Marie O’Regan is a British Fantasy Award-nominated author and editor, based in Derbyshire. Her first collection, Mirror Mere, was published in 2006 by Rainfall Books; her second, In Times of Want, came out in September 2016 from Hersham Horror Books. Her third, The Last Ghost and Other Stories, was published by Luna Press early in 2019. Her short fiction has appeared in a number of genre magazines and anthologies in the UK, US, Canada, Italy and Germany, including Best British Horror 2014, Great British Horror: Dark Satanic Mills (2017), and The Mammoth Book of Halloween Stories. Her novella, Bury Them Deep, was published by Hersham Horror Books in September 2017. She was shortlisted for the British Fantasy Society Award for Best Short Story in 2006 (‘Can You See Me’), and Best Anthology in 2010 (Hellbound Hearts), 2012 (Mammoth Book of Ghost Stories by Women), and 2019 (Wonderland). Wonderland was also shortlisted for a Shirley Jackson award for Best Anthology. Her genre journalism has appeared in magazines like The Dark Side, Rue Morgue and Fortean Times, and her interview book with prominent figures from the horror genre, Voices in the Dark,was released in 2011. An essay on ‘The Changeling’ was published in PS Publishing’s Cinema Macabre, edited by Mark Morris. She is co-editor of the bestselling Hellbound Hearts, Mammoth Book of Body Horror, A Carnivàle of Horror – Dark Tales from the Fairground, Exit Wounds (four stories from which have been shortlisted for a CWA dagger for Best Short Story), Wonderland (nominated for a Shirley Jackson award and BFS award), and Cursed, as well as the charity anthology Trickster’s Treats #3 (nominated for an Aurealis award). She is also the editor of bestselling The Mammoth Book of Ghost Stories by Women and Phantoms. Her first novel, Celeste, will be released by Silver Shamrock Publishing in January 2022. She is Co-Chair of the UK Chapter of the Horror Writers’ Association, and is currently organising ChillerCon UK, which is currently set to take place in Scarborough. Marie is also Managing Editor of PS Publishing’s novella imprint, Absinthe Books.
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CHAPTER ONE
Clive listened for any sounds of Celeste stirring and breathed a sigh of relief when none came. The house stayed quiet. Celeste could be vicious when she was fading, and he’d learned to stay out of her way as best he could. So many times he’d been too close and paid the price. So here he was, sitting slumped at the kitchen table, nursing a glass of vodka and orange at a quarter to ten in the morning. He rubbed his hand over the table’s worn wooden surface, feeling every pore of its grain. Looking around, he grinned ruefully. Every crack in every tile, every bump and imperfection in this kitchen—hell, in the whole house, was as familiar to him as his own skin. He knew it better than Celeste ever had, even though she was the one who thought she knew everything.
His throat burned as he downed his drink, grimacing as he placed the glass back on the table. Clive rubbed his hand across his mouth to dry his lips, blew on his palm, and sniffed. Celeste would know he’d been drinking, but he didn’t want to rub her nose in it by stinking of booze. He never drank so much that it was noticeable; at least he didn’t think so. He drank just enough to stiffen his backbone a little.
At nearly ten, the ancient brass bell above the kitchen door jangled roughly, heralding some demand or other from his mistress. With a groan, he stashed the vodka bottle in the cupboard under the sink and rinsed his glass under the tap, leaving it on the drainer. Then he put the carton of orange juice in the fridge and straightened up, wincing. The pain in his lower back was a near-constant reminder of the last time he had crossed her. He’d taken just a minute too long to answer her summons and, furious at being kept waiting, she’d pushed him down the stairs. She’d laughed as he fell all the way to the bottom, clapping her hands at the crack of vertebrae fracturing. He’d been in traction for two months.
Clive pulled his black butler’s jacket from the back of the door and put it on, casting a last glance around the kitchen to make sure everything was neat and tidy. She’d only check later on, and any mess would be punished.
He left the kitchen and made his way up the stairs to her bedroom, where she spent most of her time these days. As usual, she was half-buried under the rich, crimson bedding, lying propped up on her pillows and watching the monstrous television set that stood on a mahogany chest at the foot of the bed. He hoped she’d stay there, this time. If he was lucky, she’d be sick of the dance; she’d let herself fade just a little too far to be able to get back again, and maybe, just maybe, he’d finally be free.
She stirred, struggling to sit up tall in her nest. “You took your time, Clive.”
“It takes me a bit longer these days, Miss Celeste; that’s true.” He stayed as near the door as possible, wary of getting too close. There was a glint in those bright green cat’s eyes he hadn’t seen in an age, as if she was daring him to come closer. Careful, Clive, that glint said. I still bite. Safer to stay where he was, for now. “I’m not as young as I used to be.”
“No, you’re not.” She watched him carefully before losing interest and gazing at her hands, seemingly entranced by their outline, the now wrinkled flesh marred by myriad age spots dotted across the backs of her hands. “But then again, neither am I.”
He said nothing, just waited for what he knew was coming. This was not the time to break the cycle after all; she was too strong, even in this state. She beckoned him to her, and Clive moved reluctantly nearer to the huge four-poster and its decayed drapes.
“I can’t let you go, Clive. You know that, don’t you?” She clasped his hand, and he marvelled at the fragility of her grip. The skin was papery to the touch, mottled with grey here and there. The bones felt like twigs in his grasp, brittle and ready to snap at the slightest pressure. He wondered if her neck would snap just as easily and resisted the temptation to see.
Clive was surprised to hear a note of sadness in her voice; he’d never heard that before. Touched, he looked up, hopeful that he could change her mind this time. She dipped her finger to the tears welling up and touched it to her lips, seemingly surprised to find her eyes wet. There was an unaccustomed sympathy in her expression as she stared at him.
She patted the edge of the bed, motioned for him to sit down. Tired or not, she was still going to go through with it, even after all this time. “It’s time to turn the wheel once more, old friend.”
Clive resisted. “Not again, ma’am, please. I’m too old.”
She squeezed his hand, pulled him closer. “Not for long. We can do it, Clive. Don’t you want to be young again?” Clive stayed mute and she faltered, her face falling. “You still love me, don’t you?”
He groaned, aware that she knew it and was playing him, as she always had. Clive hated that wheedling tone she adopted at such times, knowing he always gave in, always gave her what she wanted. He couldn’t help himself. However twisted it was, he loved her and always would. “Yes, ma’am. I do. God help me, I do.”
“That’s all I want.” She cupped his face in her hands and smiled. “That’s all I ever want.” His flesh stirred at her touch, and he felt a whisper of shame as she responded in kind.
Clive could feel the old familiar energy starting to flow as she kissed him, building in the air around them. He breathed deep and felt the air’s heat, felt it scour his insides, igniting appetites long since dormant.
Hot breath whispered against his neck as she drew him down into her embrace. “It’ll be all right You’ll see.”
The dance began.
© Marie O'Regan 2022