That Day by Johan Thole

That day, in her room, I found my mother dead. She was sitting in her chair, with a pen in her hand and a letter on her desk. She had a terrible, horrified expression on her face. Until today I don’t know what caused her death. But it must have been ghastly!

I can tell you what happened. At least, more or less. It started with a pen. The pen that uncle Charles left me. He spent most of his life in India, and I suppose that’s where he bought this pen. It was a really stunning Parker, with silver snakes twisted round the barrel and the cap. The eyes were some kind of gems. They had a fire-like shine, and they almost seemed to live.

I think he never used it. Still in the box, it looked brand new. I had held it in my hand several times, but never filled it. The time never seemed right, so I saved it for that special moment.

I worked at Smiths & Jacobs, and walked home from the bus station every single day, usually taking the same route. There is an antique shop down the road, and I often peeked inside through the window. Always the same furniture and regular old stuff. But one day, I saw a bottle in the shop window. Not just a bottle, an intriguing ink bottle. It was a very dark green glass, with an attractive sculptured surface. The brand name was the most unusual part: VENOM INK. Bright green letters in an old script.
Of course! This was the proper ink for my pen! So I went into the shop, and asked the owner if this ink was good for fountain pens. He told me that he used another bottle himself. The colour was a dark green, and it flowed perfectly from his pen. And his old Swan was a bit picky, so if it worked in that one, it would work in any pen. We discussed a bit about the price, but finally I left the shop with my new ink.

That evening I carefully took uncle Charles’ pen from its box. I opened the bottle, took the dropper and gradually filled the pen. I picked some papers and started drawing circles and swirls. It took some time, but when the ink reached the nib, it put an exceptionally beautiful dark green line on the paper. I loved this ink! It was funny, but the pen seemed to love it too. The silver felt warm and lively, as if the snakes were, how should I say this, excited!

I decided to sit down for a letter to Christine, my dear friend. I felt a bit guilty about having neglected her for quite some time. But not for long! With this pen, it seemed like the letters flowed automatically on the paper, without any thinking of my part. It was a heavenly feeling, almost hypnotizing.

Far too late I noticed that creeping sensation on my hand and wrist. I looked down, and was horrified to see the snakes slithering round my arm! I wanted to scream and to shake them off, but at the same time I felt a sharp sting. Instantly everything turned dark around me.

Her pen was a plain black Parker. No decorations, and actually far too dull for my mother’s taste. I cannot recall that she ever used it before. I have put it in a drawer of my desk, held it in my hands sometimes, but I never used it. However, today the strangest thing happened! When I opened the drawer, I discovered that two beautiful silver snakes were wrapped around my pen. I don’t know what happened, and it scares me quite a bit. At the same time I believe that this pen is far too beautiful to be left unused.

There must still be an old bottle of ink somewhere in my mother’s room. Old ink in an old pen, that idea seems most fitting!

Possible, but not very probable by Nicola Mallik

It was a calm and placid evening, which made a change from the dark and stormy hours that had preceded it. An eerie stillness hung in the air as if the storm had sapped all energy from the environment. As usual, at precisely 5:35, Jacob stepped from the air-conditioned sterility of his office into the muggy humidity of an Australian spring. He was momentarily glad the storm had already passed, meaning he wouldn’t get drenched on his walk home, but that appreciation disappeared as the first beads of sweat trickled down his back. Despite the regular discomfort, Jacob made it a habit to always walk home, enjoying the opportunity to be at one with nature. Or, at least, that was the image he would have liked to present had he not lived in the middle of suburbia. In fact, short of the meticulously planned country gardens, the closest thing to wilderness in this neighbourhood was the overgrown, weed-infested cemetery he used as a shortcut. Not that it was much of a shortcut, as Jacob would always pause and ponder over one grave or another, but it was pseudo-wilderness at least.

Today he sought out the oldest grave he could find, wondering for a moment whether he may discover a convict. The first government farm was nearby – he remembered that from countless school excursions – so it was possible. Possible, but not probable. That seemed to be the motto of Jacob’s life. Chances of him ever earning a promotion? Possible, but not probable. Chances of him setting down and starting a family? Possible, but not probable. Chances of anything exciting ever happening in his mediocre life? Yep, possible, but not probable. And so it did not surprise Jacob that the oldest grave he found bore the date 1928. He was only 100 years off his target, things could be worse. The epitaph simply read “Grace Kinney, 1892 – 1928, Loving wife of Angus.” Or, at least, he assumed it read ‘loving wife.’ Years of accumulated mud and grime had collected at the bottom of the headstone obscuring its wording. Tentatively, Jacob squatted down and began to scrape away the muck.

“Get out of it!” A voice suddenly boomed, the surprise causing Jacob to start and fall.

“Blimey, where’d you come from?” Jacob muttered as he squinted up at the figure that now loomed over him. The late afternoon sun was blinding and prevented Jacob from seeing this man’s true form.

“I was just trying to read the inscription,” Jacob continued.
“Looks like someone vandalised it to read ‘unloved’…” He trailed off, unnerved by the expectant silence that now descended.
The stranger merely glared, crossing his arms accusatorily.
“Yeah, anyway, I was just leaving, I guess.” Jacob muttered, wondering what sort of propriety the stranger had over this graveyard.
“You do that. And next time, don’t touch my mother.” The stranger threatened.
“Your mum?” Asked Jacob, his sudden interest outweighing any caution the threat may otherwise have produced.
“Funny, it doesn’t mention anything about any kids, just this Angus fellow. He your father, then?” Jacob asked, realising the stupidity of his question only after he had uttered it.
“No. He never wanted children. Too busy with his job.” The bitterness was practically dripping from the stranger’s words now.
“Never wanted me, never wanted her. Bastard.” The stranger spat out the last word as if it were an assassin’s bullet.
Great, though Jacob, I’ve stumbled into an unfinished domestic…
“He was the death of her.”
Somehow, Jacob knew the stranger wasn’t speaking figuratively. The realisation sent a chill down his spine, even though his shirt was still clammy with sweat.
“You remind me of him. Before he rotted in prison, that is.”

Even better, an unfinished domestic complete with psychopathic offspring…Jacob noticed it had suddenly gotten dark and he wondered how long he had been in the cemetery. It dawned on him that not only was he standing in the middle of a graveyard in the dark being threatened by someone who was obviously a few sandwiches short of a picnic, but he was doing so on Halloween. Boy, I really have a gift for planning these things. As Jacob started to edge away, the figure started up again.
“Stabbed her, didn’t you?” The stranger murmured, moving closer to Jacob.
Oh boy.
“Stabbed her once. But once wasn’t enough, so you kept stabbing. Again, and again, and again.” By the time the stranger had growled out the last ‘again’ he had also managed to pin Jacob against a head stone.
Oh yes, this definitely improves things, Jacob thought dejectedly. Chances of me surviving this? Possible, but not... Jacob’s train of thought was abruptly broken by the unwelcome sensation of something cold and metallic being pressed hard against his chest.
“Stabbed her. Just like this,” the stranger continued, applying more pressure to Jacob’s chest.
Great. Stuck between a grave and a psycho with a fountain pen centimetres from puncturing my aorta. This wasn’t in any of those life plans Jacob had ever made. Wait a second, a fountain pen? No one uses fountain pens any more! I’m about to become the only person in living memory whose death was caused by the misuse of a fountain pen. What are the chances of that? Apparently, for Jacob, it was not just possible but probable.
The nib punctured Jacob’s skin and proceeded on its messy journey towards his heart.
“Ever wanted a tattoo, dad? Want me to give you one? Maybe you want ‘Grace forever’ written across your heart?”
This is ridiculous, Jacob thought, I’m moments from death and being engaged in a meaningless conversation about body art. Jacob desperately thrust his hands into his pockets, hoping to find something – anything – with which he could fight back. Eventually he grasped his mobile phone. Great… Chances of bludgeoning someone to death with a Nokia? Possible, but definitely not probable.
All the while the fountain pen was steadily disappearing into his chest. That clip looks like it may inflict more pain than the pen itself…
Jacob had, by now, passed the stages of desperation and plunged headlong into abject hysteria. Where’s that damn phone gone??
Finally, Jacob’s fingers closed around a slim, cylindrical object. Nothing like fighting fire with fire, he thought, plunging the Bic stick into his assailant with all his might.
Not expecting any retaliation, the stranger stumbled backwards clutching at his stomach. Before, that is he regained his composure and calmly withdrew the offending implement.
Oh, boy. Here we go again.
“You think you can stop me? With a lowly… a lowly… Bic stick…” But his voice had lost its edge of malice and was nothing more than a hoarse whisper. The stranger’s knuckles tightened around the Bic, or at least they surely would have were his pallor not already an opaque grey.
“A ball point…” He croaked, “I have been defiled!”
And, with a sudden satisfying puff, he disappeared.
Well, that worked remarkably well. Wonder if I could patent those things as self defence items as well as never-fail writing instruments, thought Jacob as he gritted his teeth and pulled the immaculate Mandarin yellow Duofold from between his ribs. Despite the mistreatment it had just been subject to, the nib was still in perfect condition.
“Hmpfh. Indestructible,” Jacob grunted as he dropped the pen and crunched it underfoot.

True story, happened to a friend of a friend of mine.

The Keeper in the Dark by Stuart Williams (after JRRT)

In the deep, dark places beneath the feet of mountains, things may be found which do not wish to be found, and places there are that echo silently on, and on, and on into the spider-haunted darkness of a billion years of time. Places where the sun has never shone, where warmth never penetrates, where the slow drip, drip, drip of water into pallid pools is the only sound, and yet, and yet...
"Me presciouses, presciouses, come to me, come, come, so smooth, so smooth, ahhh, so smooth..." The sibilant whisper carried through the dank, dark caves, its soft, almost silent echos caressing the ears of those who were hidden, yet did not understand. Those who would understand were yet to come, were still far away, and had no knowledge of this fearful place. Yet they would come. It was written.
Those hidden eyes, if they could see, would have spied a tiny glint, a flicker, of gold and silver, silver and gold, on blackest black, a black so dark that, even in this darkest of places, if one could see, it would seem as if there was a hole torn in the darkness itself, blacker than any black, darker than any dark. And yet...
A tiny scraping sound, an almost silent click, and there it was again, that tiny spark, and then, almost a flickering flame, as for a moment a phosphorescent creature rose up, disturbed by the noise, slithered, rose up from the pool, felt about for food, and, in the dim, blue light of its being, a tiny spearhead of chased silver and gold appeared, just for a moment, then was extinguished with a click and a brutal hand coming down, bringing that sharp point down, down, and that light of life was extinguished forever with a soft sound that was heard no more.
"Ohh, me presciouses, me prescious, me precious resin, mine, mine, no-one will have you, none, not even He, no, not He, not He." And if blinded eyes could have seen in that dark, dank place, they might have spied, gripped tightly in a clawed, misshapen hand, a fat, black cylinder circled round and round with three rings, silver and gold, gold and silver, its bright, hard point now red with blood, and seen the empty, haunted glint in the eyes of a poor lost soul.
Other eyes there were, enow, that saw, but they were not in that place. Eyes cold and dark, yet full of fire, aye, they saw, saw what was engraved upon that pen, for such it was that He had made: "Three Rings to bring them all, Three Rings to find them. Three Rings to bring them all, and in the Darkness bind them."
And beneath the great white mountain with its snow-covered peak and its roots in darkness, the black pen waited patiently, for it knew that its true owner would come, and then, what was written would be rewritten, and the story would be complete.