K. Noel Moore

After Nellie started working at the Wisteria Street Preschool, they gave her a grace period of two months before they sent Remy home with her. That was a long time, Greer told her. Most new hires didn’t get that long. If she wasn’t used to the idea of Remy by then, it might be best for her to find a different place of work.

She wasn’t used to the idea. In fact, it creeped her out more than it had at the start. But there was nowhere else willing to hire her, so she played along. She agreed to be the little ghost’s mother, just for one night.

The Twos class at Wisteria Street had eleven children in it, but no teacher other than Nellie would acknowledge that fact. Twelve seats were put out for snacks, twelve cots for naps. Twelve heads were counted at recess. Twelve names were called out as parents arrived — ”Look who’s come to see you!” Sarah, Alexei, Natalie, Emi, Grace, Tanner, Oliver, Roman, Tavien, Luke, Jonathan. Remy. On her lunch break her second day there, Nellie Googled mass hysteria on her phone. She Googled communal grieving rituals and death rituals worldwide to see if there was any place where this practice of pretending the dead were yet alive was normal. (There was; there were several, in fact. In certain parts of Indonesia, for example, families might keep treating their dead as living for twenty years. Giving food or clothes to ancestor spirits was the norm in the Eastern world; in the Western world, one only saw it a few times a year, on Day of the Dead or Samhain, but one might see it.) She decided her coworkers were crazy, but she was willing to play along. She had nowhere else to go.

It took about three weeks before she started to go crazy along with them.

Nellie had never believed in ghosts, but this twelfth child wasn’t a ghost, exactly. He couldn’t be. Even an apparition had presence, it took up space; little Remy was an absence. He was a hollowed-out space in the air where a child should have been. If you looked closely, maybe you could detect light bending, a shimmer like movement. Otherwise, he was only felt, as a nagging sensation that something was missing from the room.

The day she was to take him home, Nellie Googled tulpa effect. She Googled explaining hauntings and found plenty of examples.

She felt him as she bleached every surface twice and rearranged shelves of toys. Emi was the last to go that Thursday. Emi’s mother was German, and she spoke with a thick accent that sometimes made her incomprehensible, but Nellie liked her best out of all the parents. She was calm; she was kind. She didn’t ask too many questions or set too many rules for her daughter’s caretakers.

“How are you, Nellie?” she asked. “You look tired.”

“Ich bin ein bisschen müde, Frau Kellerman,” she replied. Nellie had taken German in high school. She didn’t remember much, but the Kellerman parents appreciated her efforts at small talk anyway. They appreciated that Nellie was teaching Emi’s little friends to count in German. Eins, zwei, drei, fier, fünf….

Elf Kinder. Zwölf Kinder. Eleven children and Remy.

“More than a little bit, I think. Have the children been giving you much trouble?”

“The usual. You know what that feels like, I’m sure.”

Frau Kellerman laughed. “Yes, I do. Believe me, I do.”

Nellie wanted to ask her about Remy. Had she ever taken him home? Did she know when the custom had started? Did she believe in ghosts, or did she think it was insanity, or did she accept it as a legitimate communal ritual? But these were personal questions, and far beyond what Nellie had the vocabulary in any language to ask.

She waved goodbye to Frau Kellerman and Emi, then crossed over to the corner where she felt Remy’s presence. Thought she felt it. She took a deep breath and reminded herself to go with it. What you think you feel, you feel. What you think you see, you see. You can hypothesize about tulpas in the morning. Tonight, if you want to keep your job and your sanity, everything is real.

“Ready to go, sweetie?” she chirruped. “You’re going to stay with Miss Nellie tonight. I think we’ll have fun together, won’t we?” Nellie extended her hand.

She gathered his bag and his car seat (who had they originally belonged to?), and walked out with a closed empty fist hanging at her side. The seat barely fit in her tiny Spark.

“You’ll be okay, Remy,” she cooed as she wrestled it into the backseat. “It’s only a short drive. You’ll be just fine.”

She drew the seatbelt tight, and she drove him home.

Nellie had no trouble cooking dinner for a child; her diet was already the rough equivalent of a ten-year-old’s. She cooked up buttered noodles and carrots — Remy’s she steamed and mashed, but hers she ate raw. She wondered what to do with his food. Eat it? Or leave it untouched, like an offering to the gods? (Come to think of it, what exactly did people do with offerings to the gods?)

In the end she left it. She didn’t even clean it up; she decided to do it in the morning, when Remy was gone. In case he wants it later. When he was gone — when someone else had him — she’d throw the food away.

There was nowhere in her tiny home for him to sleep. She made up a cot for him out of blankets, and decided she’d sleep on the floor next to him. Nellie couldn’t bear the thought of laying a child down in such an uncomfortable bed, while she slept on a mattress herself. At least on the floor he couldn’t roll around and hurt himself — could he? Maybe he could. Remy had once died from SIDS. (No, he hadn’t. That was a fact unspoken, and a fact unspoken was no fact at all.)

Nellie knew she wouldn’t be sleeping much that night.

For a preschool teacher, Nellie’s knowledge of lullabies was sorry. The simple nursery songs didn’t stick in her head the way other teachers complained they did. They washed right over her. When the time came to rock the baby to sleep, then — after playing blocks with him after dinner — she turned to the classics her father had sung to her. “Bye Bye Blackbird.” “Sweet Georgia Brown.” “I Can’t Give You Anything But Love.” Hummed half-remembered versions of Sinatra and Dean Martin. Nellie’s father had never known many nursery songs, either. (The man could sing, though. He sang like he should have been on Broadway.)

Nellie sat with him, rocking him in her arms and swaying. They fell asleep like that, with Nellie lying on her back, Remy on her chest. Her fears were assuaged, in the end: when she woke, the weight that wasn’t quite a child remained, unreal and alive as anything, on her chest.

K. NOEL MOORE is an Atlanta-based genre writer and poet. They have two historical fantasy novellas, ‘Undertown’ (July 2018) and ‘Incendiary Devices,’ (December 2019) up to buy on Kindle, and work available to read 100% free all around the journal-sphere. You can find them on twitter @mysterioustales; feel free to ask about their weird and wild experiences with ghosts, children, or any combination thereof.

Chris Stanton

Ellen’s husband Pete died in February. He owned and operated his own plant nursery, and there were still pots of ivy and succulents all over the house that were a constant reminder of him. Ellen was having trouble keeping them alive, but she didn’t want to throw them away, because she thought that would be disrespectful to his memory. So her grieving process had been traumatic and never ending.

On top of that, Barb — her stylist of thirty-one years — retired just before Thanksgiving and moved to Boca Raton. So Ellen, who had gotten her hair done every Saturday morning at 9:30 for as long as she could remember, had to find a new place to get spruced up each week. This was a distressing dilemma.

Denise, Ellen’s grown daughter who lived on the other side of town, wasn’t sympathetic. “Why do you need a perm so often?” she asked. “You’re destroying your hair! Just let me do it. I’ll come by and trim your bangs when you really need it.”

Ellen’s gray hair was awfully thin, but it did have a gentle curl that gave her bright hazel eyes an extra spark, so she knew it would be tough to find someone who did it justice, like Barb had. She also wanted to remind her daughter that Barb had been a trusting confidant and shoulder to cry on during her many years of marriage to Pete, and she had been particularly supportive during his illness. But Denise had always been stubborn and it wasn’t worth trying to explain it to her. She kept her hair in a perpetual Dorothy Hamill bob that required little to no maintenance, and she had a loyal husband to lean on. So Ellen changed the subject and tried to focus on having a nice Thanksgiving with her family, even though Denise burned the stuffing.

That night, she had trouble getting to sleep, and it wasn’t because she missed Pete lying next to her, snoring gently. It was because she had decided what she was going to do next.

Dandelion Crossing was opening the next morning, and it was incredibly close to her house; it would take less than ten minutes to walk there. Ellen still remembered when the spot had been a vast field full of clover and wildflowers. A woman at the Bingo had told her that there was a salon inside the mall that would be a completely viable option for her hairdressing needs, so Ellen decided she would go there to scope out the situation. She was a retired nurse and felt it was important to get a full picture before making any decision.

Ellen considered driving there, but she felt nervous maneuvering her 1974 Chevy Impala around crowds of excited shoppers in the parking lot. So she put on a pair of comfortable shoes and left the house right before Press Your Luck started.

She had written down the name of the salon — New Attitude — on a sticky note, and she went right to the first security guard’s desk she saw to ask where it was. It turned out to be across the way from an arcade where throngs of teenagers milled about like ants around an ice cream cone melting on the ground.

The place was brightly lit and the receptionist had teased hair that lifted off her forehead like she’d just stuck her fingers in an electric socket. She looked like a spokesmodel from Star Search.

“Hi there,” she said. “Come on in. What can we do for you?”

Ellen looked past her with considerable trepidation. She saw four stations where stylists were at work, as well as a row of hair dryers and sinks. Television monitors played a music video from a cheerful androgynous man who was singing about a church of the poison mind. Ellen wasn’t sure what that meant.

“I need a perm,” she said quietly. “Do you do those here?”

The receptionist looked at her as if she’d said a word in Russian.

“A permanent,” Ellen clarified.

The receptionist grinned. “Our policy here at New Attitude is to give our clients a one-on-one consultation to determine your needs and subsequently recommend a course of action before we move forward.”

“Am I in court?” Ellen asked.

“No, ma’am. But after your appointment, you’ll definitely have a new attitude!”

Before Ellen could counter, the receptionist called to the back. “Timothy! You have a guest!”

Ellen was seventy-five years old and even though she was used to high-pressure medical situations, she still felt slightly uncomfortable when things moved too fast. Before she knew it, an extremely tall person entered the reception area. His hair was dyed blackish-purple and pointed in several hundred different directions at once, like a porcupine. He wore heavy dark eyeliner and his t-shirt had an image of a screaming zombie on it. It read: THE DEAD LOVE BRAINS.

“I — ” Ellen began.

“Come on back,” Timothy said. And before she knew it, Ellen was following the Gothic scarecrow to his station.

Truth be told, Barb had always done Ellen’s hair in the front room of her house, giving Ellen an excellent view out the wide bay window of her front yard and the cars driving by in their quiet suburban neighborhood. She wasn’t used to a proliferation of mirrors and bright lights magnifying each wrinkle and liver spot, or the intense smell of hairspray. But that was the situation as the person named Timothy escorted her to her styling chair.

Ellen sat down and took a deep breath. She had spent her life dealing with patients of all kinds at the hospital, but men and women who dressed like they had just risen from their coffins were a relatively new thing, as Phil Donahue had discussed in a recent episode. New Wave Punks — if she was getting the name right — didn’t frighten her, but she had no idea how to connect with them, or if they even wanted to exist in the same world as the people around them.

“My name’s Timothy,” he said, leaning against the counter and smiling a tentative smile. He wore tight black jeans and a studded leather belt, along with combat boots that he had probably stolen off a dead person in an alley.

“Ellen,” she replied. His station was in the corner and there were no personal touches anywhere — no coffee mugs or photos of his family taped onto the corner of the mirror. It looked sterile and lonely.

“You seem scared,” Timothy said. “I want you to know that I graduated second in my class in cosmetology school, and I worked at Astor Place Hairstylists for just over a year.”

Ellen didn’t know what that was. “Why did you leave?” she asked.

“I ran out of money,” he replied. “New York is really expensive, even when you’re living in a basement with six roommates.”

Ellen shivered at that thought. “Are you originally from here?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m living with my parents until I can get back on my feet,” he said. “I’m real grateful to be getting another shot.”

Ellen felt herself sweating under her bra straps. The television behind her started playing a music video featuring men singing about a union of the snake. “Do you have photos of past clients of yours?” she asked.

“No ma’am,” he replied. “I guess I should start doing that.”

Ellen told herself then that there were other salons around the city. She didn’t mind driving, if there was plenty of daylight. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea,” she ventured.

Timothy smiled again. “Your hair is really nice,” he said. “Can I touch it?”

After a moment of debate, Ellen nodded. His fingers were surprisingly gentle as he lifted her hair, then let it settle back. “Daphne mentioned you’d like a permanent,” he said. “I’m fully qualified to do them.”

“My last stylist knew how to give really delicate ones,” Ellen told him. “I don’t want it to come out looking frizzy.”

“Agreed,” Timothy said. “Frizzy is for Nina Blackwood only.”

Ellen had no idea who that was. She thought about Pete, how he would patiently sit in his living room chair after work as she tried out new recipes for dinner. How he never complained, even when they both knew she’d screwed up.

“All right,” she finally said. “Let’s get to it.”

Timothy did a horrifying job on her permanent. Ellen looked like a grandma version of Little Orphan Annie.

“What do you think?” he asked proudly, standing behind her chair as they looked at the finished product in the mirror.

“I — ” Ellen began. She reached up and tried to tuck some of the Medusa-like curls behind her ears. Timothy waited with expectant eyes that were heavy with dark liner.

“I guess it’ll take some getting used to,” she ventured.

There was a flash of disappointment on his face. “Sure,” Timothy replied. “It’s a change. But I really think you’re going to turn some heads.”

Ellen wanted to say that she would, but for the wrong reasons. But she decided that would be too cruel. “How much do I owe you?” she asked, trying to keep her voice even.

“You don’t like it, do you?” he asked. “You can be honest.”

Ellen took a look at him standing there behind him, the dejection causing his shoulders to slump, his dark clothes magnifying his pale skin. Even the zombie on his t-shirt suddenly looked disappointed.

“I love it,” she told him.

Ellen got home in time to have a late lunch and watch a bit of As the World Turns. She had stopped watching the show regularly years ago, so she didn’t recognize much of the cast.

The rest of the afternoon she did her vacuuming and dusting, but she kept going into the bathroom to check her hair, hoping that her opinion of it would change. It didn’t.

But on her fourth visit, she noticed the potted cactus on the windowsill. That particular part of the house only received sun for a brief time early in the morning, so the plant just wasn’t doing well. She remembered a similar one that Pete had kept in his office at the nursery that bloomed beautifully in shades of purple and pink.

There seemed to be even more shoppers at the mall the following day. Ellen resisted the urge to wear a hat during her walk over. She tried to walk proudly and without regard for how people looked at her as they went past.

Daphne looked up from her desk as Ellen approached. “Well hello,” she said. “It looks like somebody’s got a new attitude.”

Ellen was momentarily distracted by the receptionist’s enormous geometric earrings, but she held fast. She held her plastic bag carefully. “Is Timothy in?” she asked. “I’ve got a gift for him.”

Daphne raised one eyebrow, almost imperceptibly. “Oh?” she asked. “Let me check for you, sweetie.”

Ellen resisted an urge to trip her as she swooshed past in a swirl of pastels. Instead, she waited until she heard Timothy calling her name.

“Hey,” he said as she walked over to him. His client was sitting under a hair dryer nearby. “Is everything okay?” he asked.

“This is for you,” she told him, and handed him the bag. “Be careful. It’s sharp.”

Timothy carefully pulled the cactus plant out of the bag. “Righteous!” he said. “I’ve never owned a plant before!”

“I’ve had trouble getting it to bloom,” Ellen told him. “There’s so much light in here that I think it might do well. And you need a little personal touch on your station. I’m a grandma, so it’s okay for me to say things like that,” she added.

Timothy smiled his genuine, crooked smile. “Yes ma’am,” he told her. “I’m going to take excellent care of it. And maybe you’ll give me another chance.”

“That was never a question in my mind,” Ellen replied. She smiled back, because she realized it was the truth.

CHRIS STANTON is a creative writer and artist in Los Angeles. His first novel Kings of the Earth was recently published and has been nominated for the 2020 TopShelf Book Award. He also created the graphic novel Nick Pope with the late Christopher Darling, and his short stories have appeared in numerous literary magazines, most recently Orson’s Review. You can check out more of his work at christopher-stanton.com.

Anne Gresham

By the time we finally drag out the sledgehammer, I’m ready to be back in my dorm and as far from my family as I can get. The meat — a middle-aged accountant that wandered into the family store last night — is screaming bloody murder, and I’ve got a splitting headache. All of this — the chainsaw, the blood sucking, the bone cracking — is mortifying me. I find myself wishing someone who shares my genetic material were at least with it enough to know the difference between Descartes and Kierkegaard.

Once the meat’s eyes are sticky and still, Daddy offers me its dark wet liver with a big smile. There’s a desperate hope in his expression that if I take it, it’ll be like nothing has changed. I look around at the dust covering the skull pile on the mantel, the sad flapping of decades-old skins hung up over the rusty, unreliable radiator clanging away in the kitchen, the overflowing litter box serving ten or so resident cats whose odor underscores the coppery tang of blood and bowel. I look at Daddy, his beard streaked with gray, and I see ghosts of my childhood surrounding him, ghosts he’s trying unsuccessfully to resurrect by offering me my favorite treat, ghosts who are content to stay here, who aren’t asking for anything more from the world than to be the family baby forever.

I take the bit of liver and do my best to smile back.

ANNE GRESHAM is a writer and librarian living in Northwest Arkansas with her husband, daughter, and assortment of tiny carnivores. Her work has appeared in Unnerving, X-R-A-Y, and elsewhere. For more, visit annegresham.com or follow her on Twitter at @agresham.