MEET OUR JUDGE!
Vikki Sladen taught English at high schools in the Okanagan for 31 years. A lifelong lover of literature, her favourite authors include J. R. R. Tolkien, Diana Gabaldon, and Anne McCaffrey. She’s looking forward to the next book from Rebecca Yarros. Vikki has been a freelance editor for Lintusen Press since 2009.
We had 5 entrants for our first contest, giving us a prize pool of $10. The winning story won 70% of the pool and the runner up won 30%. Thanks everyone for submitting!
WINNER:
Of the winning story, “Our Home” by Narges Jalali-Kushki, Vikki said, “Loneliness and isolation have always been part of the human experience, as we were so sharply reminded in the 2020 lockdown. The title tells the story. Even a ghost is better than no one. Better, a ghost with a sense of humour.”
OUR HOME
© Narges Jalali-Kushki 2024
That doorbell changed everything. I’m not saying this house is haunted and the doorbell an afterlife communication tool – but I’m also not, not saying it. Hear me out:
The homes on this street housed railway workers one hundred and seventy years ago. Six years ago I bought this house for its charm. I loved to imagine who lived here before me – how they lived, what they wore, and how they spoke. *Were their kids sassy like some of the kids I teach? Did they also like to go to the café or saloon or whatever they had in the late 1800s and people-watch? Did they have gluten intolerances too?* I loved thinking about those before me walking on these same floors, surrounded by these same walls.
After some essential renovations to bring the house into this millennia, I moved in – on Friday the 13th. On that day, and every Friday since, the doorbell has rung one single ring at exactly 7pm.
Initially, I assumed neighbourhood children had ding-dong-ditched, but when the pattern became weekly at precisely 7pm, that theory no longer held. Back then I didn’t believe in ghosts. Conflicted, I didn’t know whether to stay true to my beliefs, or trust the eeriness filling my house, the chill surrounding my aura. Six years ago I was a woman living her best life with just the slightest bit of neuroses; now I’m saying things like “aura”. I couldn’t speak to anyone about it either – my hair, gives off “Jojo’s psychic alliance” vibes, and I definitely didn’t need people hearing me talk about a spirit in my house and around my aura. Life’s hard enough.
Every Friday night, for six years, I prepared myself by turning on all the lights, sitting on the sofa, and pulling a blanket up to my nose. Every Friday night my heart raced as I sat terrified watching 6:59 turn to 7:00, and feeling the chill pass through me.
This Friday, as usual, I waited on the sofa, under my blanket. 6:59 turned to 7:00 but the doorbell did not ring. The chill did not come. My spirit did not come. My heart stopped racing and for the first time in six years I no longer feared the chill; I longed for it.
“Agnes?” She had woman-ghost energy and I decided Agnes was a solid old-timey ghost name. “Ghost Agnes?”
I spent six years in constant fear, and today I feel an emptiness – and a touch of gas from the gluten I had earlier, but mostly emptiness. I stare ahead waiting for the clock to read 7:01. Just before it does, the doorbell rings and a chill enters the room. “Agnes!!” I feel a wave of relief come over me. “Agnes you worried me!” I swear I could hear her laughing. I sat and listened, enjoying the sound of her bliss. Laughter echoed through the night.
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HONORABLE MENTION:
Vikki says, “Poor Young Mr. Hubbard, who has done his best with what he had, has experienced all the nuanced offerings he remembers from his own childhood Hallowe’en experiences, all in one evening. This story reminds me a bit of Edgar Allen Poe. A buttery, flaky croissant of a story.”
YOUNG MR. HUBBARD
© Chris McMahen 2024
That doorbell changed everything. The chiming of the bell awoke Raymond from a deep sleep. He’d just returned from Japan and, given the confusion of the International Date Line, he wasn’t sure if today was yesterday or tomorrow.
He answered the door expecting a salesman, probably peddling burglar alarms. Instead, there was a princess, a witch, and two Darth Vaders.
In unison, they shrieked, “Trick or treat!”
“Hallowe’en? Tonight?” Raymond said.
“That’s right,” one Darth Vader said in a soprano voice. “Every October 31st.”
Hallowe’en had a special place in Raymond’s heart. Fond childhood memories of sprinting from house to house to fill a pillowcase with candy. Chocolate bars were at the top of the treat hierarchy. Below that, suckers or those toffee candies. Near the bottom, homemade Rice Krispie squares and apples. Even below that, a dark house where no one answered the door. One Hallowe’en, after an old guy told them they were too old for trick or treating, they returned to the house with a dozen eggs and six rolls of toilet paper.
So here, on Raymond’s doorstep was a princess, a witch, and two Darth Vaders. But he had zero Hallowe’en candy in the house. How could he let the kids down? He ran to the kitchen and rifled through the cupboards. Yes! A box of chocolates he got last Christmas at the office party. He returned to the door and dropped two in each of the loot bags.
“Thank you!” they screeched, sprinting off to the next house.
Before he could close the door, a zombie and Anne of Green Gables climbed the steps.
Back in the kitchen he looked for something remotely sweet. The best he could do was a couple of tins of crushed pineapple which he quickly shoved deeply into their bags. When they emptied their bags later, he hoped they’d be unable to figure out which house gave them tins of pineapple.
The doorbell rang incessantly over the next hours, and each trip Raymond made back to the kitchen was met with a growing desperation.
A perplexed pirate got a bag of brown sugar. Others got cans of coconut milk, boxes of crackers, tins of smoked oysters, a bag of powdered milk, and a jar of instant coffee. “I hope you like chocolate,” he said, plunging a tin of cocoa powder into a bewildered ninja’s bag.
When the bell rang at 9:15, his cupboards bare, Raymond opened the fridge. A bottle of sour milk, a block of mouldy cheese, and a carton of eggs.
“Trick or treat,” mumbled two gravely voices—two boys taller than Raymond wearing hockey jerseys.
“Sorry, guys. This is all I have left in the house,” Raymond said, delicately lowering the carton into a grocery bag. “You two can divide them up when you get home.”
The boys looked at one another, smiled, and headed off into the darkness. Raymond closed his door for the last time. Laughter echoed through the night.
Lintusen Press 