Ordinary Souls Read online

  Novels

  Rage’s Echo

  The Land Beyond the Portal

  Servant

  The Chronicles of Servitude,

  Book One

  Sacrifice

  The Chronicles of Servitude,

  Book Two

  Multi-author Collections

  Through the Portal

  Call of the Warrior

  In Creeps the Night

  A Winter’s Romance

  Tales by the Tree

  Cover design, interior book design,

  and eBook design by Blue Harvest Creative

  www.blueharvestcreative.com

  Ordinary Souls

  Copyright © 2016 J.S. Bailey

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Open Window

  an imprint of BHC Press

  Library of Congress Control Number:

  2016954054

  Hardcover edition ISBN numbers:

  ISBN-13: 978-1-946006-05-9

  ISBN-10: 1-946006-05-X

  Visit the author at:

  www.jsbaileywrites.com &

  www.bhcpress.com

  Also available in hardcover and softcover

  Short stories are magical things. Unlike novels, they tend to pack a heavy punch in a small amount of space. Some of my favorite short stories, in no particular order, are “Skin” by Roald Dahl, which involves a tattoo created by a famous artist and the people who want to buy it off a man’s back; “A Good Man is Hard to Find” by Flannery O’Connor, which involves a family vacation disrupted by an escaped killer; and “The Telltale Heart” by Edgar Allan Poe, which is of course that classic tale of insanity and murder.

  Each of these stories is horrifying in its simplicity and leaves the skin crawling. In other words, they exemplify what I love the most in this medium of fiction.

  I don’t remember which short story is the first I wrote, but in recent years I’ve found myself compelled to write more of them. Some appeared in anthologies, some I published on their own, and some have never seen the light of day until now. Ordinary Souls is, I hope, a fun mix of stories featuring perfectly ordinary human beings thrown into extraordinary circumstances. Because isn’t that what fiction is all about?

  For those who may be interested, I’ve summarized what brought each of these stories into being.

  The Mirror

  Recently while looking at my face in the bathroom mirror, I wondered what would happen if mirrors could show the future. (Bad things, I assume. Knowing the future is never good.)

  I chose to set this story in the UK to pay homage to my love of all things British. I conducted quite a bit of research during the course of my writing, as I have never set foot in the UK, so my internet search history now includes such items as “what do british call living room” and “what do british call sweatpants.” Lisa Shambrook, a fellow author who lives in Wales, was kind enough to answer some of my questions that Google was unable to answer for me. Thank you, Lisa!

  The Ghosts of Memory

  When I was nineteen years old, my fourteen-year-old brother informed me he’d found an abandoned house on the other side of town, so being the responsible older sibling, I accompanied him on a bike ride so I might investigate this house myself under my brother’s guidance.

  I don’t remember what it looked like on the outside—I have a vague memory of walls overgrown with vegetation—but the inside told a chilling story.

  The house was furnished but in disarray. Family photos, the kind you get taken at a studio, lay on the kitchen table as if someone had been sorting through them to distribute to relatives. The family’s clothing and hairstyles screamed Early Nineties. Unopened mail lay there as well. The sender on one envelope led me to believe that it contained a medical bill. I can’t remember the recipient’s name. Might have been John.

  Despite the house’s structural instability, the two us of ventured upstairs. Clothes were laid out in a bedroom, including a high school letterman’s jacket embroidered with the name “Darla.”

  When we got home, I searched for Darla on MySpace (remember MySpace?), adding the last name I’d seen on the mail in the kitchen. A profile came up for a local woman. So Darla still existed. Good.

  I was tempted to message Darla and ask her what had happened at that house. I did not.

  To this day, I wonder what compelled an entire family to leave their home and belongings behind. I’d never heard any rumors floating around town about a tragedy. It is all very mysterious.

  The house is gone now, bulldozed into oblivion. I haven’t been down that street since.

  Vapors

  Several years ago I was skimming through a book about the early Church fathers and martyrs, and I got to wondering what it would be like to meet them in person and see what they had to say about their faith and the time period they had lived in.

  A few hours later I left to go to my classes at Northern Kentucky University. I always liked to take the scenic route through the rolling hills of southern Clermont County as opposed to taking the interstate because driving on a winding road through forests and then along the Ohio River seemed so peaceful compared to the alternative. Driving along that route put my mind at ease, and what do minds at ease do? Come up with stories, of course!

  I knew I wanted to write a short story set in the post-apocalyptic future where humans and other living things could be resurrected through the use of technology so archaeologists could learn more about the past. I jotted down notes when I got home. The story, which I named “Vapors,” took me about eight days to write. I originally published it as an ebook short.

  Maria

  One day I started daydreaming about a painting that would hypnotize people the longer they stared at it. Something about the picture would have to be “off” in some way to catch and hold people’s attention long enough for the hypnotism to work. The details of this changed during my first draft, of course, as happens with all of my stories.

  I wonder what other people daydream about.

  Agoraphobia

  I’ve been tempted for so long to write a story told from the second-person point of view, kind of like those Choose Your Own Adventure books I read as a child.

  So I did.

  The Author, the Lonely Walker, and the Class

  While writing the story “The Mirror” that appears earlier in this collection, I envisioned a high school English class sitting around discussing it with questions like, “Is the mirror evil or good?” Then I thought it might be fun to write a story about an author writing a story that ends up being assigned to an English class. Three stories for the price of one!

  The Outing

  This story first appeared in A Winter’s Romance, a short story anthology featuring romantic stories that take place during the winter. I sent it to my dear friend Laura Custodio to proofread, and she messaged me back with, “What the hell did I just read?” Apparently she feared for my husband’s life.

  Imaginary Friend

  Jerry Madison is my novel Rage’s Echo’s resident ghost. He’d been hanging out in that graveyard for so long, and I thought it would have been too boring for him to have absolutely nothing happen the whole time he was out there, so I gave him something to do.

  Weary Traveler

  One day my husband and I went for a
hike at the Cincinnati Nature Center’s Rowe Woods. Rowe Woods is home to an old house called Krippendorf Lodge that is often rented out for weddings. Dense woods grow all around the lodge so you can’t see it until you’re practically walking onto its porch. Since our hike was during the day, Krippendorf Lodge was as silent as an abandoned dwelling, its windows dark and full of secrets.

  After our hike, we went home and I spent the evening soaking in the tub, during which I conceived the idea for “Weary Traveler,” which of course tells of a very different sort of hike than the one we’d had.

  Journal Entry from the End of the Universe

  Have you ever felt that you don’t have enough years left in you to do everything you want to do?

  So does the narrator of this story.

  (And its author.)

  And Lead Us Not

  During my experiences working as a cashier, I often caught glimpses of people’s driver’s licenses when they would open their wallets, displaying their names and addresses in all their glory.

  Luckily for everyone, I never felt the urge to show up on their doorsteps.

  White Lightning

  Family vacations. Need I say more?

  There We Will Be

  This story came about from a free-write when I had no idea what to put down on paper. It first appeared in the anthology Call of the Warrior and had to be trimmed considerably to fall into the proper word count range. The revised draft reads much better than the version I originally scrawled into a journal. (Revised drafts generally do.)

  Rochelle’s Pizza Run

  Back in 2014, author LaDonna Cole wanted to assemble a portal-themed short story anthology for charity.

  “My first novel is called The Land Beyond the Portal,” I told her.

  She told me to write a short story sequel to it. I happily complied.

  Solitude

  This little story introduces readers to Bobby Roland, the socially-awkward protagonist of The Chronicles of Servitude. It was originally released in 2014 as an ebook short.

  Diamonds in the Sky

  Sometimes I want to tell a story but don’t know what to write. One rainy July day, I was sitting on my couch with my cat Chai, a pen and notebook in hand, and I started writing the first thing that came into my head. I had no idea where this story would lead, and I have to say it surprised me.

  This book is for

  Jennifer Habetz and Laura Custodio—

  two ordinary souls who make life extraordinary.

  “SO HOW MUCH is it?”

  “Two thousand pounds.”

  “For a mirror.”

  “It’s a very old mirror.” David Barlow, the owner of Antiques and Oddities, smiled and folded his hands together expectantly while shifting his weight in the desk chair.

  A tingle of excitement ran up Elena McCreary’s spine as she realised that once again she’d come across something no one else owned. Agatha Christie’s hatbox, a quill thought to have been used by Queen Victoria… This mirror would be the perfect addition to her ever-growing collection if it were as special as David claimed.

  “Who’s selling it?” Elena leaned closer to David, who sat across from her at his office desk under the watchful stare of a shrunken head kept in a case on a high shelf. A hint of disgust appeared in his smile. Despite the fact Elena was one of his best customers, her wealth revolted him—she’d seen it in his eyes whenever he thought she wasn’t looking.

  She absently twisted a white gold ring on her finger. It’s because he’s jealous he can’t be you. Be nice to the man. Maybe he’ll give you a deal.

  “Mrs. McCreary,” David said evenly, “I told you the seller wishes to remain anonymous.”

  “I can pay an extra thousand if you tell me.” Elena hid a smirk. In reality she would do no such thing. Three thousand for a mirror? She might as well go on holiday for a few weeks.

  David looked for a moment like a man torn but then shook his head. “I can’t do it. The mirror really did belong to the Earl of—”

  “Yes, yes, so you’ve said.” Elena was growing impatient. The mirror in question, an oval measuring two feet wide and three feet long, was currently wrapped in brown paper sitting three shelves below the shrunken head. “Let me see it.”

  “Mrs. McCreary, I—”

  “Now, David.”

  With a sigh, David pulled the package down and set it on the desk. Elena reached for a seam in the paper and made to tear it apart when David pulled it back from her. “I wouldn’t do that here.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a very special mirror.”

  Very old, very special—what will it be next?

  When Elena opened her mouth to argue, David added, “You’re never going to find another like this anywhere.”

  “I know that.”

  “Then do we have a deal?”

  ELENA unwrapped the mirror in her bedroom and was almost disappointed to see it was a perfectly ordinary oval-shaped mirror spotted with age and framed in a twisting silver pattern that could do with some polishing. But it had once belonged to an earl (one said to have gone mad in his old age), and that single fact made it worth the price.

  She took her old mirror off the wall above her cherry wood dressing table and hung the “new” one in its place. The tarnished frame didn’t look so bad against the textured indigo wallpaper now, did it? She should just keep it as it was instead of restoring it. Gave the room a proper bit of character it had always been lacking.

  Elena admired her reflection in the spotted glass. She was a chestnut-haired woman of forty and looked much younger, thanks to genetics. Why, there wasn’t even—

  Wait a minute.

  Something wasn’t right about her reflection—something subtle she’d missed at first glance, because how could a reflection ever be wrong?

  Elena blinked and lifted a hand to brush aside the hair in her face.

  Her reflection didn’t.

  Clapping a hand over her mouth, Elena staggered backwards out of her room and onto the landing, where she stood trembling for an indeterminate number of minutes.

  “That can’t have happened.” She spoke in a whisper. “It just can’t have.”

  Once her pulse had resumed a more typical rate, she ventured back through her bedroom doorway to regard the mirror a second time. There was a chance she’d imagined the whole thing like a dream—it had been a long day, after all.

  “Of course you imagined it,” she muttered. Mirrors didn’t just decide to show something other than what sat in front of them.

  Elena closed her eyes as she took the last few steps towards her dressing table, then counted out half a dozen heartbeats and opened them.

  The Elena in her reflection looked worried; possibly more so than Elena did now. Her shirt was different, too. The other Elena wore a black blouse Elena didn’t recognize.

  Elena held still while her reflection parted her hair to reveal a single white strand nestled among all the brown ones.

  Then the mirror’s surface rippled, and Elena saw herself just as she was.

  Somehow managing to keep her composure, she parted her hair in the same manner her reflection had done. None of her hair was white.

  Thank goodness for that.

  THAT night, Elena thrashed back and forth under her duvet, unable to get the image of finding the white hair out of her head. When at last she did fall asleep, she dreamed she crawled out of bed and looked into the mirror only to learn she’d grown old overnight: her flawless skin now a mass of wrinkles and age spots, her hair a snowy white mane.

  She let out an endless scream unheard in the void of dreams.

  ELENA did her very best not to think about what she’d seen in the mirror while at work the next day. She approved a new marketing slogan, sacked the new girl from accounting, and sat through a long and dull meeting with a client. By the time she made it home that evening, exhaustion had won her over.

  She threw her keys on the table and ran her hands through her h
air when she got in the door. A bit of wine would be good with dinner, but first she would get into more comfortable clothes.

  She remembered the mirror the moment she entered her room, and she drew up short. From her position near the door she couldn’t see her reflection, as she’d hung the mirror on the left-hand wall across from her bed. What would the mirror show her tonight?

  Realising how absurd that question would sound to anyone else in the world, Elena braced herself and stepped up to the mirror.

  The Elena in the mirror was not the Elena she was now. Her reflection had let her hair down, and her eyes seemed to be searching for something beyond the oval pane of glass. Elena didn’t breathe as her reflection picked up a hairbrush and started working out tangles, her eyes haunted by whatever she had or had not seen.

  Elena waited a minute longer before rummaging through a box under her bed and finding a spare sheet. She draped it over the mirror and left it there, satisfied for the time being.

  When she returned to the kitchen in a t-shirt and a pair of gray joggers she would never be caught dead wearing outside the house, she poured herself her customary glass of wine while ruminating about what the mirror had shown her.