We were delighted to receive so many well-written entries to this year’s Spider’s Web Flash Fiction Prize! There could only be one winner. However, a handful of stories were exceptionally good and were awarded honorable mentions. One of the honorable mentions chosen by Julia Rios, our judge, was “How He Got That Way” by Lara Kristin Herndon. Enjoy the haunting quality of Herndon’s prose in this unique tale…

HOW HE GOT THAT WAY

I was unpacking the master suite when Helena came in. I never heard her: all at once, there she was.

“Unpacking his shoes?” she said, looking over my shoulder. “There’s plenty of yours to do.”

“Oh, well,” I said.

The shoes in their neat rows depressed me: everything was in twos. Twin reading sconces; tall double windows that let in the afternoon light; two closets, two bathrooms: everything coupled, mated. My husband had remarked on it, too.

“It’s like we’re newlyweds.” He’d grabbed me around the waist.

I’d flinched away. “Ow. Rib.” Maybe I’d exaggerated a little, to make him feel guilty. But I didn’t want him touching me. It wasn’t just the broken rib: I’d felt Helena watching us.
I looked at her now: shoulders bare and white, hair tumbling loose, a twig caught in it here and there; dress rumpled; feet bare and muddy. She sat on the edge of the shabby armchair my husband had tried to get rid of; but which Helena loved; and the fact of her choosing to sit precisely there made me feel defended, valued, protected, understood. Loved.

A pale cloud of steam rose faintly from her white shoulders, as if she were made of dry ice, dissolving. The last of the day’s golden light shone through her; I could pick out the details of the carved marble on the mantelpiece behind her.

“I’ve never had a bedroom with a fireplace before.” I walked past her and traced the details with my fingers, to show her: it was a figure of a woman with a vaguely Grecian dress, the kind of thing Helena liked.

But she scowled.

“Yes, it’s very pretty. You know I can’t stay long. Ghosts who haunt places, haunt places. Ghosts who haunt people, haunt people.”

Coiling her finger and thumb, she flicked at the edge of a half-unpacked box; it stirred faintly, as if touched by the lightest evening breeze.

You belong more to me than to that old house, I wanted to say. But we had been over all that before.

Instead I said: “What are the new people like?”

“Horrible. I hate them.” There was a little ceramic dog on my dresser; Helena pushed this along with her finger, concentrating, her brows drawn together with the effort. It reached the edge, crashed to the floor, shattered.

“I miss you,” I said timidly. She dropped her head, bent double, flung herself up, and spun around the room.

“Oh, why did you have to move?“

“You know why. He wanted to. Anyway, it’s just up the hill. I like it up here.”

She stopped spinning, close to me; with her bare feet on the floor now, her head just reached my shoulders. “I’m going home. Walk with me.”

“But…” I laughed. “But I don’t live there anymore!”

“I wish you’d at least –“

“What?” I said, though I knew.

“I don’t like thinking of you with him.“

I traced my healing rib. It didn’t hurt anymore, not really. But Helena saw, and crept close again, saying nothing. The pale mist rose from her shoulders like a white fur stole, cool and elegant, wrapping around me, too.

We stood like that for a heartbeat; then I said: “He’s coming back tonight.”

Helena’s breath hissed. “I could kill him.” She bit her lip; reached for my wrist, then drew her hand away.

“He’d only haunt me.” I forced a smile, shoved my fingers through my hair. “Isn’t that how it works?”

“Don’t.” But her eyes flicked to mine; her face had gone sly, thoughtful. “Don’t muss your pretty hair. Walk with me part of the way.”

So I walked with her, down the circular stair in the grand hall, out the carved wooden door. When we came to the bend in the road, Helena stopped.

“Sharp curve. Bit of a drop, no shoulder, no guardrail. Picturesque, with the ivy. Yes, in my expert opinion, someone should haunt this spot.”

“Pity it’s so well-lit.” I played along, squinting up at the streetlight.

But Helena squinted too.

“How are you at throwing rocks?”

                                                                       #

Yes, I like it here at the top of the hill. There’s a tricky spot on the North side if you’re driving: a sharp bend in the road; you can’t be too careful. There’ve been accidents. But on foot, there’s a Southern path straight to town; and if you like that sort of thing, there are some pretty little cottages along the way.

Lara Kristin Herndon’s short fiction has appeared in “Silver Blade,” “the WiFiles,” “Liquid Imagination,” and in the anthology “Abandoned Places” from Shohola Press. She’s a a graduate of the Viable Paradise workshop for speculative fiction writers. An award-winning writer of both fiction and non-fiction, Lara Kristin Herndon’s byline has appeared in “O, the Oprah Magazine,” “Wired,” “Entrepreneur,” and other national magazines. You can find out more about her at her website http://www.herndy.com Follow her on Twitter @Herndy. She was photographed by Eric Kvatek. 

Thank you to all of those who submitted their work to our flash fiction contest for consideration this year. For more information about this annual SRP contest, new releases, and exclusive, free flash fiction, please join our mailing list!