“All I’m saying is, if this was a heist movie it would flop,” Derek says, morosely.
Vampires always look morose, even on a good day. But right now, Derek is looking especially pale; his black eyes are sunken and weary, his body slumps into the armchair. On his right sits a small stocky creature whose feet barely peek over the edge of the seat. A long grey beard trails from his chin all the way down to the ground, almost touching my shoes. His chest raises slowly, and soft whimpers emanate from his throat.
“Are you sleeping Barry?!”
The sound of my voice jolts the three foot dwarf awake. He glares at me with beady eyes before turning to his side and promptly falling back to sleep. A sliver of drool runs down his chin, matting into his beard.
“Wow…boomers are _so _embarrassing,” a tiny voice remarks.
I turn to look at the little pixie perched near my shoulder. Her head is buried into an even tinier screen she holds in her lap. How she even saw Barry’s drool is beyond me.
“You’re literally forty-five, stop acting like a human teenager,” Derek groans.
Candace narrows her eyes, but still doesn’t look away from her phone.
“Yeah well, forty-five _is _a teenager in pixie years. You don’t even have a say in this, you don’t age - you’re dead!” her fingers tap furiously on the screen, no doubt posting this conversation on the the SSM - supernatural social media.
I take a sip of my now-cold coffee, wincing at the bitterness. The shop is quiet, just a couple of students sit on raised chairs by the window, headphones in, typing away. The soft clatter of the keys helps me to focus, to formulate a plan to build morale.
“Right everybody….”
No one looks at me. Barry’s snores increase in volume.
I stand up, tapping my teaspoon against the side of my mug. Brown liquid splashes off the side, almost soaking Candace.
“Hey - watch it!” she cries, darting over to sit near Derek. My patience grows thin.
“EVERYBODY LISTEN!”
The whole coffee shop becomes silent. All eyes turn to look at me. I gulp slowly. Ok, maybe that was a bit overkill.
“Not you guys…” the students turn and go back to their typing.
“Just you three.”
I stare at my companions: Derek the sullen vampire, Barry the now-awakened and very grumpy dwarf and Candace, the angsty pixie. Include me into the mix and you have four of the most opposing types of magical creatures you could possibly put together.
“Look, I didn’t ask to be picked. None of us did. But we all received a letter from the Council of Supernatural Beings to meet here in this coffee shop to get to know each other before our big mission.”
I must be saying something right because even Candace is giving me eye contact. Narrowed eye contact, but I’ll take it!
My voice quietens to a whisper. The others lean in to hear me better.
“We are going to find a way to break into the vault, we are going to follow the brief, we are not going to make any mistakes, and…”
I pause for a moment for dramatic effect.
“We will work together as a team to complete our mission!”
A broad smile beams from me. I feel all warm inside. For a second, I think my speech has worked.
“Ugh, Gen X are so embarrassing…”
Tiny fingers type at breakneck speed. I want to say something back, something firm yet witty to put Candace in her place. But I don’t even know what Gen X is!
All I know is that today is going to be a very long day.
You’d think a town filled with vampires, shifters and ghouls would be a little more eventful than this…” I sigh, slumping my head forward. The rickety desk wobbles precariously, forcing me to remove my weight.
“Well what did you expect, opening a detective agency here? Mallyne is in the middle of nowhere,” a deep voice replies. I turn to face the only window in the room. Perched atop of the sill is my companion - and recently employed assistant - Adonis.
“That’s the only reason I could afford this place!” I sigh heavily, slumping forward again. A loud creak sounds followed by a BANG. I lie in a crumpled heap on the ground surrounded by pieces of splintered wood.
“Well, you know what they say…You buy cheap, you buy twice” Adonis purrs smugly, licking his paw.
“Shut it you!”
Slowly I stand up, brushing flecks of sawdust off my blouse. Jeez, a blouse. What have I become? I used to be cool, riding on the backs of Harley Davidson’s weaving in and out of cars in ripped shorts and a vest that barely covered anything at all. Now look at me. In a blouse, painfully sober and standing on top of a broken desk in the shabbiest building on this street.
“Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’ll get a client soon.” Adonis slinks towards me, rubbing his body around my leg. I crouch and scratch behind his ear, moving my fingers below his chin.
“Or maybe you’ll come to your senses and start up a useful business instead - like a cafe!”
“Ugh!” I cry, stepping away from him. He could be such a meanie sometimes - I would never take his attitude if he was a person. And the name Adonis… Come on - how arrogant do you need to be to call yourself that? But, somehow his cute fluffy exterior makes up for his unbearable personality.
“You just like Moria’s because she puts a charm on your milk which makes you irresistible to the female cats round here”
His small red tongue licks his lips, showing a flash of sharp fangs.
“You are wrong Dee, I don’t need a witch to help me in that department. I am a natural charmer!”
With that he leaps out of the open window. I hear soft paws land on the pavement outside and scurry to the left. Left alone, my thoughts start to race. This was supposed to be a fresh start. My own business: “_Daphne’s Detective Agenc_y”. A service that helps the supernatural with anything they might need in this small town.
I took a look at my surroundings. A broken desk, tattered carpet and peeling yellowed wallpaper stare back at me. Exhaling, I clamber out of the mess and head towards the door. Right now, I was the one in need and Moria’s cafe had exactly what I needed.
A hot, steaming mug of chai latte.
Eva Blake leaned against the cool metal of the lamppost. Her piercing gaze followed the newcomer as he weaved through the heaving crowds, pinpointing his every move. Despite his ordinary outward appearance, the stranger moved with a purpose that betrayed his true intentions. Each flick of hair and flash of teeth seemed forced, an awkward attempt to feign casualness. His stride was too strong, his eyes constantly darting back and forth when he thought nobody was looking. Definitely a military background. Eva's heart began to pound violently. A cool sheen of sweat settled onto her brow. Years of training had taught her to trust these gut reactions. She knew this man was connected to her mission. Upon approach, their eyes locked. A flicker of recognition passed between them. With a subtle nod, she acknowledged the game was afoot. Eva was ready to play.
The townsfolk were quick to fall for the stranger, his charm as disarming as his smile. They gathered around him, drawn in by his charisma and the allure of someone so out of place in their sleepy hamlet. He spun tales of distant lands. His words were laced with the fragrance of exotic spices and bustling markets as he described his adventures. Eva watched from a distance, a wry smile playing on her lips. They were all pawns in his game, unwittingly aiding in his masquerade. To them, he was a breath of fresh air, a mystery to be unraveled. But Eva knew better; she saw the predator behind the sheep's clothing.
I have always hated roses. They remind me of him: unoriginal, thoughtless and woefully conceited. Luring you in with their superficial beauty, stinging you when you get too close.
The wheelbarrow trundles along the dirt. The uneven weight forces me to constantly adjust my footing. Darkness closes in; even the sun cannot bear to be witness to my act.
Once I reach the hole, I pause for a moment, wiping the sweat off my brow. I look at the overflowing contents in front of me. A bouquet of red roses lie on top of a shrouded lump. These were the last flowers he had given me. The final gesture of apology.
“I’m sorry” he lied, “I’ll never do it again.”
Blinded by his arrogance, he was unaware that his deceit no longer fooled me.
I tip the wheelbarrow forwards, grunting with the strain. Crimson petals litter the hole. A loud thud sounds as the lump hits the dirt. I stare into the abyss.
The roses are dead.
And so is he.
The grand piano was so beautiful, so elegant, so certain of its place to be here on this beach, the allure of the shore was long forgotten.
The ornate body stood mounted upon four thick legs, hourglass shaped, buried within a great mound of wrinkled sand. Wooden swirls embossed each side of the piano and the space above the keys. The entire object was exquisitely clean, as if immune to the minute grains of sand that clung to everything within their grasp.
I stood in awe. After a few moments, I started to regain my senses. I turned to see if anyone else could see the piano on the sand. The beach was empty. I looked again. A solitary figure now stood to my right. His silver hair glittered in the sunlight as he sauntered towards me.
“Want to play?”
His voice was light and lyrical.
I shook my head, not wanting to intrude or draw attention to myself. Plus, I didn’t have the confidence to play in front of an audience - not anymore.
The slender man with skin fairer than sand tilted his head and smiled.
“Come on now, don’t be shy. I can guide you if you stumble”
I drifted towards the piano, feet moving of their own accord. My wide eyes snapped up, resting on his. Gazing into those silver orbs, I suddenly remembered a poem I’d once heard about a spider and a fly…
The tinkling of bells marked Death’s arrival in our town.
He introduced himself as Mr. Moon. This seemed a fitting name for a man whose hair glowed silver in the soft light of dusk. He took residence upon the castle on the hill. It had lain abandoned for years, ominously glaring down at the town, causing fear in our childish hearts each time we raised our head towards the spire.
The first night he arrived, Mr. Moon hauled a large grand piano into the upper rooms of the castle. Through the open windows, melodic notes wafted through the winter air, reclaiming the warmth that winter had stolen. The visitor's long white fingers graced the piano keys so eloquently, we questioned why such a gifted musician had chosen to reside in our nameless town.
The first to disappear was little Edie Brown.
She lived in the cottage by the meadow, behind the apple trees. Ever since she was a babe, she was enraptured by any note of melody. When the torrential storms battered thatched roofs threatening to drown our sodden homes - while everyone scrambled to grab buckets and cloths - little Edie stood in a trance, staring up at the heavens, joy emanating from her wide blue eyes.
She was only six years old.
After that, our town grew smaller each day. The morning air was filled with screams of horror as beds were found empty, devoid of any warmth. In the evenings, grief drew these souls to the castle on the hill, where the music lured their broken hearts like rats to lye.
We fled on the third night of December. Ma wrapped us in thick wools to protect us from the bitter winds that stung our cheeks. I can only imagine the terror that gripped her heart as we traversed through the undergrowth - a young mother with four small children in tow.
When we finally arrived at Papa’s hut, in the larger village of Midhollow, our eyes shut the instant we lay upon the stone floor. Here we stayed, week after week, adjusting to our new lives far away from home. The price of safety was small. Papa expected little, and was grateful for extra hands to gather wood for the fire. After a while, we forgot about Little Edie, and the castle on the hill. Our lives were brimming with laughter, six bodies working in unison to fill the little hut with food and warmth.
Tonight, I lay huddled on the stone floor, pressed between the chest of one brother and the back of another. Soft snoring envelops my heart with peace. I start to drift off, the lids of my eyes growing heavy from the heat of the hearth.
Suddenly, I freeze.
Fear grips my body, causing wetness to stain my cheeks. For in the silence of the night, a tinkle sounds in the air.
I lie back on the sofa and stare at the scene in front of me. The tree stands awkwardly in the corner, stiff bristles spread out unevenly, revealing plastic green legs which slot into one another. I should have purchased a tree skirt. But I didn’t even know what that was until Rachel told me, the day she came to the house unannounced, stacks of beautifully wrapped boxes in her arms. I thought the tree was ok until I saw how she looked at it. She never said anything bad, but the disappointment in her eyes made my stomach churn.
The black IKEA unit is littered with cards of all shapes and sizes. So much waste. Just to say two words. I never speak to the neighbours - that’s Michael’s fault. I told him when we moved that I didn’t want to do all the social niceties. Just hi and bye, no need for small talk and fake smiles. But he doesn’t know how to do that - he’s as extroverted as I am introverted. So now we have fifteen cards on the mantelpiece. And ten blank ones ready to be written out. My job, of course.
The Elf on the Shelf lies on the crumb-covered carpet, discarded. I wish I had the energy to do it everyday. Lucy deserves better.
Clothes smother every part of the living room: the floor, the chair, the corner of the sofa, and the window sill (behind the drawn curtains). I stopped opening them when the sun migrated for winter. If I had a bigger house, the clothes horse would be upstairs, out of sight out of mind. Everything would be neatly folded and I would finally be able to have the type of house that taunts me from the screen.
That’s what I tell myself anyway.
As the living room stares back at me - judging me - numbness fills my core. I ran out of tears long ago. At least she has presents. Mix matched parcels crowd the tree, but even this doesn’t bring me joy. There’s just so much clutter. So much noise. Everywhere I look.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing this scene to go away.
I’m so sorry Lucy.
I wish her excitement would infect me, allow me to feel the happiness she experiences every time she hears the songs on the radio, or sees the first glimpses of snow in the morning.
If Santa was real, I would ask for just one thing.
To be better for her.
(Please forgive me.)
In the heart of George Square, the essence of Glasgow's rich history unfolded. Majestic statues adorned the grounds, standing tall as silent guardians of time. A dance of people traversed the open space, a rhythmic ebb and flow accentuated by the comings and goings of those arriving and departing Queen Street Station.
In the midst of this urban tapestry, the square's center became a hub of sensory delight. Street vendors showcased their culinary prowess, wafting tantalizing scents of grilled meats and sweet treats through the air. Yet, it was the lone candle seller who added a touch of warmth to the scene. Flames flickered from his stall in vibrant hues of blues and reds. Their glow cut through the winter chill, captivating onlookers who clustered around in awe.
Among the dynamic backdrop, a homeless woman sought solace near one of the statues. Her appearance, ragged and weathered, stood in stark contrast to the floral adornments in her hair. Pigeons pecked around her, seemingly attuned to a gentle presence. A passerby, moved by compassion, left coins and bottles of water beside her. A silent exchange of gratitude ensued, the unspoken acknowledgment of shared humanity.
As the square's tales unfolded, a young woman, unaware of the imminent sequence of events, entered a nearby cafe. The door swung shut behind her, the muted clang echoing like a prelude to the unforeseen chain of events about to unfold.
I walked into the café, greeted by a warmth that cut through the Scottish chill I'd grown accustomed to. Although I loved the magic of winter, nothing beat the feeling of settling into a cozy room with the promise of a comforting chai latte.
With the steaming paper cup in hand, I sought out the raised seats near the window, overlooking George Square. People-watching held a particular charm for me – a chance to play detective, to weave stories about the passersby. Who were they, and where were they headed? As I settled onto the high stool, a fleeting thought crossed my mind: Did anyone ever scrutinize me with the same curiosity?
Coat off, I draped it over the stool beside me, and a contented sigh escaped as I took my first sip of coffee. Cinnamon warmth permeated my senses, filling me with joy. Today I would not be watching the crowds. Instead, I reached into my coat pocket, producing a pack of tarot cards aglow in a gentle purple light – a Christmas gift waiting to be explored. Despite my limited knowledge of tarot readings, I was determined to take my first step into this mystical world.
With the table cleared, I laid out the elemental cards – fire, water, earth, and air – setting the stage for my venture. I shuffled the rest of the deck thoughtfully, attempting to forge a connection between myself and the cards. Although doubtful, the relatively quiet atmosphere of the café allowed me to focus, at least momentarily, on this experiment.
Taking a deep breath, I began the ritual. The first card, drawn with uncertainty, revealed itself – The Fool. It’s edges gilded with an ethereal glow. The card portrayed a whimsical figure standing before a large wooden door.
No hidden message initially jumped out at me so I continued the reading, placing my fingers onto the pack and drawing another card out. This time, it was The Magician. In the centre, a robed figure stood with one arm raised, cradling a lit pillar candle. I placed it next to the Fire Card and reached for the next card, intended for Earth.
My fingers tingled as I pulled it from the pack, the winter chill creeping back in. Placing the card beside the Earth element, I saw The Empress—a regal figure on a crimson throne, crowned with flowers. Frustration clawed at me. None of this made any sense! I took a sip of my now-cold coffee, wondering why I was wasting my only morning off playing this silly game.
Well, one card left; might as well finish it now.
I unveiled the final card. This one seemed to shine more ethereally than the rest. Reading the black lettering at the bottom, "Six of Cups," I saw two figures in the center—one crouched, the other offering a gold cup filled with flowers. Staring blindly at the spread, anger clouded my brain. I questioned if I was the fool for participating in this.
Reaching for my cup, I hastily gathered the cards, shoving them back into the pack. I threw on my coat, stuffing the cards into my pocket before discarding the paper cup into a bin near the exit. As I left the cafe, the door slammed behind me.
I turned to apologize - I didn’t mean to slam it so hard - but a sudden gust of wind seized my attention. It whisked past my hair, swirling toward the vendors in the centre of the square. The crowd erupted into shouts, clutching onto their hats and scarves. Commotion rippled through the gathering, causing people to collide.
Suddenly, a passerby toppled into the candle stall! Elegant candles teetered precariously, igniting the wooden beams. Red and blue flames danced wildly as the panicked stall owner rushed out to safety. The crowd stilled, watching the wood disintegrate.
Nearby, a homeless woman with flowers in her hair sprinted towards the scene. Armed with bottles of water, she doused the flames, till there was nothing left but black tendrils of smoke blowing into the wind. Calm descended over the square. The candle stall holder embraced the woman tightly, tears streaming down his stubbled cheeks.
Across the road, I stood transfixed, mouth agape. A strange thought entered my mind. Instinctively, my hand reached into my coat pocket, retrieving the pack of cards. Looking down, I shook my head in disbelief.
A whisper escaped my lips.
“Surely not?”
Dr. Morgan Bennett, a tall figure with a purposeful stride, navigated the narrow corridors of the Antarctic Microbial Research Station (AMRS). The harsh fluorescent lights illuminated her face, showcasing the strength etched in her features — distinctly Nigerian with a touch of London's cosmopolitan charm. Long braids, meticulously tied in a ponytail, swayed rhythmically with each step. As the facility's chief researcher, Dr. Bennett bore the responsibility of unlocking the secrets buried deep within the ancient Antarctic ice.
She reached for her thick coat, donning gloves and protective gear for the merciless cold that faced her outside. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Most of her other colleagues had left for home already. Only herself and three others remained. Guilt gnawed at her. She should be with her family, with precious little Oli. He was only two. How could she leave him for three months. She should be making his dinners and tucking him into bed at night instead of standing here in the most remote part of the world.
Dr. Bennett steadied herself with a subtle shake of her shoulders. Tomorrow marked her return home. The arrival of the last plane would restore normality to the remaining scientists. In her breast pocket, she cradled a creased Polaroid – a timeless moment on Helensburgh Pier. All four of them, indulging in sprinkle cones, radiated joy. That visit to her husband's hometown held a special place, a cherished memory amid the demands of her work. She loved her research, but she loved her family more. A well-deserved year-long break awaited after tomorrow.
The frigid wind bit her exposed face as she stepped outside. Dr. Bennett was not supposed to do this alone. She of all people knew the dangers of the ice. But this trip could not be avoided. The ancient micro-bacterial samples her team had discovered were intriguing. Yet, an unshakable conviction whispered that there was more waiting to be unveiled. If she could unearth just one more significant find, this expedition would transform into a journey of unquestionable value.
The Antarctic night greeted her with an eerie silence. Dr. Bennett stepped through the doors into the cold embrace of the wilderness. The sprawling landscape, bathed in the soft glow of the polar lights, spread before her like an untouched canvas. The distant peaks of the Ellsworth Mountains stood sentinel against the starlit sky.
Her walk to the ice caves was a solitary pilgrimage. The imposing ice formations towered above, sculpted by nature's patient hand. Approaching the cave entrance, Dr. Bennett felt a hallowed reverence. The crystalline walls glistened like diamonds, promising revelations. Equipped with sampling tools, she approached a promising formation, each movement a dance of precision.
As she immersed herself in the beauty of her work, a chilling scraping noise disrupted the sacred silence of the caves.
Dr. Bennett froze.
With hawk-like alertness, she scanned the darkness, regretting the decision to venture alone. Trembling fingers raised the only light source - a small headlamp. As it swayed back and forth, ominous shadows danced along the cave walls. After a few moments, silence enveloped her. Lowering the light, she returned to her work.
In the eerie silence of the ice cave, Dr. Bennett armed herself with an array of tools. Positioned before the cave wall, she deftly employed the tools to extract ice cores from various depths, each incision a deliberate stride toward understanding. Methodically marking and sealing the samples in sterile containers, Dr. Bennett ensured that each specimen carried the essence of its origin, a frozen archive awaiting meticulous analysis.
Suddenly, the scraping noise returned! The awful sound reverberated through the cavernous space. Dr. Bennett's heart raced as fear gripped her. Instinctively, she reached for her walkie-talkie, yet a fleeting lapse of control sent the device clattering to the unforgiving ground.
She was in trouble now.
In a palpable sense of urgency, Dr. Bennett fumbled to find refuge, seeking shelter behind a small boulder. For a second, there was silence. The glaciologist started to wonder if she was overreacting.
Abruptly, an unsettling sensation gripped the back of Dr. Bennett’s neck. Hot breath panted against her skin. Summoning courage, she turned to confront the unknown. As the creature emerged from the shadows, Dr. Bennett's initial fear transformed into sheer amazement.
Standing at a height of around fifteen feet, the dinosaur was a living relic from Earth's ancient past. Its features, reminiscent of a Velociraptor, held her in a trance. The creature's eyes, filled with a primal intelligence, met hers as they locked in an unspoken exchange.
It wasn't a dormant artifact preserved in time; it was a living testament to prehistoric existence. The scientist within her marveled at the prospect of documenting and sharing this extraordinary discovery, envisioning the accolades that awaited her in the scientific community. Her name would be etched in history among the greats.
With a newfound determination, Dr. Bennett delved into her pocket to retrieve her phone, eager to capture photographic evidence of this remarkable encounter. Her thumb swiped the screen upward, and elation surged through her heart.
The entity seized the moment, long, razor-sharp claws swiping forward and catching the edge of Dr. Bennett's cheek. Stumbling backward, her head collided with the hard cave wall. Salivating jaws snapped with a ravenous hunger, finally unleashed after millennia of entrapment in the ice.
In the blink of an eye, Dr. Bennett became a tragic relic, a pile of bones forgotten in the darkness of the cave.
Unbound, the ancient creature wandered freely, into the midst of civilization.
