There are states worse than death

"THERE ARE STATES WORSE THAN DEATH" - George Wilhite

There are states worse than death
Hear me before you smugly reject

My assertion

Walking through a neglected cemetery

My fate was woven

Shadows converged

Creating the solicitor

Of my immortality

No Faustian bargains

When the shadows come for you

Life ends swiftly

And the torture begins

You wander the earth

Yourself only a shade

An echo, a husk

Of “once was”

BIO: George Wilhite is the author of the short fiction collection On the Verge of Madness. His work has also appeared in numerous print publications and online at Yesteryear Fiction, MicroHorror, Eschatology Journal and The Fringe.

Forever

"FOREVER" - George Wilhite 

Awash in despair, Fred stared at Gina for a long time.

           

This just was not fair. They were supposed to

be together forever, just like in the movies. Star-crossed lovers, yes, but they worked through all that. Their families tolerated one another when necessary. But they would never start one of their own for they waited too long and now she was gone from his life.

           

This sucked.

           

Dreams are meant to be broken, he supposed. What purpose was left in life now that they were apart?

           

Gina didn’t know he was looking at her. That made him feel a little guilty but then he just got angry instead. She had closure, he did not. His denial remained steadfast.

           

She still looked beautiful as he observed her from above. Dressed in her favorite outfit, just as he remembered her on their last night spent together, her auburn hair brushed back from her lovely pear shaped face. Her eyes were closed for the moment but no worry there. His mind filled in the detail of her dark brown orbs. He had memorized very part of her body.

           

They'd met in a park not far from here - six Octobers ago, leaves falling from the trees, a chilling breeze. She wore no coat and he'd offered his. At first she laughed in disbelief such chivalry existed then eventually took him up on the offer. The first day in many more together, the start of something special, until it all spiraled downhill last March.

           

“Why, Gina?” Fred whispered to the air. Perhaps somehow his voice could descend the chasm from here to there and she could hear him. “I loved you. Why wasn’t that enough?”

His eyes moist, through the obscurity caused by his tears he saw the scars. Her  slashed wrists radiated in the night, bitter reminders of her selfish act that ruined everything.

           

Looking around, assured he was alone for as long as the deed required, Fred took control of the situation again. One way or another, he would be with his wife forever.

           

He pulled her gently from her unearthed grave and made haste to his car.

BIO: George Wilhite is the author of the short fiction collection On the Verge of Madness. His work has also appeared in numerous print publications and online at Yesteryear Fiction, MicroHorror, Eschatology Journal and The Fringe.

Selkie

"SELKIE" - George Wilhite

Skinned--

Beneath the pelt lies

Bewitching beauty

The witch from town

Nursed it/her to health

She pines for the ocean

Red sky at night

Fair weather coming

But turmoil broils

Below, within the hold

She croons for salt and foam

Ghost ship in harbor

Search of the deck

Yields only mystery

Crew vanished

Into thin air

One pelt missing

She lives once more in the sea

BIO: George Wilhite is the author of the short fiction collection On the Verge of Madness. His work has also appeared in numerous print publications and online at Yesteryear Fiction, MicroHorror, Eschatology Journal and The Fringe.

At that time of night

"AT THAT TIME OF NIGHT" - George Wilhite

Outside
At that time of night
Darkness deepens
Shadows within shadows
Eerie sounds
Phantom breath brings gooseflesh
Spine tingles
Pace quickens
Instinct to look back
But you feel too foolish
Anxiety swells
Until key opens door
And light switch flipped
You are safe once more
At that time of night

Inside
At that time of night
Turn out the lights
The still silent house brings
Shadows within shadows
Eerie sounds
Phantom breath brings gooseflesh
Spine tingles
Pace quickens
Anxiety swells
You do all you can
To shelter your body
But your mind knows
Anything can happen
At that time of night

BIO: George Wilhite is the author of the short fiction collection 'On the Verge Of Madness'. His work has also appeared in numerous print publications and online at 'Yesteryear Fiction', 'MicroHorror', 'Eschatology Journal' and 'The Fringe'.

Oh, The Living

"OH, THE LIVING" - George Wilhite

They never leave well enough alone

The Living
This place has been ours for decades
Renovation, they say
Restoration—why?
There is nothing wrong with it
Now it is a place of commerce
Not a home
Security systems, annoying gadgets
And their ill-mannered offspring
Create disharmony
Time to strike back

This house is ours
We can play the poltergeist if pushed
Create some real discord
These Living won’t forget
We died far too young
And plan to be here a long time
This rude interruption
Of our chosen Eternity
Shall not be tolerated
Our friends and neighbors
Will gladly join in
Though such mischief
Gives us a bad reputation
It is a necessary evil
For the Living
Never learn

BIO: George Wilhite is the author of the short fiction collection On the Verge of Madness. His work has also appeared in numerous print publications and online at Yesteryear Fiction, MicroHorror, Eschatology Journal and The Fringe.

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In a Glass Darkly

"IN A GLASS DARKLY" - George Wilhite

I know you are there again.

Tormenting my every waking moment and hiding like the cowards you are, just out of reach.

Doctor Wilkins doesn’t believe me when I tell him how long I’ve known about you. Says it’s impossible I could remember that far back. 

“Like, you hypnotized me dude,” I want to say. “Now, you reject the truth because you can’t handle the result?”

But I do remember the first time I saw you. The first of your kind. In the mirror.

I was only ten months old when Mom held me up to the mirror. To my horror, we were reflected there not once but twice. There was the clear duplication of our images but also the more spectral one, behind us and to our right. And our shadow selves cast their derisive smiles I have come to loathe.

You have grown as I have grown. Every mirror reveals twin images of me, one the “real”, the other you, the ghostly double, grinning in triumph over me.

Proving you exist has preoccupied my time. I was a lousy student and after dropping out of school an even more disastrous employee. No matter how often I tried to make a fresh start, inevitably your relentless presence would cause me to make the same mistake over again...telling others about you.

And landing me back here.

It would be one thing if I merely desired to prove myself sane. I gave up caring long ago if anyone believed me or what they thought about me. If I only saw my own twin in the mirror, and not that of my mother, this would remain strictly personal. But it is not that simple because I know everyone else has a twin as well.

Today I will take action. I swear it!

As I write this, you smile smugly from your prison in the mirror.

It will be over soon. You’ll see.

***

Wilkins shook his head, reading his patient’s final diary entry. The security at this place was abysmal. How did he get that box cutter into his room? This delusion was one of the most profound Wilkins had ever encountered.

Wilkins tossed the diary on his desk, rose and stretched. The hairs on the nape of his neck stood up as he felt the eerie sensation he was not alone in his office. For a split second, he swore someone bustled past him out of the corner of his eye. He turned and found only empty air in all directions. He shrugged and laughed it off, brushing aside any thoughts of the uncanny.

In the mirror, something stirred, aware of the extreme skepticism this human embraced.

“Maybe this time, we will be successful,” it whispered to its comrades, waiting patiently further back in the depths of the realm of glass.

BIO: George Wilhite is the author of the short fiction collection On the Verge of Madness. His work has also appeared in numerous print publications and online at Yesteryear Fiction, MicroHorror, Eschatology Journal and The Fringe.

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Seasons on a swing

"SEASONS ON A SWING" - George Wilhite

Death claimed Esther on a dreary winter

morning. Henry sighed with deep relief when he found her. So fitting her last breath expired on the porch swing. Gazing for hours at the borders of their property and into the woods beyond, Esther observed the changes each season brought as she persevered through her final years.

* * *

Near dusk on a midsummer evening, Henry encountered Esther’s shade on that same swing, now a haunted place of memory and sorrow. The scent of lavender filled the air and the feel of cold skin brushed against his cheek. Gooseflesh covered his arms though it was nearly a hundred degrees outside. His spine jerked.

He heard his name resonate in the stillness of the porch, his secret nickname only she knew.

“How much longer?” Those were the only words he spoke barely louder than a whisper to nobody in particular, the sky, the woods.

* * *

Her phantom traversed a strong autumn wind and she found her way back once more. She whispered to her beloved from within the forest, just one word: “Enough.” Discerning the meaning of this new haunting, his spirit cast aside all grief and corporeality and before another winter fell, they were reunited.


BIO:George Wilhite is the author of the short fiction collection 'On the Verge of Madness'. His work has also appeared in numerous print publications and online at 'Yesteryear Fiction', 'MicroHorror', 'Eschatology Journal' and 'The Fringe'.