FICTION BY NITIN SHARMA

An author of multiple books, Nitin regularly submits to The Horror Zine. His stories have been published in various magazines, anthologies and blogs, such as The Horror Zine, Dark Moon Digest, McKenzie Publishing anthologies, and others. He writes in multiple genres and in two languages, English and Hindi.

Nitin was a guest author at New Delhi World Book Fair (2013). Indian delegations have taken his books to different nations. He firmly believes in an ancient Sanskrit phrase that translates as “Entire world is one family.”

When he’s not writing, he is probably cooking at his home in Gurugram, India.

UNEDITED
by Nitin Sharma

She was startled to hear her name called. “Helen!”

He came running and cornered her as she was getting into her silver Mustang in the dimly lit parking lot. His hand caught the driver’s door before she could shut it.

The gray eyes of the man that she had seen keenly watching her all the while during her presentation on ‘How to write a good story’ were now boring into hers, making her anxious. Could she call for help? Surely she’d be dead before anyone arrived, because the parking lot was empty.

“Let go of my door,” she commanded in a stern voice that she hoped would belie her fear.

Despite poor lighting, she could still see the details of his face. His serious expressions changed dramatically and he smiled, but she felt the smile didn’t reach his eyes, scaring her further.

Suddenly he made a quick movement and Helen almost screamed. But it turned out that he had simply plucked a business card from his pocket. He handed it over. She accepted it with sweaty hands.

“Bill Saunder,” he said, and removed his hat and made a little bow.

Suddenly it all made sense and Helen relaxed. “Oh, I think Jen sent you! Mr. Saunder, you almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Pardon my manners, Ms. Helen. I’m rich and spoiled, ha ha. I wanted to meet you in the hall, but of course all those writers around you—but you can read my story now!”

It sounded like an order, surprising her. She wanted to make it clear that she didn’t read submissions in her car. “Now is not convenient, but since Jen sent you, I would be glad to speak to you in the morning. I have your number on your card, and I can call you, say, nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Please let go of my car door and we’ll speak tomorrow.”

She moved to face the windshield, but her car door remained open.

“No.” It made her raise her brows. “This story is perfect, Ms. Helen. It’s titled ‘The Last Death.’ It’s a story about magic, dark magic—two warring tribal clans bleed each other using curses and spells until they end up finishing each other off, and only the hatred lives on. This is an important story for you! I mean, your readers are gonna love it! You need to accept it for publication. As-is.”

“Mr. Saunder, even if I do choose to accept it, there would be edits. Even Stephen King has editors. No story is perfect.”

“Except this one,” he insisted. “This one is perfect.”

She had enough. “If you do not let go of my car door, I will reject your story right now, right at this moment, and not call you tomorrow at all. Or ever. I suggest you remain professional and walk away.”

He was staring at her, agape, but he let go of her door and Helen drove off.

*****

She found him standing outside her office next morning. The nerve! “Mr. Saunder? What are you doing here?”

 “I’ve come to apologize,” he said, and presented a rose bouquet he had been holding behind his back.

Helen hesitated, but then considered that he had apologized. And it was not like he was an unknown; Mr. Saunder was wealthy and prominent in high social circles. His background was universally publicized and he often did altruistic works of philanthropy that made the news.

And then there was the possibility of big money backing her projects. That thought entered the forefront of her mind. Just think of all the good his money could do for her business! It would be worth accepting his stupid little story, no matter how bad she imaged it would be.

She reluctantly accepted his apology and invited him in, and poured coffee for them both. It was early in the morning and her receptionist was not due to arrive in another hour, but Helen was confident in her ability to handle this man-child.

The moment they began talking, she realized that he had come to push his agenda, not to talk sense, yet she gave him ample time. He rambled on about salient features of his story—unique narrative, historical background, and uncommon style. When he stopped, his gray eyes were shining with hope. “So, what do you say?”

“Give me a moment to read your story,” she told him.

He thrust it at her. It was printed on paper.

“I normally read electronic submissions,” she said.

“This can’t wait.”

She read it. At three thousand words, it took her about five minutes. It wasn’t as bad as she had anticipated. In fact, with some edits, it had great possibilities.

“Mr. Saunder, I think this story has great potential. With editing, we can turn this into a great finished product.”

“No! You are missing the point,” he said passionately. “We must preserve the sanctity, the originality, of this story. We must, at any cost! If not, there will be consequences!”

“Well, of course we want to keep your writing style intact. But…”

He glared at her, hissing like a snake. Then he grabbed his papers back from her hand and abruptly stomped out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

Well, there goes the financial backing, Helen thought. But then she realized that she was glad he was gone, despite the loss of his money. When he mentioned consequences, it had sounded like a threat.

*****

When she met Jen at lunch the next day, she told her everything. Mortified, Jen apologized, and said she didn’t know he was a jerk. Together they called him names and laughed.

Back at the office, Helen went on with her normal activities: she sent some rejection slips, requested a manuscript and accepted a couple of stories.

Things deteriorated fast when she reached home. She opened the metal mailbox at the end of her driveway and reached inside the dim interior. Usually her hand would touch letters and other papers. But something was wrong; her fingers seemed to light upon a mass that felt like it was made of feathers.

She inhaled sharply and peered inside the container. There seemed to be some sort of blob inside. She reached in and moved it with her index finger, turning it around.

And that’s when she saw the face. It was shaped elliptically, like a satellite dish. But it was the huge eyes that stared vacantly at her that made her scream. The owl was obviously dead and it was in her mailbox.

Mr. Roger, her neighbor, came rushing over. “What’s wrong?”

Helen had her left hand over her mouth and didn’t speak. She pointed at the mailbox with her right hand.

Mr. Roger peered inside the metal container. He pulled out the dead brown owl and held it up by its legs. “Who the hell does this?” he said, observing it abhorrently. “I think you need to notify the authorities.”

She had already reached inside her purse for her cell phone. Emergency services answered, but told her that an owl in a mailbox is not life-threatening, so they advised Helen to fill out an online report of vandalism.

When she hung up, she felt exasperated. This was more than vandalism; this was a violation of her feelings of security. And then it occurred to her—Mike, a cousin who was a cop in another locality—could help. She dialed him and he promised to help expedite the process. In fact, he said he would come over himself.

When Mike arrived, she blurted out every single thing Saunder had done in last two days. Fearing that he would brush it off, she was relieved when Mike instead took her seriously.

“I’ll speak to this Saunder guy,” Mike said.

And two days later, Mike made good on his promise. “Helen, I’ve talked to the person who did it. You were right, it’s Mr. Saunder, and he has admitted his offense. He says he did it out of rage, but now says he regrets it.”

Am I hearing correctly? Why would Saunder admit it so easily? What’s his game? She knew that even Mike hadn’t the power to make him concede. She felt uneasy. Maybe Saunder gave up like he did when he had let go of her car door the first night, but he’d be back. Of that, Helen had no doubt.

And she was right.

A rose red, perfumed, blank envelope was slipped into her mailbox the same night. When she opened it the next day, she found just two words printed on a paper: “Thank you.”

For what? she wondered.

The “consequences” began a week later. Having returned from another exhausting workshop, Helen dropped on her bed and fell asleep instantly.

She dreamed of an owl, the same brown one she had found in the mailbox. It was attacking her repeatedly as she jerked back her... hood? Oh yes, she looked at her body, she was no longer a human but a snake, a beautiful copperhead larger than usual, fighting for her life. Although the owl was fierce, she was giving him a tough time, but with each swooping attack he made her bleed.

Finally the fierce bird buried its talons into her neck, and she jumped awake, She held her throat and realized that she was panting heavily and sweating profusely. Feeling foolish, she superstitiously checked her arms and legs, but of course they were fine and still with her.

A dream so real! She gulped down some water from bedside jug and fell back on the bed. She glanced at the clock and realized that the alarm was set to go off in five minutes; it was time to get up.

When she swung her legs over the bed onto the floor, she noticed a brown feather laying on her bedroom rug. She stared at it for a moment. It looked to be from the same owl in her dream…that was impossible! Dreams didn’t come alive suddenly!

There had to be a plausible explanation. Perhaps one of the owl’s feathers had stuck to her sleeve when she touched it in the mailbox and had fallen here in the bedroom. She shook her head, gingerly picked it up and placed it outside in the trash can.

She was unaware that a dead owl was stuffed in a black plastic bag somewhere far away.

*****

Over the next three days, she encountered more owls than she had in her life. One bird hit her windshield and almost made her bump into a bike, and she had to shoo away another one from her office window, only to find it perched on her car roof later.

Being an editor, she had read many strange stories over the years. She knew that in some civilizations, owls were considered ominous; a sign of impending death, but they were folktales and superstition. She reassured herself that owl sightings were merely coincidental and had nothing to do with Saunder incident or the dream. But a nagging voice echoed somewhere in the back of her head. Are these really coincidences?

The owl dream repeated night after night. She tried melatonin, then popped in sleeping pills, but nothing could suppress the dream, as if it was made of concrete reality. Each dream made her feel that she was in mortal peril.

Lack of sleep took its toll. “You look tired,” said one colleague at work. “Uh-huh,” she replied wearily.

Sending emails and calling people over phone suddenly became difficult instead of routine. She had no idea what was happening to her. She considered finding a therapist, but then decided she was too busy to spare the time.

“You need a break,” Jen suggested when Helen told her about owls. Like everyone else, she thought her mental balance was disturbed. So much for the childhood friendship, Helen thought bitterly.

But maybe Jen was right. Helen knew she couldn’t let it continue like that forever. It had to be stopped. The last straw was put when she almost rammed her Mustang into a wall when she looked into rear-view mirror and saw an owl on the back seat. After she braked and the car stopped just in time, she looked behind and there was no owl in her back seat.

Fine, I do need a break. But she had never learned how to live without work, so she decided to cheat. She rented a room in a resort at the city outskirts, that way she could be back in a jiffy if Jen called. In a week I’ll be rested, fine and able to get back to work.

Yet changing location didn’t stop it anything. Owls kept returning to her dreams, bleeding her, making her jump from her comfy queen-size bed in the middle of the nights. And the sightings didn’t stop either. Once she called the hotel reception and yelled at the staff for letting owls in their hotel, but when poor staff checked her room and the rest of the building, they found none.

Broken, dispirited, she was sipping cappuccino at a Starbucks and looking at her ipad when she saw him on the news: Saunder. He was being interviewed by a local station about how he managed his wealth.

“I’m like an owl…all-seeing with large eyes. I never miss an opportunity to succeed.” His gray eyes turned to face the camera and she felt as if he was looking right at her through the TV.

“No!” she cried and put her hands over her eyes. Then she looked around; other customers were staring at her. She stood up and rushed out, forgetting her ipad and leaving it behind.

She was quite certain of one thing: her strange mental state had something to do with Saunder. Earlier she was thinking of retaining a psychiatrist but now she knew she needed to confront Saunder. She had never shied away from confrontation and she wouldn’t shy away from it now. No more running to hotels.

She sought to find him, and there he was, standing in his massive front yard, almost as though he was waiting for her.

Enraged, she went closer to confront him. “You’ve been stalking me!”

“Excuse me—I was here before you came. And this isn’t your damn house, so who is stalking who? Who?”

“Why did you say the word who? You have a thing about owls! You even talk like one!”

“Poor darling editor,” Saunder mocked. “You are starting to believe the fiction you read. Had you published my story, none of this would be happening to you.”

“So you admit it!”

“I admit what? That you are losing your mind? Sure, I’ll admit that. Now I must leave before you send your cop cousin after me again,” he said and laughed.

He tidied his coat and his hand slipped into his pocket and when it came out, along came a visiting card that he accidentally dropped and ambled away nonchalantly to his front door.

She felt in her gut that everything was going by his plans, but did she have a choice? She picked the card up. It had an address and picture of a lavish, red-roofed white house somewhere in the hills.

When she got into her Mustang, she called Mike on blue tooth. “Don’t you dare go to that residence alone,” he told her. “I’ll meet you at your house in a half hour and I’ll drive you there. If that bastard has something set up at that house, it ends today.”

The house was visible from a blind turn they took in the hills. It was large but not a mansion. The house contained odd roof angles and the entranceway was leaning a bit to the left. The iron bar gate that led to the short driveway was wide open, as if the owner was expecting someone.

“It might be a trap, Helen,” he said. “We shouldn’t go up to the front door together. You wait here in the garden and let me go. If I go inside and you don’t hear from me in ten minutes, call 911.”

She sat in Mike’s car and watched as he tried to knock on the door, but realized that the door was already ajar. She saw him push the door open and enter.

She couldn’t help herself. She needed to see what was inside that open door. She pushed the car door open, ironically thinking: This is how this whole mess started…with an open car door.

She ran to the front door and entered. Despite it being broad daylight outside, the interior of the small cottage was dim and smelled musty.

“Mike!” she called. Nobody answered. The circular lobby was painted a bright crimson, and she had thoughts of blood. There were ornate pictures of owls on the walls. On the marble floor she noticed a unique design—a large oval with seven circles encased inside it. The boundaries of the oval were lined with dark gray powder that looked like ashes.

A loud bang made her jump and she ran to the source of the gunshot: the kitchen. The scene left her stunned—Saunder was standing over Mike, whose blue shirt was stained with blood. She started toward Mike but Saunder raised his hand that had Mike’s revolver in it and pointed it at her.

“I thought cops would be more aware of their surroundings,” he said. “It was way too easy to sneak up behind this fool.”

“Please, Saunder, let me call an ambulance.”

“If you come close, I’ll shoot this rent-a-cop in the head,” he warned. “And if you try to run away or call anyone, I’ll shoot you both.”

“He’s bleeding,” she said. “I’ll publish whatever you want, Saunder. No edits, I promise. Let me take him to a hospital.”

“Too late, my Coatl editor,” Saunder said. “Coatl is an Aztec word that means snake.”

“You can call me anything you want. Just let me get help for Mike.”

“No!” Saunder shouted. “You need to hear me out. You and I have descended from the same Aztec clan, Helen. Two brothers in the clan, your forefather and mine, quarreled over the throne, and my fore-daddy formed a separate clan—Tecolotl the owl, a sworn enemy of all snakes.”

Suddenly she had vivid images in her mind, as if primitive memories were being recalled. She felt she was drifting into a fugue state—she was amid scenes of natives wearing colorful owl feathers in their hair and maxtlatls on their bodies. They were participating in The New Fire Ceremony that was performed every fifty-two years in order to stave off the end of the world.

Saunder’s voice drew her back into the present. “I possess a unique gift,” he told her, “which is the power of sensing the snakes, so that is why I approached you in the first place.  Helen, if only you had just published the damn story! It would have brought the believers out into the forefront. All the owl-people would have convinced you to join my side, and renounce your heritage of the snake-people. You’d have become an owl, and all this drama could have been avoided! It’s all there…all in my story.”

He threw his hands up to and from nowhere, an owl appeared and perched on his arm.

Helen felt a wild rush of energy rising in her so fast that she fell on the floor, twisting and turning rhythmically. The next moment she was convulsing, yet she was conscious of everything. She was visualizing snakes in her mind, and she was a beautiful, long copperhead. The more she twisted, the harder the energy rising within overpowered her. She became a reddish-brown, coppery animal with chestnut brown crossbands that were hour-glass shaped. She morphed into a muscular, thick snake with ridged scales. Her head became triangular shaped.

There came a point in the ritual when she felt like imploding, wanted to beg for death, and it was that very moment when her other senses vanished and she became composed—a snake focused on its prey.

From her snake-vision she could see no other owl but one—Saunder. He was a giant owl, walking all around her, muttering words of magic.

The moment he got closer, she lunged and caught him around his neck, and they both fell in the oval—the ancient Aztec battleground symbol. He screamed in surprise, wrestled, tried to break free but her squeeze was too tight.

And then a shot rang out. Helen let go of Saunder, and hysterically wondered if she had been shot but felt no pain. She tumbled backwards on the floor and was a human again.

She looked around wildly, confused and bewildered. Then she saw Mike, who was still lying on the ground, but he had retrieved his gun back from Saunder and shot him.

She retrieved her phone and called for an ambulance. The owl that had perched on Saunder’s arm was nowhere to be seen. There were no more owls and no more snakes.

Eventually Helen published that story, but with a different ending and under a pseudonym. After all, it was just as much her story as it was Saunder’s.