Scary ghost stories and stuff (1)

My Brother's Keeper

My Brother’s Keeper

by Tomas Furby

Michael

The sun was the barest crimson sliver of twilight, the embers of my old life burning low. Ashes to ashes... I stood, one hand resting on the warm metal of the car roof, the other on the sharp corner of the door. The mountains stood tall, hazy heat obscuring details, behemoths guarding the setting sun. A breeze scattered the dust devils that marked the long, winding path my jeep had taken through the bone-dry hills. And everything so silent. I smiled, and stroked the long scar that ran from jaw to hairline.

The drifting memory of children’s chatter reached my ears. I turned in time to see the kids barreling down the hill towards me, like dogs released from the pits. Pablo holds the head start from a quick jump down the patio steps, but he’s losing ground to the longer legs of his sister. Maria’s gaining, and yes, she’s overtaken him at the bend of the garden path. Jane's lagging behind at the back, just behind her brother, but now Pablo’s putting on speed again and oh… They’ve crashed. There’s a pile up on the garden path.

Slamming the car door, I jogged up the hill towards them. Pablo and Maria seemed relatively unhurt, and were engaged in the melee of siblings; rolling and pushing and slapping and pulling at each other. Jane, however, was rubbing at her shin, tears in her eyes.

“Kids, enough.” I crouched down and brushed at Jane’s hair. Her lower lip trembled. “You OK Janie?”

“Hurt my knee.” She dropped her head, hiding behind her hair. Something tripped up inside me.

“Come on then.” I turned around and dropped down into a squat. “Piggyback?”

One heavy seven-year-old on my back, and two squabbling five-year-olds following, I trekked up the steep garden path. An island of unruly greenery in the dusty white ocean of Andalucian mountains, our garden stretched for a good hundred meters up the mountainside. I had to duck under hanging plants and olive tree branches to keep Jane's head leaf-free, and I almost tripped three times on roots and rocks hidden in the shadow of a darkening sky.

At the top of the hill, Angela stood. Framed in the door to our white-painted casa, standing on a patio of white stone, wearing a white dress shocking against her rich olive skin; she looked an angel standing at the gates of heaven. My angel. My Angela. She smiled as I dropped Jane in a deckchair and went to her, the merest wry quirk of her lips. I took my love in my arms, one hand tangling in her dark, tangled locks as my lips met hers. My angel, my heaven.

I expected the afterlife to be so much worse than this. It was hot as Hell, sure, but if there were devils in this place I could not see them. Perhaps that’s the role of the devil: to be unseen. Unseen, and beautiful.

Lucas

A cigarette crisps and curls to dust between my fingers. It’s hot, smoked to the butt, hotter, hotter... It takes a moment to register, and I drop the offending fag to the carpet in a shower of sparks and ash. Swearing, I rub the grey residue from my fingers and inspect the livid burn. Bastard.

Hand shaking, I knock the bottle against my glass. It chips the rim of the glass, the sharp sound sending a shudder down my back. I feel sick. The room is dark, the only flare and flicker of light a match to light a new fag, and the glare of a neon streetlight outside. It is dark and gloomy, smoky and silent, twilight at its darkest. I hunch deeper into my chair.