Amaryllis & the Pixie, Chapter 13

Because it’s October, here’s a Poe-inspired story free to subscribers.

His Hideous Heartlessness

You might think me insane if you knew how frequently I fantasized about murdering my boss. But hear me out: if you knew him, you’d understand. I don’t mean if you just met him and he behaved in a charming manner—I mean if you were around him enough to discover his true personality.

The bookshop owner’s name was Jack McDaniel, as though his parents experienced a premonition of what whiskey would cause Jack’s breath to stink by the time he arrived at work at nine in the morning. As a full-time employee, I was not exempt from the advances, ridicule, and humiliation he inflicted upon women employees in general.

Today Jack arrived several minutes late, while a customer was already at the front counter purchasing books she ordered. Grinning, Jack slipped behind the u-shaped counter. I tensed my shoulders in reaction to that grin. He didn’t cease walking until he stood mere inches behind me, whiskey breath down my neck. The hair stood up on my arms, my heart rate rose, and my stomach clenched. I never did like his energy, even less so at that proximity.

Jack peered over my shoulder, watching while I typed with trembling fingers an ISBN into the antiquated computer that had no scanner. My heart hammered frantically as though it wished to escape my ribcage. Instead of typing “Enter,” I pushed another button, and everything I’d typed disappeared from the screen.

Jack’s energy exuded gloating. “You did that wrong. This is how you’re supposed to do it.” He reached around me, and my heart fluttered in panic. He typed away, explaining in a condescending tone, and pressed Enter.

My eyes focused on the computer. I knew what he did, but I couldn’t articulate it. I felt too shocked to glance at the customer. What must she think?

Finished, Jack spoke with a smug smile in his voice. “There. That’s how it’s done.” He backed away slightly, but not far enough. I imagined shoving him.

I handed the book to the customer without smiling. This is rare because Jack has drummed into us lowly employees that we’re supposed to smile at customers. It didn’t matter if we didn’t feel like smiling. It didn’t matter if he made sure we didn’t feel like smiling.

The customer appeared confused. She frowned slightly and glanced at Jack before heading for the door. I suspected he permanently lost us a customer. Although I dreaded job hunting, I wouldn’t mind if his bookshop went out of business. I only wished the customer had criticized his behavior.

A spring in his step, Jack began walking away from the register. The dark brown, curved counter wrapped around and had three sides, and he stepped out from the horseshoe. I regretted not jabbing him in the ribs with my elbow when he invaded my space.

The front door closed behind the customer. With several feet distance from Jack, my brain felt less fogged, though my heart was still fluttering in anxiety. I whipped around. “Do you seriously think I don’t know you deliberately creeped me out, invading my space so I’d mess up and you could use that as an excuse to mansplain how to use the cash register? Do you seriously think I’m so stupid?”

Jack gave off anger vibes that made my heart hammer worse. He scowled, a facial expression he only showed when customers couldn’t see him. He pointed a finger at me. “That’s enough back talk! You still haven’t logged in those two boxes of books!” He thumped his fist on the counter, turned away, and charged toward the back room. When the door slammed behind him—making a painting of a library tilt sideways, I jumped.

With Jack’s creepy energy no longer in the room, my heart resumed its normal pace. I exhaled and lowered my tense shoulders.

I glanced around the store. I saw a few browsing customers, all absorbed in reading. Did they not hear him slam the door? If he’d noticed the customers, he wouldn’t have scowled at me. I wished I had a witness, or that the recently departed customer had defended me. We couldn’t cuss in front of customers. I whispered, “Needledickbugfucker.”

I’d worked at this bookshop for four years. When Jack wanted an assistant manager last week, he promoted Eric, a twenty-three-year-old boy who’d only worked there for a year. Balancing my budget, I knew I couldn’t afford to quit my job on the spot. Besides, if I did quit, I couldn’t put Jack on my resume. He would surely slander me to potential employers.

I wish I’d thought of that during the first few months at the job, but during the interview and my first days at work, he pretended to be good and nice. It took over six months on the job for me to listen to other employees criticize Jack while shelving in a corner. I was walking by and overheard them. I stopped in my tracks and I stared at them in astonishment. They were both women, one a tall blond in her thirties, the other middle-aged and short.

“He gets off on lording it over female employees, doesn’t he?”

“His wife must not want to have sex with him, because he’s obviously not getting any at home.”

“I need to quit this job. But I don’t have another job lined up. I keep having anxiety attacks before showing up for my shift.” 

I hadn’t up to that point noticed any such behavior on Jack’s part. That was years ago. Now I noticed it all the time. Not only did he snap at employees regularly, but I’d seen him pat them on the back or on the top of the head. Once he patted a young woman’s hip. She slapped him, and he fired her on the spot. I waited in vain to hear about a lawsuit.

After condescendingly lecturing an employee, he’d follow her around the store until—nervous because of him—she dropped a stack of books or ran into a bookcase, and he used that as an excuse to chastise her. I observed this trick repeatedly. Like me, employees needed time to recover from the shock and therefore didn’t confront him. Sometimes we confided in each other.

The bookshop was beautiful, but that wasn’t sufficient. I’d been fuming ever since he promoted the dude less competent and seven years younger than me. That combined with what happened today, the bookstore’s beauty and books could no longer compensate for this creep. Each morning, the mere thought of returning to work consumed me with rage.

The building was over a hundred years old, with hardwood floors and tall, dark wooden bookcases lining the walls. Here and there were scuffed benches where customers could sit down to read. Jack owned two vintage shop fronts, and the second room was used for author events and open mic nights. I enjoyed the events, even during my shift.

When speaking to customers, Jack sometimes told them he was a feminist. He tried to prove this by keeping a small Women’s Studies section and regularly stocking editions of Virago Modern Classics on the fiction shelves. But he fooled no employee who stayed for more than a few months. Many employees quit after three months, but Jack never complained about the rapid turnover.

Last week I noticed a tall bookcase against a back wall, in the philosophy section, shook slightly whenever anyone walked past. I surmised it had loosened screws. I hadn’t told Jack because the bookcase gave me an idea.

#

Eight hours after Jack entered the shop and ruined my day—for it only took one incident to destroy my mood for my entire shift—it was time to close shop. I locked the front door behind the last customer. Every time I saw Jack that day, I imagined punching him or grabbing the axe next to the fire extinguisher and parting his skull. His presence made my heart pound loudly, sometimes blocking out all other sounds. I returned to the register and closed it out.

Jack strutted around the shop, making sure it was spotless. Every time he found a book that wasn’t shelved in the correct spot, he yelled at me. This was his daily ritual.

He shouted, “Look at this mess! There’s a stack of books on the floor in Poetry! You need to clean this up!” I lost count and began counting dimes again.

Every time he yelled at me, I needed to recount coins. I clenched my teeth, and my hands shook with rage. My heart pounded in my ears.

I scarcely comprehended his vicious, shouted words over my heart. I didn’t know a heart could beat so loudly. If he shut up, surely he would hear it, too.

After I finished with the register, I began walking around the shop much as Jack had. But unlike him, I tidied up… instead of noticing books out of place and yelling for someone else to do the work. Sometimes I wracked my mind for what Jack did on the job. He owned the store—I surmised that was all he did besides payroll and other paperwork, and of course bully employees.

While I tidied the poetry section, I heard Jack’s shoes thud, thud, thud, to the register. I heard rustling and bumping noises and knew he was looking over my work to see if he could find fault. The shop was quiet enough that I tip-toed past the wobbly bookcase before picking up a stack of books from the floor and shelving them.

My thoughts drifted to memories of Jack’s years of deplorable behavior. I couldn’t remember a single occasion when he praised my work. I recalled how my first pay raise was only twelve cents. Jack often invaded my space, talked down to me, and yelled at me. When customers were within sight, he bestowed upon them his smarmy smile.

Ever since Jack promoted Eric last week, I noticed Eric talking down to employees. He seemed nice if not entirely competent before he became assistant manager.

Now my heart pounded loudly. I shoved a book onto a shelf. I imagined Jack’s heart resembled the lungs of a chain smoker—blackened, brittle, decaying. A heart I wish to stop. I found several books mis-shelved or lying on top of shelved books, and I arranged them properly.

I became so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t realize Jack had left the front counter. I heard a floorboard creak and turned. Jack lurked in the same back aisle. He stood smirking at me in front of the unstable bookcase. I stood two bookcases to his right. His energy made my heart thud loudly in my ears. Or is that my heart? Maybe I’m hearing his heart beating.

Seeing Jack leering at me, I froze.

Jack didn’t seem to notice my frown. While I heard the abnormally loud pounding of a heart, he opened the book he held. His tone was cheerful, jarring after all his yelling. “Look what came in today! It’s a book of nudes. Would you like to look at it? Maybe some ideas—”

My cold stare turned into a glare, as my cheeks heated up and my heart hammered. I imagined fire emitting from my ears. I couldn’t imagine even straight women would find this attractive. “Fuck you! You piece of shit!”

Jack’s smirk turned into an evil glare, and he closed the book. He stomped loudly on the floorboards.

The floorboards creaked, and so did the bookcase. The bookcase rocked, creaking. I pretended not to notice. I willed it to fall on Jack. I watched the bookcase lean forward… and keep leaning forward. Jack’s brow wrinkled and he looked up at the bookcase—too late.

My eyesight blurred. I heard the crash of the bookcase before I saw it lying on the floor, books spilling.

I would have thought the bookcase had a back, but now that it was no longer fastened to the wall, the back was open, and I saw all the books. Many had spilled onto the floor. The only glimpses I had of Jack were small bits of brown fabric and the heel of a shoe.

I heard a groan and saw movement. A book slid off him and thumped lightly on the floor. My shoulders drooped: disappointment that he remained alive.

I widened my eyes and snapped into action. I dashed to the back room and grabbed the axe from the wall. But instead of using it to break the glass before the fire extinguisher, I carried the axe back to the corner where Jack fell.

He still lay under the bookcase and books. He groaned. “Help me!”

I took note of from whence came his voice. Holding the axe handle with my left hand, I moved books out of the way and unburied the back of his head. Sandy, graying, short hair. A portion of his neck showed above his shirt collar. I set the books on the floor.

Raising the axe with both hands, I aimed for his neck.

I hadn’t considered the blood. Unfortunately, it splattered onto books and the bookcase. A puddle spread on the floorboards.

I hastily ran for the back room again. This time I gathered cleaning supplies and rubber gloves. Jack always wanted the shop to be spotless, and it would be by the time I left that night.

I donned the gloves and removed the books from the fallen bookcase and scrubbed as much blood off the books as I could. I tried not to look directly at the decapitated corpse. But I couldn’t clean up the mess if I kept averting my eyes.

Having removed most of the books from the bookcase, I saw Jack’s headless body thanks to the space between each shelf. Rather than attempting to drag the corpse out from under the bookcase, I figured it would be easier to make more use of the axe.

I chopped him up. I’d fantasized about this often enough. But what the mind conjures and what this gross, physical reality is truly like are two entirely different matters. My stomach churned while blood splattered. My heart hammered in my ears while I chopped through bone and muscle. My arms ached from the exertion. At least the books I cleaned were stacked in a corner, out of reach of the fresh blood splatters.

When I’d fetched the cleaning supplies, I also grabbed a box of trash bags. I put one to use, placing each body part into the bag. I pulled out a second bag and slipped it around the first, since I didn’t want blood seeping through the bag.

When the trash bag contained all the body parts, I looked wildly around the shop. That corner was hidden from the front windows, and outside was darkness. I imagined taking the body out to a dumpster. Instead, I dragged it to the back room. I knew of a loose board, and the back room would be a more discreet location to bury a corpse.

My heart still pounded loudly in my ears—the distressing noise never dissipated. This wasn’t normal, I knew. Why would my heart feel out of control like this? My plans weren’t definite, but ever since I noticed the loose bookcase, I’d imagined it falling on Jack. I anticipated using the axe. I didn’t anticipate how messy it would be or how loudly my heart would pound.

I dragged the bag until I reached the corner where I remembered the loose floorboard. I gasped for breath by the time the bag lay in the back room. I straightened up and rubbed my sore arms. Having worked here so long, I knew where Jack kept his toolbox, so I threw it open and rummaged until I found a prybar, perfect for removing floorboards.

When I finished placing the bag of body parts into a small space within the floor, I slipped the floorboards back into place. I sighed and stood up. Peering around the room, I tried to remember anything I’d left. Heart still hammering with nervousness, I recalled that the bookcase still lay splattered with blood. I would need to at least clean up the blood, if not lift the bookcase and put all the books back in place.

I returned to the bookshop’s main room. I wondered how long this process of hiding the evidence took. Probably hours. I estimated it was the middle of the night—silence despite the urban neighborhood, pitch blackness in the front shop windows.

I approached the bookcase, next to which I had left the cleaning supplies on the floor. I felt sore and exhausted, and I still heard the loudly thudding heart. It occurred to me: maybe I was hearing Jack’s heart, not mine. No, I scarcely believed he had a heart.

It took me over an hour to wipe up all the blood, shove the bookcase back up against the wall, tighten the loose screws, and fill the bookcase with books. Most of these books were used, so if a few permanent bloodstains remained on covers or page edges, it wouldn’t look too suspicious. People would assume tomato sauce or paint stained the books.

I filled another trash bag with all the bloody paper towels and a sponge. The floorboards were back in place, so I would take this bag to a dumpster. I decided to avoid the bookstore’s dumpster and take the bag at least a block away.

I stood back and took in the sight of the full bookcase. It looked normal. Nobody could guess a gruesome act took place in that back corner. But I felt… guilty. The pounding heart in my ears chastised me for my murderous deed. I reminded myself I did no wrong. The world would thank me if people knew I was responsible for Jack’s disappearance. Employees and his wife would thank me, anyway.

Jack’s death was his own fault. He pushed me over the edge, and I pushed the bookcase onto him. Wait—no, I didn’t do that. The bookcase fell onto him because he stomped like a toddler. He should have known I wouldn’t have complied to his outrageous suggestions. He should have known I felt only contempt and revulsion toward him.

I stood before the front door and scanned the room once more. The bookshop looked perfect. Nobody would guess that I buried the bookshop owner. The only issue still troubling me was how loudly a heart was beating. I frowned, wondering: Is that my heart, or is it Jack’s?

Now we return to Amaryllis & the Pixie, in which Kerensa the sorceress is holding Virginia hostage:

Chapter 1:

Chapter 12:

Amaryllis & the Pixie, Chapter 13

Amaryllis holds up her palms and keeps her eyes focused on Virginia and the dagger. “Very well, I shall bring you a dragon’s egg! Please put down my familiar. Gently.”

Kerensa’s eyes widen in a gloating, menacing manner. “Is that a promise? You must promise to bring me a dragon’s egg if you want your familiar to live.”

Heart hammering and hands still up, Amaryllis nods vigorously. “Yes, yes! I promise to bring you a dragon’s egg! Please let her go!”

Kerensa slowly, reluctantly, lowers her dagger and tucks it into a pocket. Virginia wiggles out of Kerensa’s grasp and runs to Amaryllis, who scoops her up and slips her into the backpack. The cat makes no protest and sounds and feels like she’s burrowing deep into the bag. Her purrs rumble.

Amaryllis takes deep breaths. She cannot lose Virginia. But she now realizes Kerensa knows her vulnerability: nobody must harm Virginia. Amaryllis makes a mental note to as soon as possible place a protection spell on her felines. Maybe on Brimstone the dragon, too.

“You will bring a dragon’s egg as soon as possible. I only have one more flask of pixie blood. My favorite actor will come calling in two weeks, and I must have something to tempt him with eternal youth. Or… something akin to eternal youth.”

Amaryllis knits her brow. “Do you practice false advertising in addition to the torture of pixies?”

Kerensa glares, and her face reddens. “Of course not! How dare you suggest such a thing! My business practices are entirely ethical!” The sorceress puts her hands on her hips. At least the dagger is nowhere visible. “And now that you’ve promised, you will bring me a dragon’s egg.”

Amaryllis pulls a small notebook and pen out of her raincoat pocket. “Hmm, a dragon’s egg. Right…” She jots down Dragon’s egg. “How would you like that dragon’s egg? Scrambled, poached, hard boiled? Petrified, unbroken… and therefore unhatched, or… rotten?”

Kerensa exhales impatiently. “Fresh, unbroken, of course. The egg and the yoke both have magical properties.”

Amaryllis raises her eyebrows. “I didn’t wish to make assumptions, you know.” Since Kerensa already accused her of being a hedge witch, Amaryllis chooses to refrain from mentioning that she’s unfamiliar with this sort of magic. Admittedly, she primarily uses elemental, natural magic. She can see how an evil sorceress would still consider her a hedge witch. She jots in her notebook. “I see, I see. That makes sense.”

“You will bring it before the next full moon.”

“I should hope so. I need to go to a place that actually has dragons, and I certainly wouldn’t wish to dally too long.”

They exchange a stiff farewell, and Amaryllis pulls the broom back out of her magical bag and flies off, Virginia burrowing deeper into the backpack while they fly.

They continue flying until after they’re on the other side of the stone castle walls. Amaryllis thinks about the dragon’s egg and can’t help but think, Pay no attention to the woman behind the curtain. Yes, it’s a bit like going off to get the Witch of the West’s broom for the Wizard of Oz. And surely Kerensa is at least as narcissistic as the Wizard of Oz.

Lowering the broom a smidgeon, Amaryllis looks down. She observes a rocky, windswept moor which has many mushrooms—so many, she notices them forming circles here and there. She knows about pixies and their relationship with Cornwall.

Amaryllis slows the broom and gradually flies lower and lower, until the broom lands amid rocks and heather. Virginia remains in the backpack, and the witch feels guilty for bringing her. She hadn’t realized how unsafe this trip might be. She surveys her surroundings. The sky is pale gray and spits raindrops. The breeze inspires Amaryllis to hunch her shoulders.

Amaryllis glances back toward Virginia even though she can’t see her and says, “This appears to be the Moor of Many Mushrooms. There, I named it.”

“Meh-EH!”

“Well… a fine kettle we’ve gotten ourselves into, isn’t it? Or more accurately, a fine kettle I’ve gotten us into.”

“Meh-EH!”

“Yes, yes, I know. Forgive me. I must put a protection spell on you. That way no evil sorceress will be able to harm you… assuming my protection spell is strong enough to prevent an evil sorceress from harming you. Goodness, what an oversight I’ve made! I should have thought of that before we left Rowanwick House.”

“Meh-EH!” We left in a hurry.

“Maybe I should give levitation another try, although I’ve never managed more than a few inches off the ground. Do you know, she was only a few inches off the ground herself, for all her boastfulness. I wonder if she was bluffing. I can fly in the clouds when I fly on my broom or the flying carpet. That beats a few inches, which is more useful for showing off than for transportation.”

Virginia pokes her head out of the backpack. “Meh-EH!” She’s a snob. Hedge witches are far better than evil sorceresses.

“Thank you, dearie.”

The cat starts grooming Amaryllis’s brown and white hair, which does feel a bit damp. It’s only drizzling now, at least. She wouldn’t want to go searching for dragon eggs in a torrential downpour.

“How are we going to do this? I think we should try to find the pixie and make sure she’s all right and gets safely home to Fae. We can be her escorts. Chaperones. Don’t you think that’s a good idea?”

Virginia purrs and perches on Amaryllis’s shoulder. The cat leaps down to the grass and heather. I shall sniff out the pixie.

“Good girl! You sniff, and I’ll follow you.”

Amaryllis puts away the broom and replaces it with her trekking poles. Virginia takes cautious steps, smelling for pixie and muttering while she walks, the way she mutters sometimes while exploring the house. Her fluffy tail sticks straight out behind her and she’s snout to the ground. She doesn’t go far before she stands lifting one front paw and staring around, pale blue eyes wide. I smell pixie. She continues walking down the gradual slope of the land, Amaryllis close behind and feeling relieved that they’re on track.