Tansy Undercrypt
Author, Illustrator, Purveyor of Doom & Whimsy


December 1st 2017 in Microfiction

Cranston sighed heavily. “I thought you’d never arrive,” he said. Westrup smiled, looking over at the mess in the hallway. “Cleaning to pass the time?” “The bloody mirrors,” Cranston responded. “The more I clean them, the cloudier they get. The maid sees faces in them; won’t go near them. Ruddy nuisance … and I’m continually interrupted.” “Interrupted?” Westrup asked. “Yes! Some blasted woman from town keeps walking past the front of the house; she returns and returns to peer into the windows but, when I open the door to inquire after her, she’s hoofed it,” Cranston muttered, rolling down his shirt sleeves. “Some kind of practical joke?” Westrup prodded. “That would be my preference. Better that than she’s the bugger howling in the near woods – a victim of some kind of madness,” he replied. “Howling?” Westrup repeated, moving to the east window and looking out. “Day and night, old chap, day and night,” Cranston confirmed, putting his cufflinks in place. “It’s impossible to get a moment’s peace in this place. It’s hell on my writing!” Westrup turned back to face his friend. “Surely there’s time for a bit of reading in the evening?” he said quietly, pointing to the stack of newspapers piled by the chair in the parlor. “Perhaps current events would fuel contemplation?” Cranston made a dismissive gesture. “What I need is a vacation, dear friend. What I need in order to write is some kind of INSPIRATION!” Westrup smiled and nodded, following his friend out of the door. Looking back at the papers, he wondered how long it would take Cranston to read his own obituary.

Comments are closed.

Vera asked Carl to put his fingertips lightly on the planchette and they waited. “Does this ever work?” he whispered, and she shushed him. After a moment, Vera spoke again, “I want to speak to Bethany Reston; Bethany, are you there?” After another minute or two, Carl said, “Vera, I don’t think this is work—” […]

Previous Entry

The Devil spoke to her in the high desert, under a sky that threatened rain but never delivered (black clouds pitched angrily against the uncaring flats and hollows). The Reverend Jane had ridden out beyond the painted ridge to look for a soul reported missing. She’d found his body in an ancient creek bed turned […]

Next Entry