Beneath the Dark Moon

by Sophia Carlisle

Let me tell you what it’s like to be haunted.

It isn’t a feeling or a series of thoughts pounding against your head with every desperate blink. It’s a softer type of horror, something that soothes as much as it stings.

A breeze blows through the darkness of the desert, only faintly illuminated by lamps so old they still require oil. The air is a swipe of cold that’s unusual for this time of year but is most welcome. He waits for me, at the end of the narrow street like he does, a shoulder casually leaned against one of the many cacti that puncture this desolate landscape. I walk to him wearing the dress he likes, the one with soft blue polka spots that remind him of his childhood. My kitten heels gently click across the asphalt—the only sound on a night with no moon.

And yet under the soft glow of the lamp, under the spattering of stars that span the Western horizon, he is as clear to me as if he was baking under a summer sun.

My dear.

The same greeting as always, the same tilt of the head with hair that’s far too black for an endless night such as this.

You look lovely beneath the stars.

He leans away from the cactus, a smile gracing his sharp face at my greeting. As do you. Your skin shines so beautifully here that I feel as though I could taste you. Perhaps a bit like icing on a cake.

I laugh. A giggle, really. And the tinkling of my fear lands on hungry ears.

Come closer, my dear. I have not seen you since the last dark moon. It has been far too long. Why, I almost forgot the plains of your face.

My body stumbles towards him of its own accord, the heels that are so terribly out of fashion tapping quickly as I go to him. He has moved an inch at most. The thorns of the cactus stand in sharp contrast to the blurred lines of his clothing, his skin. It pricked me the last time I was here. I watched my blood coat the spines of the plant and harden, creating a morbid dressing of rusty armour. The crimson still graces the cactus, and I can see it easily despite the encompassing blanket of night enfolding us.

Do you remember me now? I ask this with timidness. It is never quite so easy with him.

He takes time to caress the lines of my cheek, my brow, finishing with fingers brushing the curves of my mouth. Then he leans in and presses his lips to mine and the chill accompanying flesh so soft is enough to send shivers down my spine.

It reminds me, in moments like these, just how different I’ve become. I am no longer beautiful, no longer of any use to him. Yet he keeps me here, tethered to his soul, on this street, in this space that has transformed into an Iron Maiden built just for me.

I always remember you. But you change each time we meet. It’s good to see you close. I so enjoy looking at the new facets of your body.

He kisses me again, this time pulling me tight and I wince, trying not to scream, because the thorns are pushing into my skin as he pushes my back into the cactus. Our meetings are not usually this painful. Or this passionate.

His mouth is on mine with such force and anger and he forgets—or rather ignores—the fact that I’m fragile. I do not have the patience or desire anymore for his violence, or my own. I extricate myself as best I can and swallow my animosity. It will never have the chance to turn into anything anyway. I’ve already used it up.

You seem to pull away from me often these days. He says as he wipes my blood from the cactus and licks it from his fingertips.

I don’t have much time left.

I know.

His eyes trace paths up and down my body. They linger on my hips, my breasts, and finally my face. The face that once looked at him with love which rotted into anger. I know what he sees now: a body that’s frail, eyes that shine even in the absence of tears, and skin with lines that crack at the seams. He is pleased.

Revenge is a taste so sour that it becomes sweet. I had my moment of revenge. When I met his savagery with my own and left us both with only one beating heart. He has been waiting for his chance. He has been waiting to claim my spirit and burn it until he can pick his teeth with the embers.

He runs an icy finger through my thinning locks of gray hair.

Soon you’ll come to me.

I look up at the sky. There is no light there.

Sophia Carlisle is an undergraduate student at the University of Arizona. She enjoys wistful stories of all kinds and has a particular soft spot for the ghosts we let linger.