The Dark Corner

When I was a child, I had three friends. We could not have been the only four children in our dusty terracotta city, but it certainly felt like we were, and for the life of me, I cannot recall ever meeting anyone else my age. 

We never used each other’s names. This was Possum’s idea, who got her name from her matted, layered hair. Her family kept their names hidden from the world out of fear that the spirits would steal them away, and since we didn’t want her to feel odd or out of place, we all took nicknames of our own. The other girl called herself Codex, the boy went by Ripper, and I was Beetle.  

On Codex’s suggestion, we went on missions throughout the city. We would break into abandoned buildings, steal sauce packets from adobe-brick restaurants, and draw our symbol (a plus sign, since we were great at math) on every empty wall. One mission was to become the best kids at basketball, so we went out to the city’s edge, where the courts were, and started practising. 

Just beyond the court was the open desert. I spent some time that first day of basketballing staring into the expanse, the cactuses and distant dunes feeding the stars in my eyes whilst leaving my stomach sick. It was never the same from one day to the next. The dunes were always in motion, the cactuses growing and turning to husks as new tumbleweeds got caught in the sweltering wind. I could see the same enchantment on Codex whenever she had a moment without the ball, which didn’t happen often. By the end of the day, we were all the best kids at basketball, having mastered the art of cradling our dishevelled old ball in a way that it was very hard to steal away, but she was the best of the best. She was so good, in fact, that one of her shots went right over the hoop and the fence, bouncing into the sand beyond. 

Once we got done congratulating Codex for making the highest shot ever, we walked around the fence and searched for the ball. Unfortunately, years in the grainy air had made it about the same colour as the sand, so we split up and poked around everywhere we could. I spent a bit of time around the cacti, just because I could, until eventually I couldn’t resist touching one, and it drew blood. I jumped back with a shout, and suddenly, there was a figure in front of me. 

It didn’t have skin. It didn’t wear clothes. It was just a skeleton, hunched on shaky legs and carrying a rectangular iron lantern filled with fireflies. 

“Hello,” it said, its permanent smile disarming me. “Looking for something?” 

I nodded, sucking on my pricked finger. The skeleton hung the lantern on a cactus branch and looked around, the swaying light dancing across its skull. When it moved, its limbs snapped into each new position as if it were a clockwork toy. It walked five paces away and pulled the basketball out of the sand. 

“Is this what you’re looking for?” it asked, beaming as much as it could. 

“Yes,” I said. “Give it to me.” 

“Hm?” It stood completely still despite the vicious wind. 

“Please give it to me,” I said, remembering my manners. 

“Ah, yes,” it said, leaning and putting a hand on its back as if to chuckle, but not chuckling. “Of course. Only- that wouldn’t be fair to me, would it?” 

“Would it?” I asked, vacant-eyed. 

“No, it wouldn’t. See, I think you’ll need to give me something in exchange for this,” it said, cocking its off-white head. I frowned. 

“What do you want?” 

“Oh, nothing too much.” It looked at its lantern. “I am fair. I just- I wonder, what is your name?” 

“Beetle,” I said. 

“No.” It smiled. “I don’t believe that’s correct. But no matter. Tell me… that one’s name.” It pointed to Codex, who was digging far away. 

“Oh. Codex,” I said. “Her name is Codex.” 

“No.” Its voice made me shiver. “Not her nickname. Her actual name.” 

I thought for a second, since I hadn’t called her anything but Codex in ages, but eventually, I remembered and told the skeleton. 

“Yes, good,” it said, handing the ball to me and starting off to where she was digging. “That’s a good little beetle. Run, run away, now.” 

Cradling the ball, I smiled at the creature, and content, I gathered Possum and Ripper. We finished the game, gave high-fives, and my two friends and I went home to our families. 

* * * 

The next day, Ripper and I went to Possum’s house so we might visit the courts again. Ripper looked like he hadn’t slept, which was great news for me, since it gave me a fighting chance against the best basketball player in the city. Possum’s house was right off Market Street, so its orange and yellow outer walls were a bit dishevelled, but the inside was very, very nice. This day Ripper and I waited outside her house for twenty minutes, and she didn’t appear, so I knocked on the door. Possum’s mom opened it. 

“Hi,” I said, “is Possum coming out to play?” 

Possum’s mom was scary on a good day, and today was not a good day. She was wearing large earmuffs that made her hair leap out of the headband and carrying a kitchen knife with a stain along the blade, and like Ripper, I was pretty sure she hadn’t slept. I wanted to step back, especially with her overwhelming odour of dust, but I thought that might be disrespectful. 

“Oh, kiddo,” she said, putting her hand to her face. “My daughter isn’t coming out today. She had a vision last night.” 

“A vision?” 

“Yes. Of terrible things.” Her knuckles were white around the knife’s hilt as she said it. “So, she’s staying here. And you kids should go home, too.” 

Ripper and I weren’t really in the mood to play basketball alone, so we went back down Market Street, towards his house. The rusty market was busy enough, each of the turquoise-tented stalls drawing enough of a crowd to stay open for a few more weeks. Ripper wanted to stop at a stand that sold flowers, but I have allergies, so I walked across the street to the textile stall. 

The textile-seller was old, very old, with a piercing in each eyebrow and a short yellow dress on that could take the sand without showing it. She was hanging a brown and pink floral sheet when I walked up, so it took knocking over a pattern book for her to notice me. She smiled when she did. 

“You have gentle hands,” she said. “They will hurt no creations of mine.” 

I smiled half-heartedly and picked up the book. I browsed a bit longer before finding a simple blue and green tablecloth I thought my mom might like. I put it down in front of the textile-seller. She looked off over my shoulder as she folded it and squinted. 

“Your friend is making a mistake,” she said. “Everyone knows not to consort with the dead.” 

I looked behind me. There was nothing but a stand lit by the gentle light of a square lantern where a skeleton was hanging flower-baskets. I shivered. 

“I don’t know who that is,” I said. The textile-seller looked distant. 

“Neither do I.” 

* * * 

When the knocking came on my window, I was relieved to see my friend Possum outside, dressed in rags with dust in her hair. It had been a lonely couple of days. I threw up the window, and she crawled in. 

“Beetle,” she said. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around.” 

“That’s okay,” I lied. “I know it was just your family.” 

“My family. Ugh.” She fell onto her back and whisper-screamed at the ceiling. “They have so many rules. Wash your hands before eating, feed the cats five times per day, don’t tell anyone our names – it’s exhausting! All I want to do is get up, run around, play with all the kids – well, uh, I guess just you – and, I don’t know, be twelve for once! It’s gonna go away soon.” 

“What?” I asked. “What’s gonna go away?” 

“Being twelve!” She shouted a bit too loud and cupped her mouth. “That’s what mom says, at least.” 

“Yeah, but there are other things after twelve, I think.” 

“Are there?” Her abyssal eyes stared to the stars above my neighbours’ tiled roofs. “I’m not sure there are.” 

She said nothing for a second, then walked over to the window. 

“Beetle?” 

“Yeah?” 

“My name isn’t Possum.” 

“I know.” 

She looked a bit above me and gulped. Then, wet-eyed, she told me her true name. 

“Okay,” I said. 

“I just- I just had to share that before- I just had to. I dunno.” 

She went to the window and crawled out. 

“Bye, Beetle.” 

She disappeared into the dark. I sat alone, just looking at my walls and listening to the sounds of the night, when I realised that I should have told her my name. She knew it, probably, but it felt like the right thing to do. I pulled my shoes on and dashed into the cold. 

I knew the way to her house like the back of my hand, so I ran down my street and turned onto Ross Road and went to cut through the secret alley between the red house and the green one, but stopped when I saw the figures in the centre. 

There was the shape of a lantern on the ground, but it did not cast any light on the two silhouettes talking to each other. One was far taller and skinnier than the other, hunched over and listening to whatever the small one was saying into its ear. I tried, but I couldn’t hear their tiny words over the tumbleweeds. The tall figure shivered, and a phantom sickness churned in my core. It leaned to the lantern, opened its doors, and its swarm of fireflies sprawled out and began to dance around the small figure’s head. Possum. The light was just enough to catch her all-too-familiar mats of hair and her small, pointy face looking around in confusion. The tall figure stepped into the darkness before it could be seen, and the light of the fireflies seemed to drain all the ambience of the world away, leaving nothing but Possum’s head with its tired, dazed eyes. I could feel my own sense of self being pushed back, away from this void where it should not be. The fireflies danced closer and closer to her, their light casting away her neck, her fallen mouth and tiny ears, her nose, forehead, brows, everything, until only her wide eyes remained. And then, without a sound, Possum’s eyes- Possum’s- Possum- 

* * * 

Someone’s eyes disappeared. I was standing at the edge of the alley between the red house and the green one, a place that got quite dark at night, which was why I was grateful for the little lantern on the ground by the skeleton that was staring at me. 

“Hello, Beetle,” it said. “What are you doing here?” 

“Nothing,” I said, slowly. “How do you know my name?” 

“I don’t.” The skeleton smiled. “Not yet. Would you like to walk with me?” 

“No.” 

“Ah, that is decent,” it said, putting the lantern in its ribcage. “Somewhere else you have to be?” 

“No.” There was nowhere to be but home, and I didn’t want to risk my mom catching me sneaking in. 

“That is less than decent,” it said, gazing into the lantern. “So, I’ll have a pointlessly lonely walk into the desert, I suppose.” 

I hadn’t ever been deep into the desert, especially not at night. You would catch your death. But, I’d always wondered how the cactuses looked in the dark beyond the dunes.  

Besides, I was being impolite. 

We wandered through the city, down Market Street, past the odd house with the paranoid family, and out beyond the basketball courts, into the desert. I couldn’t stop staring at the cactuses, how uniquely mangled each one was. I was shocked the skeleton could just pass them all without a glance. I kept tripping over nothing, unable to focus with my anticipation of what the distant cactuses might be like. Walking up the dunes was probably a quick thing, but it felt like forever. Finally reaching the top and seeing the vast cactus-free desolation beyond, however – that only took as long as it took. The skeleton moved on with the same nonchalance it always had, taking me down the dunes and out into the empty wastes until we reached a small, sandstone well. There was an old wooden bucket hanging from its roof, which the skeleton dipped into the water and handed to me. 

“Drink this,” it said. “You’ll get dehydrated.” 

I obeyed. The water tasted overly salty, a little acidic, and a bit like metal. Feeling agreeable after a few sips, though, I drank the whole thing. 

“Now,” said the skeleton. “What is your name, child?” 

“Beetle,” I said. The skeleton frowned at me. 

“No, it’s not,” it said. “Tell me what your name actually is.” 

“I’ve only ever been called Beetle,” I said. “That’s what my- all- all my-” 

“Your what?” It looked even more amused at my stumbling. 

“I don’t know.” I gave up with a sigh. The skeleton leaned in, putting a finger to my chin, and I could feel my skin sinking into the bone. 

“What does your family call you?” it asked. 

I paused, half contemplating whether to tell it and also trying to remember what the name was, but when it came to me, I couldn’t help saying it. 

The skeleton lifted its lantern and whispered to the fireflies within it. They began to dance, spinning around each other and singing a buzzing chorus. The skeleton’s bones began to crack, click, and snap, as if it were a clockwork toy, and it came closer, closer to me. It smiled. Gently, it took my hand in its and stared at me with a gaze that wanted to steal the thoughts in my brain. The world grew dark as the fireflies buzzed louder, creeping closer. Then, as fast as it had come, the darkness recoiled, and the fireflies flew away. The skeleton pulled back from me and snatched the lantern. 

“What?” it said, staring in with a frenzy. “What do you mean?” 

The fireflies buzzed. The skeleton swung its head back. 

“It doesn’t work?” it spat. “What does that mean?” 

The fireflies buzzed. The skeleton stomped on the ground and pulled me close. 

“You’ve lied to me,” it said. “You’ve hurt and betrayed me.” 

“I haven’t.” 

“Dirty disgusting pest,” it said, making me yelp as it took me by the ear. “Tell me your true name, and do not lie.” 

“Show me,” I cried. 

“Pardon?” the skeleton asked through gritted teeth. 

“Show me how to tell the truth.” 

The skeleton gazed at me, head cocked. I tried to look friendly, but its cold, pointy bones against my ear made it hard to express anything that wasn’t discomfort. Its skull turned briefly to the stars, then it leaned down and told me its name. 

“That’s beautiful,” I said, feeling the darkness creeping around us. The skeleton smiled and pinched my ear until it drew blood. 

“Now tell me yours,” it said over my shout. 

“No- I-” I managed to open the bone side eye just enough to see the darkness creeping around the edges of its arms. “I don’t need to.” 

“RAT!” it screamed. “You would dare to resist– oh.” 

The fireflies had descended around the skeleton. When their light crawled away from its hand, I could feel it’s the fingers grasping my earlobe fading away, and I watched the light get closer and closer around its skull until all that was left was its empty, floating face. 

“Oh no-” was all it could say before its mouth disappeared. 

* * * 

I don’t know what I was doing beyond the sand dunes, but I needed to get home as soon as possible if I didn’t want to freeze in the night air. Luckily, there was a lantern nestled in the sand, just a couple of paces away. It lit my path just fine, and as a bonus, the fireflies inside fluttered around so much that I didn’t really feel alone. Why my ear was bleeding, I don’t know. I might have stumbled while looking for treasure, gotten cut by a cactus, or hit my head on a rock – though the wounds were almost too fine for that.  

Since I got back, I’ve kept the lantern next to my bed. The fireflies speak to me, late at night when nobody else is awake, telling me beautiful stories of companionship and lives long since passed. They really are the best friends I could ask for. 

Weaver Melching (she/they) is a writer and English teacher from Los Angeles, California. She writes mostly gothic literature and magical realism, and is very interested in playing with voice. She has had work published in Gluepot Magazine, New Word Order, and Caveat Lector. They would love to hear your thoughts on what a zombie is, if you have any.