I only have two drabbles today, but as my new Heyward and Andersen story is launching tomorrow, I have a short excerpt from The Headless Corpse. Enjoy.
Eternal Performance
The spotlight sweeps the stage and she dances. The music drifts its haunting melody as she twirls, gossamer dust rising with each step. Oops, she stumbles. What a fall! Get up, keep dancing. What a trooper. Another pirouette, even while bleeding.
What? Can you stop? Of course not. You sold your soul for this, dearie.
Wait. Do we have an audience? You in the back, yes you, pay attention now. You’ve paid your price to watch, best not waste a minute. The seat might be uncomfortable and the view strained, but you’re never leaving, so enjoy it while you can…
Opening Night
The stage lights flicker on, one by one, a faint orange glow illuminating the boards. The wood creaks as if someone walks the stage, but only shadows move past the curtain.
The soft strains of an unseen orchestra play from the pit, a soothing, but unfamiliar tune. Whispers waft from the empty rows of the audience, mingling with the rustle of invisible fabric and the impatient tapping of shoes.
Then there is silence. An eerie quiet descending across this vacant and derelict echo of a theatre, before the air ripples with the diva’s song, with the life it once housed…
Except from The Headless Corpse
LARS SIPPED his tea and read the newspaper after breakfast, revelling in the delicious memories of eggs and sausage. This morning, Elspeth exhibited an uncommonly good mood, engrossed in the latest edition of one of her arcane periodicals. All was well in his world.
Until a loud knock echoed from the front door.
Lars muttered, “Once, just once, can’t I have a peaceful morning?” He peeped over at Elspeth. She hadn’t seemed to notice, but she glanced up when Willoughby ushered in a tall, stately gentleman whose dark hair had precisely the right amount of distinguished grey at the temples.
Willoughby bowed, his usual clanking diminished due to a new brand of joint oil. “A potential client, ma’am; Mr. Simeon Potter.” Willoughby moved closer, handing Elspeth a square of pasteboard. “His card.”
Elspeth squinted at the cream-coloured card with gold lettering embossed with the words, Simeon Potter, Mortician. She flashed the card at Lars before tucking it into a pocket and replying, “What brings you to us, Mr. Potter? You don’t seem the sort to court trouble.”
“I’m not here for myself, exactly, but my charges. Some of them have, well, disappeared.” He coughed awkwardly. “And then reappeared. Sometimes missing a head. Indeed, my corpses have become, well, quite animated.”
Lars stared, incredulous, but Elspeth leaned forward, a fire of excitement in her eyes.
“What do you mean, animated?”
“I mean walking, moving, blundering about. Everything a corpse shouldn’t be doing. Particularly if they lack a head. A head, I might add, they possessed when they arrived at my mortuary.”
Lars trembled. “Are you saying you’ve been infested by the…” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, “Undead?”
Be Afraid of the Dark 
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