I decided to make the characters Polish because I grew up extremely Polish, hearing bizarre little stories from my dad that my prababka (great grandmother) had told him, which inspired this. I hope it's okay... translation of certain words at the end. It needs a lot of work... Sorry for the length!
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He ended their relationship in a message left on her answering machine. Kazimiera woke up to it, the blanket pulled up to her chin, Gabryel’s voice erupting from the small holes of the machine’s speaker. It carried down the hallway and into her room, his thick accent coating the words that slipped under the door.
“Kazia, we’ve known each other for a long time. We’ve both been through a lot together, and I’ve been trying very hard to make this work. I’m sure you have been too.”
She slipped her feet out from under the blanket, dropping her toes to the floor and reaching for her bathrobe. The message continued, his voicing crackling static.
“But last night was just too much, misia. It’s just… all too much, right now.”
Her bedroom door sang a miserable song as she opened it. She could feel a white flare of fury at every syllable he spoke, sucking through all the valves and capillaries in her chest, but she managed to keep it underneath the surface. Her fingers flexed as she walked past the answering machine, her cool palm pushing open the kitchen door; her movements were serene and the fiery licks of rage managed to only skirt along her thoughts.
“It’s over, Kazia. It’s been over for a while. But I’m saying it aloud now. You can’t ignore it this time. We’re over.”
Gabryel’s sigh hummed over the speaker. She tilted her head, waiting for what he would say next as she let two crumb-laced pieces of bread fall into the toaster. The anger simmered in her bones, but her skin remained as cold as the winter lake. The hairs on her arm prickled and stood. Breakfast, this goal, was helping to keep the fire under her skin.
“Nie, Kazia. No more. I’ve… I have to go to work now. Goodbye.”
The message crinkled like crisp paper. The click as he disconnected was followed by a keening silence. It filled her small apartment, settling around the peeling wallpaper in the corners, sizzling as it coasted along her skin.
Kazimiera sliced the knife into the butter, watching with a great intensity as the flaky yellow block was split in two. The toaster hissed and popped.
“Gowna, Gabryel,” she murmured, her voice clipped and sharp. “This is not over.”
The silence seemed to disagree with her. It closed in on her; she gripped her hands tightly on the kitchen counter.
Tch, tch, tch.
Gently, from down the front hallway, there came a muffled scratching noise. Her head snapped up and she felt her senses focus, her body drifting through the kitchen. It came again, once more – a faint scratching on the front doorframe, three strokes along the wood before the silence settled back in. Then, a moment later, a faint scampering sound of departure and the click of nails on the tile floor.
It sounded like an animal, a misplaced noise. She approached her door, poised nervously on the balls of her feet, her fingers folding over the doorknob with a hesitance. A strange biting cold seemed to come from the hall, and it filled her mouth as she inhaled. She briefly contemplated calling the landlord before checking for herself, but curiosity turned the knob and creaked the door open a sliver.
The light from the hallway slipped into her apartment. With caution in mind, she peeped her face around the door, her eyes wide and flitting in every direction as soon as she had both feet between the frames. She didn’t need to search for long.
In front of her toes was a large handbasket. Woven out of dark, thin wooden strips that frayed like twine, it had a wide handle that swooped over it, spiraling and connected to the basket with thick knots. The contents of the basket were hidden; a gray cloth was draped over them. Whatever was inside was smooth, the ends of the cloth fluttering an inch above the ground.
The smell of cooked meat was in her nostrils. It was tangy, and it stung.
She remembered the animal. Her gaze jaunted down each end of the hallway, finding no living thing but the potted plant. She did spot something though – three long scratches in the wood paneling of her doorframe beside her. Running her fingers into the grooves, her heart began to putter in her throat. The scratches were as high up as her shoulders.
What had been in the hallway? At her door?
Her attention turned back to the handbasket. She knelt down, her sweatpants sticking to her legs and bunching up behind her knees. The basket had to be for her. It was left right in front of her door, after all. She wondered, fleetingly, if it had something to do with Gabryel.
Reaching out, her fingers traced the weaving of the handle. Hand trailing downward, she took the hem of the gray cloth between her fingertips, meaning to see what was underneath; she hesitated, feeling a thick swelling of anxiety in her stomach, and a strange hum in her limbs as if she were touching something electric. It radiated from her bones and an insane worry struck her, an uneasiness that tore through her thoughts.
She attempted to move away, retreat into her apartment, but curiosity snapped her back and in one quick motion, she lifted up the gray cloth and peered inside the basket.
Hell reached out and touched all of her senses.
The hallway disappeared from around her. The searing scent of burning flesh crawled into her nose, and it felt as if ash filled her throat, the flakes making her cough and gag. Images cast in shadow and the halo of firelight singed her eyes: a sin, murder, blood draining from a human body and the crimson staining the clothes of the killer; gray skin, flecked with scales, yellow fingernails scrambling over rocks, blushing pink around the irritated and curling cuticles. Her ears were wrought with shrieks, the voices all knowing her name; they moaned it, their throats gurgling a wet sound that bubbled and rasped.
She felt arms inky black as absolute dark crawling toward her, the fingers sprawled and scrambling. They pinched at her sweat pants, and beyond them she sensed faces, leering, gaping faces that meant to swallow her and taste all the sinewy constructs of her body.
But outside all of these sights, there was the gray cloth that covered them. A surviving voice inside of her screeched:
Let go, loosen your grip, escape!
The message traveled from her brain and she felt her fingers fall from the cloth. The instant the gray cover was out of her touch and fluttered back over the contents of the basket, all of the images, the sounds, the smells, left her in a confusing flash. The hallway returned, the smell of linoleum and sweat and laundry filters with it.
Kazimiera instinctively recoiled from the handbasket, her back smacking hard into her doorframe, her legs kicking and her hands pushing her body backwards. Her breath was coming in quick bursts, her heart jammed high up in her throat as tears welled in the corners of her eyes. She heard animal noises and realized they were coming from her own throat, whines and squeaking gasps.
Her eyes, barely contained inside her skull, searched the hallway. No one was there, no one had seen this. Crawling back into her apartment, she laid on the carpet of her foyer, kicking her door shut behind her.
She lay still for several minutes, collecting her breaths, running her palms over her damp cheeks. Slowly she climbed to her knees, then rose onto her feet, her thoughts just as unstable as her balance. She pinched and twisted her skin, but she knew she was awake.
That thing, that thing, outside of her doorway had been left there for her. But by who? Or by what? She didn’t know what to do with it, frightened to touch it again. Yet if she left it in the hall, no one else would touch it, knowing it was hers, and it would remain there until the landlady told her to take it inside.
Briefly, thoughts of kicking the handbasket over onto her neighbor’s doormat came into her head, vanishing when she turned to face the whole of her apartment.
Strewn between the facets of her apartment, Gabryel was everywhere. Sprawled on her kitchen chair, eating cereal, walking through the hallway door, his hair a mess, a bathrobe loosely tied around him. His hands had touched most of the furniture she owned; she imagined the vile prints of grease off his fingertips mottled all over her counters. A feeling of disgust bubbled up inside her throat.
She knew then, what she had to do.
She felt her fear part from her, evaporate, escape from the cutting brilliance of the sudden clarity that she had reached upon seeing her memories of him. Her hands fluttered nervous, excited, in the air. Time slowed as the calmness of her revelation, churning in her stomach like desire, sank into her bones and allowed her to walk on clammy feet to her bedroom. She dressed, her movements mechanized as her thoughts soared far from her body. She slid on her winter coat, her leather gloves, her leather purse.
There was no fright startling the beats of her heart as she padded down her foyer, slowly opening her front door. The handbasket was still there, harmless in appearance. It was as bland as the constructs of the hallway, and the horror of only several minutes ago seemed impossible.
But Kazimiera trusted herself.
She knelt down, her fingers touching the weaving of the basket again. This time, she knew what to do. This time, she knew what she was handling. Reverently, she picked up the handbasket, lifting it up to her face but careful not to disturb the gray cloth concealing the contents. It felt as if there was nothing inside, the basket as light as a stick of straw, though it was woven of hundreds.
Shuffling the apartment key out of her pocket, she turned and locked the door behind her, holding the basket firmly by her side. A destination set solid in her mind, she exited the apartment.
Her heels clicked along the sidewalk, and she shuffled through the sprinkling of people along the city maze. None of the individuals brushing against her suspected anything more than cheap dollar store goods in that delicately woven basket gripped in her hands. There was nothing to suspect from this small woman with her goods, who met no one’s eyes, her focus straight ahead and glazed with images of death and other secret things.
The small café was crammed, sighing and small, between a bookstore and a filthy apartment building. Kazimiera could smell the éclairs, the bad coffee, and the sweat of the crumb-covered employees. But there was only one employee there she had any interest in.
Gabryel was wrapped in the green apron of the café’s workers, the cloth stained with russet blotches. He was wiping off one of the tables outside of the building, customers sitting cross-legged around him, eating their pastries, sipping at their cappuccinos, oblivious to the world. His face was spotted with fatigue, but he still looked well, his eyes bright, his movements lively as he moved from one table to another.
She stood on the sidewalk, cradling the handbasket, glaring at him and all his health, his well-off disposition; he should be decayed, unkempt, without her. She wanted his face to be creased with stress lines, his limbs cracking from stiffness, his entire being not functioning without her presence.
Without her, it should be hell.
Her face blank as the tabletops, she approached him. He noticed her as he paused to tuck a washcloth into his apron; he froze, only his mouth moving without sound. She could see the nervous sprint his eyes made, to her face, to the ground, to the basket. She imagined her expression must be unsettling. A small smile curled the corners of her lips.
“Witaj, Gabryel,” she said, her body static between the café tables.
“Kazia?” He stood up straight, looking wary as he gave her a brittle smile.
She stroked the handle of the basket, feeling the weaving of the wood strips, the fraying lashes; the magnetic pull of the horror inside made her stomach flex but she now knew of alternative delights to this evil thing left for her use, and she smiled at him.
“I brought something for you.” She lifted the handbasket up, pressing it against her breast, feeling the pulse of her intent move through her. This was the time for him to beg. In this moment, he needed to fall onto his knees and grab at her coat, tear his heart out for her in apology, blubber for her to come back to him after he made such a foolish mistake. If only he would do this, she could spare him from what she knew she had to do.
“You can’t be here, Kazia,” was what he said though, turning from her. “I have to work. If you want to talk, then you can come by my place later.”
Her blood boiled black. She felt her mouth tic, and her arms slowly moved forward, presenting him with her gift.
“At least take this, misiu,” she said, her voice cracking, her eyes wide with what he perceived as despair though it was something much more vicious. Gabryel sighed, looking inside for his manager, turning back again to see the frailty of her appearance as she offered her gift out to him.
“Alright. I’ll take it,” he said, holding his hands out. “And I’ll talk to you later… Kazia.”
She beamed as he took the handbasket from her, her cheeks flushed a pleasant pink. He couldn’t help but smile back.
With that last sight of him, she turned around and headed out onto the sidewalk, every footstep making her smile wider, making her boiling blood burn her insides with vindication.
She hadn’t quite made it past the yellowing dissolute apartment building when she heard his gurgling shriek, rife with the sound of demonic beings unraveling his throat. Her hands jerked upward in glee as people in the streets turned to look, panic blooming on their faces. She kept walking through the needling chaos, walking with bouncing steps back to her apartment.
Kazimiera took off her coat, her purse, her gloves, sinking down to the ground by her answering machine, her wiggling fingers gliding over the buttons and pushing recent messages. His last message began to play, and she leaned on his words as shaking rolls of laughter trembled through her limbs, her eyes tearing up, her voice ripped with sheer delight.
Amidst her peeling laughs, she wrapped her hands around the answering machine, tearing out his voice just like the bloodied creatures had done; it quit sounding as it unplugged, but she could still hear it in her head, circling with its cruelty toward her, circling and circling.
She clutched the machine to her stomach, still giggling with her unhinged joy. She walked past her coat, her gloves, her purse, moved down into the hallway with her artifact and his voice forever on loop in her head. She stepped out into the street, her feet clapping on the wet pavement as she drifted.
And Hell matched her steps.
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- Misia/misiu Polish pet name, like the English “honey” or “sugar”. Means teddy bear.
- Nie No.
- Gowna Shit.
- Witaj Hello
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