ND for Not Quite So Disturbing
Jan. 31st, 2009 10:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nekosenseiWhat can I say? I got bit by the writing bug again. This time, I got bit bad because it looks like I've got the start of a novel here. I've written something about this character before too. Hmmm...
Oh, by the way,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mrscake, I swiped the name of your dog. I hope you don't mind!
January 6th, 2008
The day she found it, she had no idea that her life would change completely and irrevocably. They were on the way back from the cemetery after burying their Aunt Florence. Morrigan spied it on the floor of the limo, glinting up at her. She unbuckled her seatbelt and plucked it off the floor. It was a copper pendant in the shape of a cricket. She held it up by its chain; the cricket’s small ruby eyes sparkled back at her in the afternoon light.
“Did anybody lose a necklace?” Morrigan asked, holding it up so the other occupants of the limousine could see. Her sister, Aoife, and her mother shook their heads. Her grandmother-- who was practically phobic of all bugs-- recoiled at the sight of the strange necklace, but said nothing.
“Hmmmm,” Morrigan McCree hummed to herself as the stroked the cricket with a polished nail. She noticed that its legs and wings moved on tiny gears. She flipped one wing back and forth and the pendant made a musical sound not unlike that of a cricket’s chirp.
“How cool,” Morrigan said to herself before undoing the clasp and slipping it around her neck. She made a mental note to ask the limousine driver if a previous client had left it behind, but she would forget by the time they pulled up at her grandmother’s house.
Aoife, who had been ominously quite all day, suddenly burst into tears.
“Poor Aunt Florence,” she sobbed, “I just don’t understand? That’s…just…impossible. How could that have happened?” Maire, Morrigan’s mother, took Aoife in her arms and comforted her. Her grandmother, Claire Gallagher, dabbed at her own eyes with a handkerchief. Then, she rested her elbow on an armrest and put a hand over her eyes. She looked tired.
Aunt Florence—her grandmother’s younger sister—had died quite suddenly from circumstances that baffled everyone. You see…she had been turned to wood. In fact, the carpenter they called in to look at her after the medical examiners couldn’t make heads or tails of the whole mess had determined that she had been transformed into a high-quality cherry wood. How and why? Nobody knew. The police and paramedics that responded would have thought it was a hoax had it not happened in front of her entire bridge club. Two blue-haired old ladies fainted dead away and another had to be taken to the ER for what later turned out to be a minor heart attack.
Morrigan’s mother was still comforting Aoife when they turned into her grandmother’s driveway. Once the car was parked, the chauffer opened up the door for her grandmother and helped her out. Morrigan followed and then took her grandma by the arm and helped her to the door so she wouldn’t slip on the ice. While she helped her grandmother open her front door, her father, Brian McCree, hung back to talk to the chauffer. He paid him, and Morrigan guessed that he must have tipped him well because the chauffer thanked him and patted him on the back before climbing into his car.
After they were all inside, Morrigan, Aoife, and her mother began setting out cookies, preparing coffee, and heating water for tea. Friends and neighbors slowly trickled by with pies and casseroles. The rest of the afternoon was passed in a series of hushed conversations, most of which revolved around the bizarre manner in which Florence Gallagher met her demise. She was a strange woman, but what on earth could make someone turn into a block of wood?
Morrigan found herself sharing a sofa with her late aunt’s best childhood friend, Cora. Cora was an elegant lady with her silver hair wrapped neatly in a bun. She reminisced about her and Florence’s younger years, which gave Morrigan a very different picture of her aunt. For as long as Morrigan could remember, her Aunt Florence was a sweet, but eccentric old lady who lived in a house full of cats. She never married or had children, and she often preferred to keep her own company, with the exception of the weekly bridge club that she always hosted at her house on Tuesday nights. As she grew older and more infirm, she absolutely refused to leave the house after nightfall, much to the irritation of Morrigan’s mother and grandmother. But according to Cora, Florence Gallagher was quite the adventurous one in her twenties and thirties. The family had quite a bit of money then, and Florence spent a good deal of time traveling the world: Europe, South America, India. You name it; Aunt Florence had been there. Occasionally, she brought her good friend Cora along. Morrigan also learned that Aunt Florence enjoyed antiquing, and she used to bring back trunk loads of souvenirs from said trips.
Morrigan thought it was strange that her aunt had never talked about her travels. She loved to travel herself—so far, she had already been to France, Spain, and Costa Rica—and she would have listened hungrily to her aunt’s tales. Neither did Morrigan see any evidence of the souvenirs that Cora mentioned. Cora was of the opinion that Aunt Florence had probably stashed them away in the attic. She was such a packrat.
After spending half an hour talking with relatives, Morrigan felt her hands start to itch. She reached for a felted bag-- which served as both a purse and knitting bag-- and pulled out a sock she had been working on. The double pointed needles clicked rhythmically together as she starting knitting a cuff in ribbed stitch.
“Knit knit knit purl purl. Knit knit knit purl purl,” she thought to herself while listening to her relations ramble on. She kept track of the number of rows she completed using an application called StitchMinder on her iPhone. Morrigan considered herself somewhat of a spaz. If she didn’t keep her hands busy, she would end up playing with things like salt and peppershakers, doilies, and knick-knacks. As her late aunt used to say, knitting was a socially acceptable way to fidget.
By late afternoon, people began to say their good-byes and go home. Morrigan helped her grandmother and mother fill the dishwasher and wash whatever plates and cups that didn’t fit. Aoife and Morrigan’s dad cleaned up the living room. By the time they were ready to leave, the sun had long since set. Grandmother Gallagher handed the McCrees the left over casserole, pie, and brownies, adding, “I can’t possibly eat all this food,” before seeing them off.
The drive home was uneventful. Nobody spoke much; they were emotionally exhausted from that week’s strange and unexpected events. Brian McCree was driving and he and Maire talked about the job of settling Aunt Florence’s estate. Since Aunt Florence had no heirs, that job fell mainly to Maire and Grandma Gallagher. Aoife stared sullenly out the window while Morrigan turned on one of the passenger lights and worked some more on her sock.
Unfortunately for the McCrees, their homecoming was very eventful indeed. Morrigan was stepping out of her parents’ blue Toyota Prius when suddenly, she felt the pendant move against her chest. The cricket was chirping of its own accord! Morrigan had almost forgotten about the necklace. She looked down and noticed that its small eyes were glowing a smoldering red.
“What’s that?” Aoife asked, pointing at something on their driveway.
“I have no idea,” answered her father, Brian as he adjusted his glasses to get a better look at it, “Honey, do you know what that is?”
Morrigan turned her attention from the cricket pendant to whatever it was Aoife and her father were discussing. She saw a small black cloud billowing over their driveway. It was drifting towards them. Morrigan felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand straight up. Fearfully, she started edging toward their backdoor.
“Oh my God!” her mother answered and crossed herself. Aoife shrieked.
Something was emerging from the cloud. Whatever it was, it was humanoid, but it wasn’t human. It stood about 5’8" and was covered in coarse, brown fur. It had a bright red mouth, which was open and filled with small, needle-like teeth. A thin, red tongue hung out of its mouth, snaking back and forth. Morrigan assumed it wasn’t very friendly because it stared malevolently at the McCrees. Hands trembling, she undid the clasp on her knitting bag while trying to ignore the copper cricket that was still chirping away on her breast.
“Run!” her father shouted. He started to usher the women towards the house. The monster dropped onto all fours and galloped ungainly towards the family. It pounced on her father, who had started waving his arms over his head in an attempt to draw the beast’s attention away from his daughters. Mrs. McCree had her keys out and was fumbling with the backdoor lock. Morrigan managed to open her bag and plunge her hand inside. After a second or two of rooting around, she found was she was looking for, a long, metal knitting needle that she had been using to make a wool scarf for Aoife,
Morrigan got behind the beast and stabbed it about four times in the back with the needle. It howled in pain and rage. Then, it whipped its enormous head around and Morrigan found herself staring into baleful yellow eyes with red irises.
“Oh shit,” Morrigan thought, “what have I gotten myself into?” She saw a clawed hand coming towards her face. Morrigan, who was surprisingly fast, dodged it. Luckily for her, the monster was slow and clumsy. She held the knitting needle like a dagger and, when she saw an opportunity, she stabbed it again. This time, she got it in the stomach. The beast turned its head to the sky and let out a protracted, graveyard shriek. Then, it whirled and clubbed her on the side of the head with the back of its clawed hand. Morrigan’s knitting needle went flying.
***********
While his daughter was doing her best to hold off the beast with a knitting needle, Brian McCree managed to pick himself off the ground and hobble towards the garage. The animal—if that’s what you could call it—had bitten him in the thigh. He felt blood trickle down his leg and into his dress shoe. He hoped to find something he could use to club the fuck out of the thing that was attacking his family. He scanned the right-hand wall of his garage. The first thing he laid eyes on was a gardening hoe. That would do. He grabbed it and spun around just in time to see his daughter reeling from a blow the creature had given her. Adrenaline flowing into his veins, he charged the thing, hoe in hand, and whacked it about five or six times over the head. Each time, the hoe connected with the animals’ skull with a sickening thud. Finally, it crumpled to the ground. Gray blood—or what he assumed was blood—leaked out of its eyes and mouth. Its snake-like tongue lolled to one side and was still. And then…
***********
Morrigan lost her balance and fell. With a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, she looked up and saw the monster standing over her. It was poised to descend on her and rip her apart with its teeth and claws. Her knitting needle was gone; it had probably rolled off into slush on the side of the driveway. Helpless, she screamed in terror and tried to skitter backwards from her attacker. Then, she saw a hoe rise up behind the monster and clobber it over the head many times. The beast collapsed in front of her. And then…
************
And then, both father and daughter watched as its body turned into a silver mist that slowly…evaporated…into…nothingness...
Oh, by the way,
mrscake, I swiped the name of your dog. I hope you don't mind!January 6th, 2008
The day she found it, she had no idea that her life would change completely and irrevocably. They were on the way back from the cemetery after burying their Aunt Florence. Morrigan spied it on the floor of the limo, glinting up at her. She unbuckled her seatbelt and plucked it off the floor. It was a copper pendant in the shape of a cricket. She held it up by its chain; the cricket’s small ruby eyes sparkled back at her in the afternoon light.
“Did anybody lose a necklace?” Morrigan asked, holding it up so the other occupants of the limousine could see. Her sister, Aoife, and her mother shook their heads. Her grandmother-- who was practically phobic of all bugs-- recoiled at the sight of the strange necklace, but said nothing.
“Hmmmm,” Morrigan McCree hummed to herself as the stroked the cricket with a polished nail. She noticed that its legs and wings moved on tiny gears. She flipped one wing back and forth and the pendant made a musical sound not unlike that of a cricket’s chirp.
“How cool,” Morrigan said to herself before undoing the clasp and slipping it around her neck. She made a mental note to ask the limousine driver if a previous client had left it behind, but she would forget by the time they pulled up at her grandmother’s house.
Aoife, who had been ominously quite all day, suddenly burst into tears.
“Poor Aunt Florence,” she sobbed, “I just don’t understand? That’s…just…impossible. How could that have happened?” Maire, Morrigan’s mother, took Aoife in her arms and comforted her. Her grandmother, Claire Gallagher, dabbed at her own eyes with a handkerchief. Then, she rested her elbow on an armrest and put a hand over her eyes. She looked tired.
Aunt Florence—her grandmother’s younger sister—had died quite suddenly from circumstances that baffled everyone. You see…she had been turned to wood. In fact, the carpenter they called in to look at her after the medical examiners couldn’t make heads or tails of the whole mess had determined that she had been transformed into a high-quality cherry wood. How and why? Nobody knew. The police and paramedics that responded would have thought it was a hoax had it not happened in front of her entire bridge club. Two blue-haired old ladies fainted dead away and another had to be taken to the ER for what later turned out to be a minor heart attack.
Morrigan’s mother was still comforting Aoife when they turned into her grandmother’s driveway. Once the car was parked, the chauffer opened up the door for her grandmother and helped her out. Morrigan followed and then took her grandma by the arm and helped her to the door so she wouldn’t slip on the ice. While she helped her grandmother open her front door, her father, Brian McCree, hung back to talk to the chauffer. He paid him, and Morrigan guessed that he must have tipped him well because the chauffer thanked him and patted him on the back before climbing into his car.
After they were all inside, Morrigan, Aoife, and her mother began setting out cookies, preparing coffee, and heating water for tea. Friends and neighbors slowly trickled by with pies and casseroles. The rest of the afternoon was passed in a series of hushed conversations, most of which revolved around the bizarre manner in which Florence Gallagher met her demise. She was a strange woman, but what on earth could make someone turn into a block of wood?
Morrigan found herself sharing a sofa with her late aunt’s best childhood friend, Cora. Cora was an elegant lady with her silver hair wrapped neatly in a bun. She reminisced about her and Florence’s younger years, which gave Morrigan a very different picture of her aunt. For as long as Morrigan could remember, her Aunt Florence was a sweet, but eccentric old lady who lived in a house full of cats. She never married or had children, and she often preferred to keep her own company, with the exception of the weekly bridge club that she always hosted at her house on Tuesday nights. As she grew older and more infirm, she absolutely refused to leave the house after nightfall, much to the irritation of Morrigan’s mother and grandmother. But according to Cora, Florence Gallagher was quite the adventurous one in her twenties and thirties. The family had quite a bit of money then, and Florence spent a good deal of time traveling the world: Europe, South America, India. You name it; Aunt Florence had been there. Occasionally, she brought her good friend Cora along. Morrigan also learned that Aunt Florence enjoyed antiquing, and she used to bring back trunk loads of souvenirs from said trips.
Morrigan thought it was strange that her aunt had never talked about her travels. She loved to travel herself—so far, she had already been to France, Spain, and Costa Rica—and she would have listened hungrily to her aunt’s tales. Neither did Morrigan see any evidence of the souvenirs that Cora mentioned. Cora was of the opinion that Aunt Florence had probably stashed them away in the attic. She was such a packrat.
After spending half an hour talking with relatives, Morrigan felt her hands start to itch. She reached for a felted bag-- which served as both a purse and knitting bag-- and pulled out a sock she had been working on. The double pointed needles clicked rhythmically together as she starting knitting a cuff in ribbed stitch.
“Knit knit knit purl purl. Knit knit knit purl purl,” she thought to herself while listening to her relations ramble on. She kept track of the number of rows she completed using an application called StitchMinder on her iPhone. Morrigan considered herself somewhat of a spaz. If she didn’t keep her hands busy, she would end up playing with things like salt and peppershakers, doilies, and knick-knacks. As her late aunt used to say, knitting was a socially acceptable way to fidget.
By late afternoon, people began to say their good-byes and go home. Morrigan helped her grandmother and mother fill the dishwasher and wash whatever plates and cups that didn’t fit. Aoife and Morrigan’s dad cleaned up the living room. By the time they were ready to leave, the sun had long since set. Grandmother Gallagher handed the McCrees the left over casserole, pie, and brownies, adding, “I can’t possibly eat all this food,” before seeing them off.
The drive home was uneventful. Nobody spoke much; they were emotionally exhausted from that week’s strange and unexpected events. Brian McCree was driving and he and Maire talked about the job of settling Aunt Florence’s estate. Since Aunt Florence had no heirs, that job fell mainly to Maire and Grandma Gallagher. Aoife stared sullenly out the window while Morrigan turned on one of the passenger lights and worked some more on her sock.
Unfortunately for the McCrees, their homecoming was very eventful indeed. Morrigan was stepping out of her parents’ blue Toyota Prius when suddenly, she felt the pendant move against her chest. The cricket was chirping of its own accord! Morrigan had almost forgotten about the necklace. She looked down and noticed that its small eyes were glowing a smoldering red.
“What’s that?” Aoife asked, pointing at something on their driveway.
“I have no idea,” answered her father, Brian as he adjusted his glasses to get a better look at it, “Honey, do you know what that is?”
Morrigan turned her attention from the cricket pendant to whatever it was Aoife and her father were discussing. She saw a small black cloud billowing over their driveway. It was drifting towards them. Morrigan felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand straight up. Fearfully, she started edging toward their backdoor.
“Oh my God!” her mother answered and crossed herself. Aoife shrieked.
Something was emerging from the cloud. Whatever it was, it was humanoid, but it wasn’t human. It stood about 5’8" and was covered in coarse, brown fur. It had a bright red mouth, which was open and filled with small, needle-like teeth. A thin, red tongue hung out of its mouth, snaking back and forth. Morrigan assumed it wasn’t very friendly because it stared malevolently at the McCrees. Hands trembling, she undid the clasp on her knitting bag while trying to ignore the copper cricket that was still chirping away on her breast.
“Run!” her father shouted. He started to usher the women towards the house. The monster dropped onto all fours and galloped ungainly towards the family. It pounced on her father, who had started waving his arms over his head in an attempt to draw the beast’s attention away from his daughters. Mrs. McCree had her keys out and was fumbling with the backdoor lock. Morrigan managed to open her bag and plunge her hand inside. After a second or two of rooting around, she found was she was looking for, a long, metal knitting needle that she had been using to make a wool scarf for Aoife,
Morrigan got behind the beast and stabbed it about four times in the back with the needle. It howled in pain and rage. Then, it whipped its enormous head around and Morrigan found herself staring into baleful yellow eyes with red irises.
“Oh shit,” Morrigan thought, “what have I gotten myself into?” She saw a clawed hand coming towards her face. Morrigan, who was surprisingly fast, dodged it. Luckily for her, the monster was slow and clumsy. She held the knitting needle like a dagger and, when she saw an opportunity, she stabbed it again. This time, she got it in the stomach. The beast turned its head to the sky and let out a protracted, graveyard shriek. Then, it whirled and clubbed her on the side of the head with the back of its clawed hand. Morrigan’s knitting needle went flying.
***********
While his daughter was doing her best to hold off the beast with a knitting needle, Brian McCree managed to pick himself off the ground and hobble towards the garage. The animal—if that’s what you could call it—had bitten him in the thigh. He felt blood trickle down his leg and into his dress shoe. He hoped to find something he could use to club the fuck out of the thing that was attacking his family. He scanned the right-hand wall of his garage. The first thing he laid eyes on was a gardening hoe. That would do. He grabbed it and spun around just in time to see his daughter reeling from a blow the creature had given her. Adrenaline flowing into his veins, he charged the thing, hoe in hand, and whacked it about five or six times over the head. Each time, the hoe connected with the animals’ skull with a sickening thud. Finally, it crumpled to the ground. Gray blood—or what he assumed was blood—leaked out of its eyes and mouth. Its snake-like tongue lolled to one side and was still. And then…
***********
Morrigan lost her balance and fell. With a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, she looked up and saw the monster standing over her. It was poised to descend on her and rip her apart with its teeth and claws. Her knitting needle was gone; it had probably rolled off into slush on the side of the driveway. Helpless, she screamed in terror and tried to skitter backwards from her attacker. Then, she saw a hoe rise up behind the monster and clobber it over the head many times. The beast collapsed in front of her. And then…
************
And then, both father and daughter watched as its body turned into a silver mist that slowly…evaporated…into…nothingness...
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-02-01 05:17 am (UTC)Random: I love the word "irrevocably." And I love the name "Aoife." Did you make it up?
I like these sentences a lot:
As her late aunt used to say, knitting was a socially acceptable way to fidget.
While his daughter was doing her best to hold off the beast with a knitting needle
I think the only thing that bothered me was the way you wrote about the # of times they hit the monster. I dunno...just pulled me out of the story for some reason...
no subject
Date: 2009-02-01 06:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-01 06:12 am (UTC)Actually, that's something that my sister-in-law said.
Aoife is the name of
no subject
Date: 2009-02-02 08:08 pm (UTC)