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    Darkly Dreaming
    Darkly Dreaming
    Darkly Dreaming
    Ebook86 pages1 hour

    Darkly Dreaming

    By Stefanie Waring

    ()

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    About this ebook

    A collection of short stories, two long and two short, that tell tales of the supernatural and the darkly fantastic.

    Troll Farm: a short little soft horror story about a reporter who visits a goat farm run by trolls.

    Tiger, Tiger: a college student encounters a type of incubus and discovers there's a beast inside all of us.

    The Pusher: a cubicle slave learns that dreams are like drugs, and carry their own price

    Last Cigarette: the power of love and friendship, and the cost of hate.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherStefanie Waring
    Release dateMar 13, 2012
    ISBN9781476023229
    Darkly Dreaming
    Author

    Stefanie Waring

    Stefanie Waring is a writer in her twenties, currently living in Ontario with two cats and a horse.

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      Book preview

      Darkly Dreaming - Stefanie Waring

      Darkly Dreaming

      Stefanie Waring

      Smashwords Edition

      Copyright 2012 Stefanie Waring

      Smashwords Edition License Notes

      This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this e-book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      Table of Contents

      Troll Farm

      Tiger, Tiger

      The Pusher

      Last Cigarette

      About The Author

      Contact Me

      Troll Farm

      In a hidden little hollow, far back from the hustle and bustle of the highway, there sits a rambling old farmhouse and row upon row of goat pens. The farm is owned by a family of trolls—Father and Mother, and their two children, a boy and a girl. When I pull into the long driveway they are all out among the pens, feeding and cleaning and watering. The goats make restless noise at my approach and watch me with knowing gold eyes.

      I introduce myself and shake hands all around—my hands are not small but even the little girl’s fingers match my own—then take my tape recorder from my pocket and press Record. I follow Father on his rounds first, as he hauls great square bales of hay into the pens. He can easily lift in one hand what I can barely raise off the ground with two. He speaks of the goats with distant affection, calling them by breed only. He has trouble pronouncing some of the names through his yellow tusks. When I ask him about the war, he grows quiet and gives the nearest pen a moody look.

      Aye, he says finally, the war is over. The bridges are left in peace. A small price to pay, this farm. But his face is troubled and shortly after he sends me away to find his son.

      The boy is a teenager and sullen; he greets me with a grunt and doesn’t meet my eyes. He is feeding the goats grain and as we approach each pen they leave off their hay and grass to crowd around the gate, bleating continuously and rearing up against the fence. I notice the boy twitches slightly each time they do, and he flings the grain wide in sharp vicious jerks of his thick wrist. The goats grow quiet but by then it’s time for the next pen, where the entire thing is repeated.

      They never shut up, the boy mutters, so low I almost miss it. Not even for a moment.

      Hush, child, his mother says as she passes by, giving me a worried look. Come along, reporter, I’ll show you the billies before supper.

      I follow her to the end of the rows of pens, where a single heavily reinforced pen sits in solitary splendour. The smell greets me first and I have to stop and cough until my surprised nose takes less offense. Covering my mouth with my sleeve, I step up to the heavy wooden fence and look inside.

      The three billy goats are massive creatures, bigger than any goat I’ve ever seen and easily three times the size of the goats in the other pens. One is rubbing his horns against a thick maple tree, producing a long low rasping noise that reminds me unpleasantly of a butcher sharpening a knife. The other two stare at us flatly. All around the pen there is evidence of their attempts to escape; the fenceline is scored and pitted from their horns and teeth.

      Have they ever got out? I ask, trying to keep my breaths shallow. The stench is so bad I can almost taste it.

      We wouldn’t be standing here if they had. She lays a hand on my shoulder and steers me away from the pen, gently but firmly. Will you be staying for supper?

      The thought of food makes my stomach do flips after that smell. No thanks. I need to get home soon and write this story.

      Aye, and I look forward to reading it, she says solemnly and calls her daughter over. Show the reporter to his car, girl. Good day.

      I mumble a weak goodbye in response and watch her make her way up to the house, then follow the little girl to my car. I have just turned the tape recorder off when she catches my hand and motions for me to lean down close. I flick it back on then do so, still hearing the goats with their endless bawling.

      Sometimes, she whispers furtively, her voice so faint I have to strain to hear, sometimes I dream about them.

      Do you? I ask.

      She nods, mossy eyes big and round. I dream that I’m in the pen and they’re on the outside.

      Something in her voice sends a chill down my spine but before I can say anything she turns and runs back towards the house, straw-coloured pigtails flying out behind her. I watch until she disappears through the front door, then slowly get into my car and pull out of the driveway.

      My apartment is cool and quiet when I arrive back home, though my cat soon breaks the silence with demands to be fed. It reminds me of the goats and after I’ve fed her, I sit down at my desk to play back what’s on the tape recorder. I have a strange fear that all I will hear is goats bleating but the voices of the trolls are clear, though the noise of the goats is threaded throughout. I switch it off and turn to my computer, spending the rest of the evening writing up the story of the troll farm.

      When I go to bed finally, past midnight, I can still her the cries of the goats in my head. And when I dream, I dream of lying inside a wooden pen while a goat that walks like a man slowly sharpens a long knife.

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      Tiger, Tiger

      He was the first thing I saw that day, as I stepped out of the coffee shop with my drink in hand. The street was empty , the regular foot traffic hiding away from the weather; his movement caught my eye as he ducked into the corner between two buildings in an attempt to escape the cruel March wind. Even as he did the sun peeked out from behind the stormy grey clouds, and he stepped forward to turn his face into it, closing his eyes in real bliss. The light turned his wind-tousled hair into a golden halo around his narrow face and brought out the tan of his skin.

      His eyes opened again and he looked directly at me, the corner of his mouth turning up in a mischievous smirk as I jumped and pretended to find something fascinating about my coffee cup. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him cross the street to stand in front of me, arms crossed over his chest. The top of his head barely came up to my shoulder and his slim

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