She's Lost Control Read online

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  WHY THE HUNGRY DOG BITES

  Chloe Monet Sutch

  ALRAQS

  Amirah Mohiddin

  BELOW THE DRIPSTONES

  L.L. Madrid

  BAKE SALE

  Sydney J. Watson

  THE WITCHES

  Madeline Ticknor

  A PATHOGEN’S PERCEPTION

  Jessica McHugh

  LAUGHTER

  Diana Braskich

  THE BLACK WALLPAPER

  Cynthia Pelayo

  ORANGES

  H.B. Diaz

  THE VAULT

  Hannah Litvin

  A MARKED WOMAN

  Amanda Crum

  DINNER TIME: THE CONSEQUENCES OF SAVAGES

  Stephanie M. Wytovich

  MAGDALA AMYGDALA

  Lucy A. Snyder

  TIME TRAVEL

  Theresa Gaffney

  WE WERE SUPPOSED TO BE HAPPY

  J.A.W. McCarthy

  SLEEPING IN PUBLIC PLACES

  Jacquelyn Mitchard

  FOLEY

  Katy McCarthy

  A LETTER FROM A SISTER TO HER BROTHER

  Michelle Sikorski

  LOKI’S DAUGHTER

  Rachel Anne Parsons

  THREAD

  Emma Hines

  N AND O

  Laurel Radzieski

  PEACH COBBLER

  Rachel Graf Evans

  MAMA REMAINS

  Maria Zach

  STRANGELY FAMILIAR DEMONS

  KT Jayne

  TIDE POOLS

  Uvika Wahi

  SYRINX

  Sara Rauch

  EFFECTIVE WAYS TO DRY-ERASE

  Alex McKelley

  I WAS A FOX

  Laura Beth Johnson

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  WHEN ERIC BEEBE first asked me to edit an all-female horror anthology, I didn’t hesitate. Of course I would: Post Mortem Press has been a steadfast point on the horror scene for more than eight years now, and it’s important for us to continue forging ahead, making a path for others to come after. And for me, as a female editor and writer, the opportunity to be a part of this step is monumental.

  As we began to put our call for submissions together, I realized this anthology would be a huge undertaking and would more than likely become one of the most definitive moments of my career in publishing. This book, by its very nature, is doing important work: giving women writers a platform and prioritizing their voices over the cacophony of men that has dominated the field for so long. This is not meant to start an argument over whose voice is more important or stronger or holds more weight—this book is only meant to continue the conversation of why we need diverse mindsets and points of view in the literary community. And as the global conversation continues to both widen and deepen in regards to diversity and inclusion in all aspects of our lives, I hope we can maintain that dialogue. This is a good place to start.

  The pieces in this anthology deal with various themes: death, violence, love, rape, motherhood, childhood, family, failure, victory. They are all poignant, emotional, and important. They are all human. I am proud and grateful that these women have entrusted me with their words. I hope you read them and hear what they are saying—what they are screaming.

  The female voice is strong, and will not be controlled.

  Elizabeth Jenike

  Autumn 2018

  WHY THE HUNGRY DOG BITES

  Chloe Monet Sutch

  i

  You keep a dog locked up in a dark room with

  No food and

  No water.

  See how long it takes her

  To consider her own blood a meal.

  ii

  You make a dog grow up in a dark room with

  No food and

  No water.

  Watch her define her worth by how much

  Blood she can lose

  Without

  Dying.

  iii

  You take a hungry dog out of a dark room

  Where sacrifice was her soul companion.

  You put your hand in front of her cracked snout.

  She bears her teeth.

  She growls.

  She bites you.

  You say,

  Bad Dog.

  That’s a very Bad Dog.

  ALRAQS

  Amirah Mohiddin

  SOON JEHAN WILL awake from her sleep. Her eyes will open. Her skin will feel like leather. The jasmine circlet around her head and the anklets manacling her feet will be long forgotten. But she will not forget the whisper of alraqs.

  “Yajab a’layk alraqs,” they whispered. It means: You shall dance.

  A silver-haired perie will creep in a corner of her dark room. He will call himself Keyvan. He will not be visible to the human eye unless he wishes to be. His fingertips are full of magic, energy born from the spirits of his victims in the Underworld. He will have watched Jehan grow. He had listened to her mother’s warnings against him: “Jehani, do not be tempted by the peries! Do not take their hands! Do not meet their eyes!” Keyvan will have crippled her for her words. He will have grabbed her ankle in one hand, and her toes in the other, and twisted. He did not like that the stupid woman had tried to turn Jehan against him.

  He will believe he is protecting Jehan from the divs. He believes they are much worse than he is. Now, Jehan will die. Only he can save her. He thinks she will be grateful. She would not be like the other women. Jehan will not want to leave. He will have no doubt that she would choose him over death.

  His split tongue will throb and his pointed ears twitch. There’ll be no sound in the room other than the wild beat of his own heart. Jehan will cough from deep within her throat. He will need to take her soon. He will not wait for the next full moon.

  Jehan will pull the threadbare cover away from her sticky skin. The clay floor will be cold. Last night’s sands will have blown into her room. They will sting her feet as she walks.

  Keyvan will leer after her. “You already have dancer’s feet, Jehani. They are chapped and worn, but they are beautiful. You will be perfect for alraqs.”

  Jehan will not hear him. She will wash her face and wipe her body with a wet towel. Then she’ll cough into a bowl and watch the pale yellow phlegm stick to the side. She’ll notice the red blots. Then, shaking her head she’ll snatch the roosari on the milk stool beside her and use it to cover her hair. Jehan’s chest will be wound as tight as her hair. It is a mild day, yet her skin will be full of fire. She will not have long to live. She will hide the blood, the fever, the lumps along her neck and continue to live while she can. And one day even she will forget the pain of her consumption.

  On this day, she will need to go to the bazaar to buy provisions. The stock in their house has gotten low. She’ll run to the door only to be stopped by her mother.

  “Habeebti, stay! Rest!”

  Her mother will have been turning the mill. Grounded flour is on the thatched straw laid on the floor. She will have seen Jehan trying to escape. In their little mud hut there is little place to hide, let alone live. The soft, loose flesh of her mother’s arms will be covered in flour, and a piece of wheat will be stuck in her hair. She will stumble towards her daughter on her crippled foot. She will look at Jehan with a sandstorm in her eyes. Her storm will never cease. Every day will be an endless cycle of grinding flour and praying for her daughter’s safe return. She will cry so much that she will blind herself.

  “I’m fine!” Jehan’s thoughts will not match her words. If I do not go, then who will bring you food? How will you eat? How will you survive? But she will smile. Her mother will know that she is lying, seeing the corners of her eyes turn red. Jehan will not have an appetite on this day, or the
next. To her it will seem as though pieces of flatbread or even just a pomegranate seed stick in her throat, cause a new lump to form upon her neck. Her mother will have begged her to eat, to keep her strength up.

  “Jehani,” she will cry. It is an old term of affection between them. Her mother will always say her daughter’s name like it is a gift, and Jehan will one day wish she had accepted it. “Jehani, my Jehani. Please be careful.” But Jehan will already be gone through the fabric that acts as a door. She will turn away and escape to save herself the discomfort of seeing her mother’s pain.

  Keyvan will follow her. They still will not see him.

  Jehan will notice that the bazaar is full as usual. A couple of women will stand at every stall. Some shouting. Some looking smug. There will be those walking away. The vendors will chase after those women. Jehan will have a couple of coins in her purse. She’ll smile at all the vendors, haggle for a chance to buy their sweetmeats and their yellowest apples. When she is done, she will carry a small paper bag in her left arm, and a small cloth in her right. She will use this to wipe the sweat from her fevered skin. When a spiteful cough overcomes her body, her cloth will cover her mouth lest any of the men or women see the blood. Her vision will narrow as she stumbles.

  People will whisper. “A drunkard.”

  “How shameful.”

  “She is a woman.”

  Jehan will try to run. Unable, she will stop. She will find herself leaning on a tree. Then, clouds will fill her vision and she will slide to the floor. Her eyes will close. When she opens them again she will find the most beautiful man she has ever seen in front of her.

  He will be exquisite. His cheekbones carved, the lines of his face shaped in anger, his eyebrows drawn together, and his hair silver. Jehan won’t need to see his wings to know he is a perie.

  She won’t know he followed her. She won’t know that he has been watching her for a long time.

  “Yajab a’layk alraqs,” he will hiss. You shall dance.

  She will know not to listen. But she won’t be able to help herself. His voice will soothe her coarse throat like honey. When he will reach out his hand, she will take it, forgetting her hacking cough and her leather skin. The sweetmeats she paid many dinars for will fall to the ground. A shock will run through Keyvan’s veins, knowing his beloved is connecting her flesh to his. Her attention is upon him for the first time. He will take her to a gallitrop in the Underworld.

  He will know every breath Jehan takes will pump her blood with magic and she . . . she will feel alive! And she will take it with open arms. A sarangi will whine for her and every strum of the string will make her feel as though it were played on her flesh. Her throat will vibrate and hum, and the music will warble from her mouth. The trees will circle around her, arching over each other to reach her. Their bones will be gnarled, their leaves hang like curtains. Flowers will embrace the barks. They will mature from buds one moment to full-grown blossoms the next. They will pulse open and closed along with Jehan’s heartbeat. Close, op-en, close, op-en, close.

  There will be other women there. The peries and divs will surround many of them. One in particular will be taunted by the divs. She will have dark hair and red lips. The divs will call her Nura. Her child will beg her attention. It will tug her arms, poke her flesh and pound its chubby fists on her knees. Nura will not notice. When her child is taken away, crying, her eyes will be glazed over, a smile on her lips. She will not move to save it. Yet, a tear will slip down her cheeks.

  But Nura will not matter to Jehan, for she and the other women are nothing but blank parchments.

  Keyvan will take Jehan’s elbow and walk her to his personal hollow. They will walk among roots and an infinite number of trees until they reach a garden within a circlet. He began preparing it when he found Jehan was dying. The trees will be knit. Circling the floor, there will be sensual jasmines, their fragrance heady and intoxicating. There will be gladiolus, pink and supple to the touch and an effervescence of bluebells and lush aloe leaves dripping unguent upon the rooted floor. Keyvan will sigh, letting the excitement fizzle through his body.

  Jehan will no longer feel sick. She will not feel pain. Keyvan will undress her. He will remove her roosari and untangle her hair. Instead of looking away she will stare into those melting eyes of his. She will think they are like fully ripened dates ready to fall from their palm tree. He will caress her breast, cupping it firmly before sliding his hand down her waist. Using his teeth, he will peel fabric away from her skin, his greed depriving him of gentleness. He will want to bite her honey flesh. Instead, he will look into her eyes, say, “Yajab a’layk alraqs,” you shall dance. He will cup her cheek with his hand. He will lean forward, tip her head back and kiss her plush lips. She will give herself to him, curving and bending in pleasure. Her moans will liquidate his heart and pulse from his body. He gives her everything.

  Jehan will not be ashamed. Not yet.

  Keyvan will dress her in the customary gossamer, proud that his Jehani looks so much better than the other callous-born women. The red will accent her soft brown eyes and these bells not even queens have been blessed with. The rose-gold bells will be strung along her chest, her waist, her hips. There will be more bells binding her ankles, and bangles upon her wrists. The armlet on her right is like a clasp, Keyvan’s grip on her left arm, another. Jehan’s eyes will still be full of dreams. She will not have spoken a word. His finger will dig deep into her flesh to assuage a response. But no shock will show on her face. Keyvan will tell himself that she has the rest of eternity to speak.

  After he is done, he will place a jasmine circlet on her head. It will be the one Jehan remembers from her nightmares. Keyvan will take her back to the tree-filled hollow and leave her in its centre. The divs and peries will see her beneath the fine, filmy gossamer. Jehan will not care. Every creature will see the marks Keyvan has left upon her body and they will not take her from him. She will belong to him. She will not be like the other women. She would not stop dancing.

  With all the other women, Jehan will form a circle. Nura will be beside her. The peries and the divs will climb trees, hang from branches and sit upon hedges. They will tell the women, “Yajab a’layk alraqs.” They will repeat this, and move towards and away from them at a dizzying speed until Jehan can do nothing but nod. She will dance. She knows that she is at a perie revel and she doesn’t care. Her hips will draw the figure of eight in the air as they move and shake. She will do the same with her shoulders. She will raise her hands over her head and jingle. And she shall dance.

  And dance.

  And dance.

  And she will not stop because she cannot. She cannot feel the pain yet. But days will go by. Her feet will chafe, then they will bleed. The divs will jeer, never tiring. Keyvan will close his eyes and breathe a sigh of relief every so often.

  The dark-haired woman, Nura, will be the first to fall. The divs will kick her and hiss: “Yajab a’layk alraqs,” and it will be so much more of a threat than an order. Nura will begin to cry. The magic will have already worn away. She won’t be able to stand. The divs will swarm around her, marooning her to the floor.

  “Let’s peel her face off!”

  “Then she’ll stop crying,” they will cackle.

  They will cut off her feet and then her hands, and finally her head. They will dismember Nura. Drool upon her body. Jehan and the others will continue to dance.

  And dance.

  And dance.

  Another three will have fallen, by the end of the third night. Jehan will still stand. Keyvan’s eyes will have been fixed on her. The divs have grown hungry and so they remove themselves to find food within the trees. Jehan will see one claw the inner bark of a tree and stuff it into his mouth. Keyvan will take her back to the garden of flowers and he will take her worth. Again. She will dance for him. But the magic will have begun to fade. In its place is only pain. Her senses will reawaken. She will grunt and stumble. Her bones will begin to seize.

  The
n she will say, “I can dance no longer.” Her body will stop. Keyvan’s eyes will snap open. These will be the first words she has spoken to him. To him, these words will be wretched. To her, they will mean freedom.

  He will reply, “Yajab a’layk alraqs. I have saved you from your death.” His voice will be hoarse. He will feel nettles prickling his throat.

  But Jehan will not listen. She will remember her body failing from consumption. Her mother’s face will flash in front of her eyes. She will remember her crooning Jehani, her warning, be careful, and her own traitorous body shunning the woman that birthed and raised her. Tears will fall from her eyes. Jehan won’t forgive herself. She will weep for the loss of her mother’s love and for the pain she will endure.

  Keyvan will not care about her tears. Only her dance. He will grab her bangled wrists and repeat: “Yajab a’layk alraqs.”

  But, she will be adamant.

  “No!”

  She will try to break free of his hold. He will flinch. He will not understand. “I have saved you. You’re alive because of me. You will be safe because you are mine.”

  “I did not wish to live like this.”

  “Yajab a’layk alraqs!” he will roar.

  “No!”

  “Jehani!”

  She will snap. “How dare you use that name! I do not want to hear you say it! That is the name my mother gave me!”

  His face will curdle with anger. His hair will darken to the color of charcoal. His cheeks will bubble, and his eyes become thunderous. The top of his head is burning. He knows Jehan will die if she does not continue to dance. The divs will slaughter her and lay her pieces in the gallitrop to be mocked. He will have to watch.

  “YAJAB A’LAYK ALRAQS! YOU SHALL DANCE!” He will raise one hand above Jehan’s head and it will be as though grains have fallen upon her. The magic will entrap her mind. She will begin to dance again. She will not be able to refuse.

  She shall dance.

  Keyvan will sigh with relief at her subjugation. He will feel a pinch in his lungs, but dismiss it. He has succeeded. Jehan will not die. No one will hurt her, and she will always belong to him. He will keep her safe just like today. He has made certain that she does not face the nightmare of death. He has made certain she will not forget the whispers of alraqs.