,” the butler said. “Shall I show them into the drawing room?"
"That will be fine, Harland. Tell them I will be down in a moment."
The woman was dressed in a style that no longer had fashion—not since before the Great War. She pushed at the whale bones and tried to take a deep breath, but she knew that had never been possible in such things. Still, corsets had their uses— and it always had to do with deception.
She glanced in the mirror, then shook her head. “No, too serene."
The image then scowled. “No, now you just look constipated.”
She tried the dewy-eyed look of a woman who had seen less of life than of romantic fiction. "There that's much better." With one last look around the masculine, yet pristine room, she casually dropped the gloves to the bed.
The policemen were kind. The elderly looking gentleman introduced himself as the senior detective. He offered her a seat in her own drawing room as he said, "Now madam, will you describe what happened?"
"It’s too terrible. I don’t really know the sordid details, I only know who did it."
"Who would that be, madam?" said the elderly detective. Older men knew how it was in the old days, and how an aging woman of an aging manor should be handled.
She said with no hesitation: "It was my husband's valet, of course. He's disappeared, as well as my jewels. He had the combination to the safe, you see. I’m afraid my husband was really too trusting."
"The valet?” said the detective. “How long had he been with your husband.
“Only a few years. I never liked him, and now he’s gone and so are my jewels. I wish my husband was here, he’d know what to do.”
This clearly did not sit well with the detective, nor the rest of the police who were wandering around the room. In the old days, the police might not even be notified, just to avoid a scandal. Batty old women and their self-indulgent jewels: That was the look on the younger faces in the room.
The elderly detective said gently, “Why do you think it was the valet? I mean what makes you think he is gone for good?"
She rose and gracefully motioned them out of the room as she said, "Let me show you."
The woman of the manor led them to the valet's room. His references were impeccable, she told them. Probably forged, she now realized. The officers exchanged glances. To someone with old money and old blood, two years wasn’t a long time. But since the Great War, the world was changing fast. People came and went more quickly now, sometimes permanently.
The detective said, “Have you notified your husband?”
She shook her head. “My husband is away on government business. He’ll be devastated, of course. But I have to sacrifice my pride— I’m not sure what to say to him. He is so fond of his man. One can replace diamonds, I suppose, and someone wouldn’t really be able to tell the difference, but trust—”
She wiped at a tear. The butler was there immediately, pristine white handkerchief at the ready.
The police officers glanced around the spotless room. All that remained of the valet were several empty hangers in the closet and a pair of white gloves on the bed. They had not even been smudged and stood out like a slap in the face. The room would have no fingerprints, they all knew.
The elderly detective said, "Don't worry madam, we'll find him all right. No, don't you worry. It’s just a bit of a challenge, but they always are, these runners. Been more of them since the war. We’re getting good at catching them now."
She nodded, tried to smile. "Those jewels have been in my husband's family for generations. They are insured, of course. One does such things these days. But they are priceless in memories. You can even see them in some of the family paintings. Can you understand?"
"Yes, madam, I understand tradition. She seemed relieved, and the detective continued as he waved his men out the door: “We’ve got the details from your butler. We'll get right on the trail, won’t we lads?"
Later, in the drawing room, the lady smiled at the butler. "Excellent job, as usual, my dear. I do love a good mystery as much as I love diamonds and rubies. I wonder how many other women have to go through such travails?”
The butler held out a glass of sherry placed perfectly on a white doily at the exact center of a small tray . “Real ones, you mean? I don’t really know, my dear, but I suspect more than a few. Do you think we’ll ever have to sell them?”
“Sell the family jewels?” She shrugged. “Do you suppose they will ever find our thief?"
The butler smiled, slipping on his white gloves. "They never have before, though I do weary of dealing with insurance companies these days. Such greedy, grubbing people, always looking towards easy profit. Earl of this, Baron of that. One had so many titles in the old days. Do you think we’ll see our names in the paper this time?”
She shook her head. “Older man, that detective. They understand discretion.”
He agreed. “But detectives of the right age are beginning to retire.”
She sighed. “Not everyone shares our work ethic, I fear. We’re getting too old for these games. Maybe I should find another husband who doesn’t have to steal his own jewels. There must be plenty of old birds whose sons also died in the war.”
“We’ve been through all that. You know murder does not appeal to me.” She smiled slightly as he leaned over to kiss her cheek. The butler then said, “Time for the guests to arrive, madam. Shall I show them into the drawing room?"
She sighed. “Anything to keep up the disguise.”
Slum in Glasgow. Photo: Thomas Annan (1829-1887), 1871.
THE BAD NEIGHBORHOOD
It wasn't the desperate screaming in the alley below that startled Leo Deebs from his sleep. It was the abrupt, strangled halt.
Only a moment later, the shouts started, then the barking dogs. Both were drowned out by the sirens, almost. He watched the reflection of the blinking motel sign on the curtains fade into the violent flash of lights from the police cars.
Leo couldn't go back to sleep anyway. In the hall, people milled around, mumbled too low to make out. Must be something to see, he thought. They would go away soon enough. Or maybe it was only a bad dream, pepperoni-provoked fantasy. The lights, the noise, the sounds of people: It was all the same as before.
Leo stumbled to the bathroom to find some antacid. I really should lay off the pizza so close to bed time, he thought, watching the tablets disappear into the fizz.
Outside, the ambulance slowly slid away with no lights, no sirens. It was too late to do any good, no sense making a fuss now. All around, the neighbors looked down on the alley below, where only moments before, the body had contorted in its final horrible dance.
"Poor Mr. Deebs," said an old woman to no one.
"Was it a robber?" some old man asked another.
"He was robbed all right, but the robber didn't kill him. It was his heart again."
"Just like before, only this time he didn't make it."
"Yeah, this really is getting to be a bad neighborhood."