Madam Ursula Femme-Hap

 

It was dusk when the Carnival arrived in town. A Carnival had never been here before, least not in the twenty-six years I’d been alive.  But then it’s just a small hick town. No one comes here very often. 
I stood on the side street and watched as the train of oddly shaped wagons pulled into the empty green at the far end of Main Street. A fizz of excitement coursed through my veins and I hurried home to tell my mother the news.
She said that her mother mentioned a Carnival that visited here many years ago, when she was a girl.  
“What did she say?” I asked.
She stopped stirring the stew and stood silent, as if she was recollecting her own mother’s voice. “She said that the bright lights were a thing to behold. That the music called to you and the sights to be seen were so amazing that it made your eyes pop out of your head.”
She had piqued my interest. I wanted to know more about this spectacle that had arrived. “What else did she say?”
“She spoke about a giant man with muscles like wine barrels and side stalls that were decked out with prizes. I remember the smile leaving her face as a frown creased her brow. How she pressed her lips together, as though she was scared to speak. She whispered to me, her voice barely audible, about a tent that stood apart from the main show with a sign that read: ‘Madam Úrsula Femme-Hap sees all.’”
“Did she go in?”
“No, she said it frightened her. She said it stood there alone in the darkness, like it was waiting for something or someone.” My mother shivered and rubbed her arms.
“Are you going to come to the Carnival?” I smiled trying to lighten the moment. I knew how she believed in, you know, ghosts, devils and the likes.
“No, I’m too old for that sort of thing.” She carried the stew to the table and dished it out. We ate in silence, but my mind raced with this new attraction that had appeared. 
The next evening the music drifted through the air to reach into every corner of the town. I hurried towards the entrance that was lit by coloured lights, a rainbow glittering in the dark sky. A man in top hat and tails welcomed the crowd as we swarmed through the gates. 
The place was alive with music, lights and jostling people as I walked on taking in the sights. The strong man my grandmother had spoken of was there, inviting the crowd to feel his muscles.  
I walked around drinking in the atmosphere, and then I saw it, the tent with the words: ‘Madam Úrsula Femme-Hap sees all.’ It was nestled in the corner all by itself, as though it wasn’t really part of the Carnival but somehow, still belonged.   
It can’t be the same person. I thought. She would be over a hundred years old. 
 My eyes remained fixed on that sign. But the urge to go inside was too hard to resist. It was like it was meant for me. I brushed aside the tent flap and entered. A wizened weather beaten old woman sat at a table where a single candle burned in its brass holder. She crooked a gnarled finger at me and beckoned me to sit down. I pulled the chair aside and slipped in. My eyes adjusted to the dimness and I could now see her face plainly. She never spoke a word. Her ink like eyes burned as bright as the candle flame and as I looked deeper into them, what I saw made my heart race. She took my hand into hers her skin was cold as death itself. I tugged my own hand free and stood up, knocking my chair to the floor with a thud. For a moment I froze as she continued to hold me with her piercing gaze, before I broke free and staggered out of the tent.
Beads of sweat had formed on my brow and my legs felt as though they would collapse beneath me. I forced myself to walk away, taking one last glance over my shoulder. The tent was no longer there. I swung around and retraced my steps. But there was no sign of it or that it had ever been there. How can this be?  At the entrance I asked the man in the top hat and tails about the tent and the woman. 
He looked at me and smiled. “There’s a tale attached to this Carnival about a woman named Úrsula Femme-Hap, who was part of the company when this group first came together over a hundred years ago. It was said that her predictions led to the death of those who consulted her and so people began to fear her, which eventually led to her own murder. I’ve heard tell that on occasion her tent can be seen on the outskirts of the fair. But I’m sure that’s just peoples’ imagination. How do you know about her?”
I thought about telling him I’d seen the tent, seen the woman, but knew he would think me crazy. So I just said that I’d heard some people mention her and was curious to know more. Then I left the Carnival and its lights behind me.
It’s been one year since that Carnival visited. What I had seen in that old woman’s eyes was my own death. She showed me how I would be murdered. What she didn’t show me was when and where it would happen or by whose hand. There was something dark, cold and spiteful about her, that left me in no doubt that what she showed me would come true. 
 Now, I live my life watching all those I come into contact with. I believe we make our own future and I plan to change mine, by killing the killer first.

©2014 Helen A. Howell

Digging Up the Past

 

Image created in Leonardo Ai 

The old house looked the same. In all the years that have flown by it hadn't changed, although it bared the scars of time. Built in early 1900's it bore the marks of a typical grander Edwardian style house. The red brickwork now faded and the tuckpointing was somewhat dulled, gave the facade a tired look. Its steeply pitched roof and high chimneys with their terracotta finials, stood out against the landscape. 

As I approached closer I could see the panes of the bay window covered in a layer dust. I fumbled in my pocket for the set of keys that would open the large panelled door, the stained glass, an intricate floral pattern in the upper section, was a work of art. 

This property had been hiding in my family for years. I didn't even know it existed until I got that letter from Balm & Beedle Solicitors. You can imagine my surprise when I learned that I had been left this by a Miss Lillian Strap - a very distant relative.

I asked around my family if anyone knew of her. The only one that did was my great grandmother, now 97 years old. She told me that the Staps were connected on my father's side, and that they only had one daughter. She said she once met Lillian when they were girls and she visited that house. After Lillian's parents had died, one after the other, Lillian by then was a grown woman, had made her own life elsewhere.The house had stood empty. Apparently, she was not interested in the property and left it to slowly decay. By the time she died, the house was still standing. Having no offspring herself, had decided to leave it to me. How she knew of me, I'll never know. 

Now as I turned the key in the lock and the door creaked open, light was thrown into what was once darkness and dust motes danced in the air around me.The house seemed to sigh as it awoke from its long sleep. I walked through the hallway, the musty smell of long forgotten carpets, drapes and furniture filled the air. 

I wandered into what I assumed was the front parlor and drew back the curtains, which started to fall apart in my hand. Light filled the room and slowly my eyes adjusted from the dimness to take in my surroundings. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs hung in the corners of the ceiling. Such a high ceiling with an ornate cornice decorating its edges.The room had various pieces of furniture scattered around it and to the far side stood a piano. On its top were several framed photographs and I moved closer to inspect them. I recognised none of them all wearing vintage clothing. 

But one photo I did recognise, or at least it seemed familiar. As I picked it up and took a closer look, I gasped, it was me, it was definitely me. It fell from my hand and for a moment I felt dazed. Picking it up again, my heart thumping in my chest, I took a deep breath and staring once more at the photograph, I gasped again, the photo had changed, it was now someone else. A laughter seemed to echo through the house, as though it was emanating from its walls. A cold feeling crept over me like icy fingers. Was this the reason Lillian ignored the house?

I dropped the photo and hurried back through the hall and out the door, locking it behind me. I too would be ignoring this house, no way would I be digging up the past.  

 

 

 

 

Nobody sees me.

 I sit alone in this house, alone but not alone. Life still goes on around me. The hussel bussel of everyday, the chatter, the laughter, the arguments. Oh yes the arguments, how I would love to join in, but nobody would listen long enough to hear me.

The house is an old house and has had many minders. Some I have liked and some I have not. I don't mind the latest lot and I sit and watch them. Their struggles to be happy, to fit in, to like each other. I wonder at times why they make it so hard. Perhaps I'm old school, where everyone knew their place and what was expected of them. A much easier time but also much harder. 

I wander around from room to room. I hear them  react to the sound of my footsteps and yet they cannot see me. They shiver when I enter a room where they all are and someone says, "it's very cold in here," and they turn up the heating.  I don't feel cold, but I seem to make them feel so. It's strange I should have that affect on them. 

Perhaps I should make more of an effort to let them know I am here, bang a door or two, move an object, that would be fun. I did do that once, a long time ago. The people panicked and got in a person they called a psychic. She said all sorts of nonsense about me and then proceeded to do what she called a clearing. I cleared off upstairs while that was going on. Sitting on the edge of a bed, decided I wouldn't go down that road again.

I don't know why I am still here, watching others live their life. It's as though the house won't let me go. So I remain, and accept that nobody sees me.

 

 

Vampires Come in all Shapes

Not all Vampires are the same. I know you think we are blood thirsty monsters, but you couldn’t be more wrong. Yes, there are those that crave blood, especially human blood. I for one, cannot see what attracts them to it. It’s not their fault, it’s in there make up, just as it is in mine not to thirst for blood.  

I am still classified as a Vampire. I cannot come out in daylight, I too must night walk. I am eternal, unless of course, someone sticks a stake through my heart. But there is one big difference between my kind and those blood suckers everyone talks of. My kind do no harm to the human race, except perhaps, we disrupt their comfortable lives. How you ask?

 Let me tell you. When we emerge from our sleep, our silent sleep, to the dark sky of the night and leave the safety of our well hidden coffins, we head out into the world that now sleeps under the inky blanket of twinkling stars and make our way to our food source.

If you were out and about late at night you might catch sight of dark shadows moving with grace. Almost as though floating, for we are a graceful race, in the allotments that surround the city.

What are we doing there you ask? We are gorging on luscious  vegetables, marrows to make you mouth water, tomatoes to drive the senses wild, carrots with such a crunch that stir longings deep within. For we are Vegan Vampires. Yes we may destroy your vegetable plot but we don’t destroy you!

So you see not all Vampires are the same. A heads up, watch out for those that only feast on grapes, your wine supplies could soon dwindle.

Vampire image by Pixel Studio @ Creative Fabrica