Black Static #67 (January-February 2019) by 2019 Jan-Feb (s)

Author:2019 Jan-Feb (s)
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: New Horror Fiction & Film
Publisher: TTA Press
Published: 2019-01-16T00:00:00+00:00

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Kristi DeMeester is the author of Beneath, a novel published by Word Horde Publications, and Everything That’s Underneath, a short fiction collection from Apex Books. Her stories have appeared in many magazines, including five times here in Black Static, and anthologies such as The Year’s Best Horror and Best New Horror. Find her online at www.kristidemeester.com.

IN THE FOG, THERE’S NOTHING BUT GREY

MICHELLE ANN KING

Nobody’s gone in or out of the pub for a long time, so it makes us all jump when the door opens. I hadn’t even realised it was unlocked.

“Here comes trouble,” Gil says. He says that about everything, from Chrissie coming back from the Ladies to pigeons landing on the roof, but this time I think he could be right – there’s something about this newcomer that sets my spidey-sense humming. I can’t put my finger on what, but sometimes that’s how it is: the eyes send a message straight to the hairs on the back of the neck, bypassing the brain completely. Which maybe isn’t such a bad thing, considering the brain’s not the be-all and end-all it used to be.

Gil’s eying her like she’s some sort of apparition, but the woman just shoots him an easy grin and leans casually on the bar.

“I’ll have whatever’s good,” she says lightly.

Maybe it’s that – the lightness, the ease – that’s putting me on edge. In her parka and boots, she could be an ordinary wind-blown tourist, ready to relax with a pint after a hard day’s hiking or bird-watching. But there aren’t too many of those around lately.

She flashes the grin again, displaying a chipped front tooth. Up close, I can also see the distortion of a previously broken nose and a pale, jagged scar above one eye – none of which she’s tried to fix, or even hide. Lack of money? Or does she like having it on display? People see that kind of thing on a man, they think fighter. They see it on a woman, they think victim. First one puts them on their guard, second one doesn’t.

She watches me take down a dusty glass. “What’s your name?”

“Honey,” I say.

Certain names, just like certain labels, can also take people off their guard. Being called something cute and girly can make people underestimate you – like the idiots who don’t take hurricanes seriously if they’ve got names like Candy or Barbie. And then, of course, they get battered to within an inch of their idiot lives. Serves them right.

I start filling the glass from the nearest pump. “And what’s yours?”

She shrugs. “No idea.” Still light, still easy. “Can’t remember.”

“We’ll name you,” Chrissie says. She leans forward eagerly, her thin forearms resting on the scratched wooden table. “Titania! Brunnhilde! Diana!”

“Ruby?” Gil says. “That’s my daughter’s name.” A frown deepens the lines on his forehead. “Or was it my cat?”

That gets a laugh. “Either way, I like it. Ruby it is.”

“So where you from?” he says. “Did you come far?”

That gets another shrug. “A fair way, I think.

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