FINGERNAILS.
Fingernails. - John Girvan's submission is a short horror story, the first in a line of fictional works produced by the enigmatic Edinburgh figure. Worthwhile horror fiction like this is in short supply at the minute - especially by Scottish Writers - so get in touch if you’ve got some, cause this is something we’re deeply interested in here at NWT
It was a night that Sammy was looking forward to; she had on her best and least comfortable heels, that stupid but elegant red dress and a necklace she picked up in Turkey a few years ago that looked just as real as actual“Swarski”. Her boyfriend and hopefully soon-to-be fiancé Matt, was driving in his usual manner, occasionally swearing at mossy road signs and muttering about how he should have switched providers when the data signal went out. Matt was dressed much the same as Sammy but in a more “upmarket Benidorm bloke” sort of way since they were promised a sunny evening. It was 6:32, and the sun was starting to fall. Sammy lazily clacked her nigh perfect red acrylic nails against the dash, her mind elsewhere as Matt navigated the tarmac maze. As the roads started sneaking into narrow strips littered occasionally with a rotting animal carcass or two, Matt let out a volley of curses as the poor Silver Blue Vauxhall Corsa slowly ground to a halt and let out a sputtering death rattle. Matt banged the steering wheel with his palm and lurched his hand back in pain before slumping back into his throne of affordable motoring. “For fuck sake… Thats all ah’ fuckin’ need!” He said with his usual East Kilbride twang. “Don't shout, there's probably a mechanics nearby,” Sammy replied with a subtle regret in what she just said. Matt wasn't the kind of man to give up on a tantrum. “Aye fuckin’ hang on ill just go back to fuck-all-nowhere and find the mechanics at this time! Good wan’ Sammy!” Sammy turned her head away from Matt in an almost practised manner, she knew not to talk to him when he was like this but something inside her thought that the charging silverback might listen to reason before flinging its feces at the proverbial wall.
“I’ll go sort it. It's probably the daft bit that's been rattling…” Matt said in his most technical of phrasing before opening the door and leaving it about a hand’s length open, possibly to let in the lingering smell of manure that places like this were known for. Sammy sat in the seat while the bonnet of the car went up. She thought that someone would come along the road soon and hopefully lend a hand, maybe they were a better handyman than Matt? Sammy waited and waited. Her phone was essentially a glowing paperweight without signal, and after getting tired of playing count the dead badger she opened her door so there was now a clear path for the manure smell to pass through and walked to where Matt was swearing to himself. He had his nice Stone Island jacket draped across a roadside bush, the sleeves of his Armani shirt rolled up far too high and now most likely wrinkled beyond saving. He somehow had oil or perhaps dirt in a thin layer on his forehead. “Whit?” He said in that way that reminded her of the homeless man who sat outside her office building and occasionally shouted abuse at the smokers if they didn't offer up their lighters. “Can you sort it?” She said with a tone that could have been a lot snappier. “Aye, I’m trying but I’ve got nae tools to open the fuckin’…eh the… aw you ken what ah mean just sit doon i'll sort it.” Matt was hopeless when it came to these things. He always touted himself as a macho bloke who made loud small talk with the plumber, but when it came to actually doing handyman things, he was about as useful as Pete. Pete was the homeless man she had recently been reminded of, and Sammy did not have a lot of sympathy for people like Pete. A nasty, horrible old drunk, a waste of breath, who was keen to look up women’s skirts on his better days. But Matt wasn't like Pete, she just imagined that Pete would also smash a picture frame trying to level it out.
As she got back in the car Sammy thought about the night she was missing, Matt had been promoted at work and it just so happened that their five year anniversary was coming up so the pair decided to head from their little village in Lanark and drive down to Manchester for a fancy dinner and a weekend away. Matt worked for a fabrication company that his dad roped him into when he was fresh out of high school with not a qualification to his name. Matt's job, from what Sammy understood, was to sit in an office built and paid for by his dad, send emails back and forth to clients and contractors gathered by his dad and flirt with the wee accountant woman. All Sammy could do was think about the ins and outs of their relationship during moments like this. How Matt was a lovely guy at heart, but how his anger came from a certain inadequacy that she was never willing to bring up. She used to think about how Matt was given a free ride in life while she had to fight like a dog just for what she had, but that argument was long out of her recent memory. Life with Matt was fine. Just fine. In the boredom occasionally interrupted by Matt failing to pry open something or other, Sammy found herself biting her fingernails. She kicked the habit a while ago, but it was now back with a determined vengeance, her incisors biting down and ravaging her glistening, freshly done acrylics. The taste of freshly chewed acrylic wasn't exactly bubblegum, but it took her mind off things. It started when she was a kid, her dad; a veritable waste of breath in his own right, would come home from a long shift as a William Hill regular and wreak havoc. She used to curl up in the wardrobe and bite down hard on her wee fingernails, and sure enough, all the bad things would go away. But that wasn't just Sammy’s repressed memory of her childhood neglect, it was real. The night she first curled up into the wardrobe and bit her fingernails, it all went away. Her dad was caught by debt collectors and was never seen or heard from again leaving her all alone in the flat. She was put into care after being discovered by the downstairs neighbour, and from what she remembered, life in care wasn't all bad. Sure, she had to carry an extra sharp pencil when she got back from school in case the bigger girls decided it was time to steal her makeup again and sure she hadn't slept a full night without being bitten by some sort of insect but it was nice. It was home.
She remembered one particularly gruesome night as Matt’s banging had ceased and he was now pacing up and down the empty country road hunting for a signal. It was her 16th birthday and she received a very nice pair of red heels from one of the social workers whom she had grown close with named Ms Smith. The heels were second-hand Vivienne Westwood Stilettos that Ms Smith picked up from a clueless charity shop a few years ago and was now giving them to Sammy as a gift, equally clueless herself. Sammy was ecstatic and wore them in her room constantly, they made her feel taller, more grown up. Happier. They cut into her from all sides, and walking with them took practice and a few bruised elbows, but she got it right eventually and was all the happier for it. That was until a stark raving bitch named Emma Hooley came into her room likely to rip a page out of an old book for her ragged roll up cigarettes and saw the heels sticking out from under Sammy's bed. Sammy came home from her back shift at B&M one night and found that her heels were gone, and while rage overcame her and the tears began to dredge within her eyelids, she knew exactly who took them. Emma was a “Curtain Puller” which meant that she was 18 without a foster family and likely would be tossed out with a leaflet taped to her suitcase, all the while pulling at the curtains to stay. It wasn't a very nice thing to call someone, especially an orphan, but Sammy found it fitting as she barged into her room, the door slamming into the wall, and it was around this time when Sammy’s vivid recollections came to a screeching halt as Matt entered the car with a similar slam. “Right engines fucked im going teh see if theres a house nearby with a phone, nae use waiting for someone to drive by since they’ll probably do fuck all and drive aff.” Matt said with Pete’s tone again. “So will I just wait here then?” Sammy knew that was a stupid question, she knew Matt would want her to stay here so he could prove his macho ways. “Aye, you stay here and if anywan drives along just say your boyfriends sortin’ it right?” Sammy didn't like the idea of being left alone in a metal box while Matt wandered the now twilight fields, but what choice did she have It's not like she had a change of shoes. Heels. All she had were her heels. Right… the heels.
As Matt kissed her lazily on the cheek and closed the door with much less vigour her memories came flooding back as she and Emma were now in a standoff over the heels. Like many conflicts in the foster house, it was usually an inarticulate screaming match followed by flying fists or clawing nails, and Sammy chose the latter. She had the advantage over Emma, who was a skinny and not very well coordinated young woman despite her tough facade. She went down in the sudden push like an old wire fence as Sammy's onslaught rained down upon her most makeup-laden of areas. Her nails dug into her face, and she recoiled slightly after her third or fourth swipe grazed Emma's right eye, causing a trickle of blood that was followed closely by a shrill scream from the thief. Emma’s boney, pale hands wrapped tightly around Sammy’s neck as the brawl turned on her, and she too was spun onto the ground. Legs began to join the fray as the two were now on equal ground and lashed kicks back and forth. Sammy grabbed hold of Emma’s greasy black hair and pulled with all her strength, which made Emma loosen her grip just enough on Sammy’s neck to allow her to force herself back upright. Sammy could have driven a fist down into her, perhaps even spat in her good eye or pulled her hair just a little bit harder, but soon she felt a strong hand lock onto her upper arm. It was Dave, the carer she liked the least. He was nice, almost too nice for Emma’s liking. It was as if a children's TV host stepped out of the faded fat screen and started running a foster home. he was good with the younger ones, sure but when it came to issues of being a young adult, Dave was too syrupy sweet for her liking. Dave said nothing, only looked at her with exaggerated disappointment and pulled her out of Emma's room. Sammy did not argue or retaliate; she just watched as Dave tended to Emma’s scratched cornea. Loose strands of black hair now littering the floor, and that shrill scream never truly stopping between angry sobs. That night, Dave and Ms Smith sat her and Emma down in the living room. Emma’s mortal wound was just a small scratch about an inch away from anything soft and irreplaceable. After a long shouting match between the two girls, Dave and Ms Smith told Sammy that she was grounded for three months and that her heels would be confiscated during that time. Sammy realised at this point, as her memories came flooding back, that a small tear ran down her cheek and landed on the eternally dusty floor of the Corsa. She hadn't thought about Ms Smith, Dave or that fugly bitch Emma Hooley in a long time.
Of course the wet dish cloth bitch got away scot free and she was stuck in her room away from the few friends she had and condemned to a life of high school exam stress, retail torture and living in alcatraz for troubled orphans. Those three months were torture, and during that time her old habit came back; she bit her fingernails. In the first week, her creepy manager got transferred to Dundee, in the third she failed her English prelim, and her teacher took ill with some airborne disease from Thailand; she wrote her a card and everything. The fifth week, she was asked out by her friend Michael and upon turning him down, he decided dropping out of school to be a bricklayer was best for his lovesick heart. The final week as her nails were now bitten nearly to the bone, skin flaking, blood pooling and nails filled down almost to the cuticles she was called down the stairs with all the other forgotten souls and told by Ms Smith that Emma Hooley had been found dead in the woods near the house, broke her neck falling from an oak tree. That night at the dinner table no one said a word. It was at this point that Sammy took out her phone before tossing it into the glove box again, realising that there was no signal, so she couldn't look at Emma Hooley's Facebook account for some morbid recollection of what the girl looked like back then. Habitually, she was still chewing on her acrylics and realised that she had bitten her middle finger down to a nub of chewed plastic. Sammy decided that she was fine with this; they definitely weren't going to reach their reservation or their hotel and she no longer cared if Matt noticed that her nails matched the dress he liked.
She started thinking about Matt and how they met. Matt worked in the office a street away from hers, and the pair would find themselves walking the same aisles of the corner shop that was sandwiched between the two buildings. One day, while scanning the aisles desperately searching for a Topic chocolate bar, the two of them reached for the bar and turned to lock eyes. It was like one of those movies your granny loves to watch at Christmas time, where the pair flirt endlessly in front of festive backdrops until the F-list bachelor whisks the married girl away to his hometown. Sickly sweet everyday romance. They became friends, then after a long night of drinking and darts, they were lovers, and soon five years passed by, and Matt was now planning to pop the question. Matt was lovely when they first met, always making big gestures and buying her gifts. They would stay for days at a time at each other's flats before moving in together, content on living with each other’s little quirks. But soon those quirks became harder to ignore. A night out with the office lads became three-day benders, her music on full volume in the shower drove them into shouting matches and endless arguments about little things chipped away at the foundations of what they’d built together. It wasn't all bad, there were times when she thought he was the perfect guy and other times when she wished he’d never come back home. Her index finger had become the second victim of her chewing, the acrylics giving way to her frenzied molars as her mind was flooded with vivid memories. The worst one was probably the time that Matt got in a brawl while they were out late, a guy at the club dared to support another football team, and Matt took it upon himself to educate him. The argument turned into shirts being grabbed, and soon that was replaced by flying fists and sure enough, Matt was in the back of a police van while Sammy had to walk home alone. The next day, Sammy went to pick up Matt, and the car was silent. As soon as the pair got in the door Matt's excuses had reached a boiling point and spilt out from his mouth. “They never charged me! It's just a night in the cells, I was being daft!" The only reply this got was Sammy retreating to the kitchen. “He was asking fur it! Ah didn't even throw the first punch!” Sammy pretended to make a start on the dishes, her eyes welling up with tears. “Ah said ‘am sorry! That's it all sorted!”
Sammy decided that waiting here was beneath her and got out of the car, walking around and leaning against the back of the silvery blue scrap heap for any sort of fresh air despite the manure and its twang. She was still biting her nails in silent frustration and looked out for any sign of coming headlights. The sun hung low and shot its final rays across the fields all around her. She liked dusk much more than dawn, she thought. Her eyes soon met a figure walking down the path of a nearby farmer’s road, it was Matt. She saw him stomping along the barely paved road in a half jog and was about to call out to him when he stopped to speak with another man just out of view. She couldn't hear a word, only the occasional muffled twang of Matt's voice and saw his body language go from casual to manic. The farmer, or what she presumed to be a farmer, stepped forward, closing the metal gate behind him. With a few crossed words, the pair walked together towards the farmhouse and out of sight. Her middle finger was chewed to a nub, and she moved along to her ring finger, bare of anything but the shiny red acrylic nail that was about to be mangled. Without thinking, she let her legs carry her towards the farmer's house, in a haze she couldn't quite describe to herself, she eventually made it to the top of the barely operational road. The fact that she had left the car alone didn't bother her, and soon without a single moment of recall, she was at the front door of the house drenched from head to toe. It was raining. When did it start to rain?
Sammy looked all over the old house that was wrapped in a layer of long-dead ivy, the smell of manure was replaced with the smell of dust and old newspaper as she stepped through the swinging front door and was now sitting in a comfortable armchair in the cold living room. Ornaments and photos hung on walls, last painted decades ago, cabinets filled with trophies and old rubbish and a TV that was surprisingly new stood proud and dark amongst the clutter. Sammy looked down, and her right hand was chewed to nubs, her left was as fresh as daisies. She didn't recall changing shoes, but now wore a pair of wellies that were responsible for the trail of muddy footprints on the off-white carpet. Sammy's chewed fingers went down to reach for her purse or a pocket that wasn't there, and she suddenly whipped herself into a panic. Where was her phone? It was in the glove box. She let out an exaggerated sigh and stood up to walk out into the hall and towards the front door when she tripped on something in the hall. The obstacle made her fall hard against the shaky wooden stair railing, and with a scrambled thud, she took three balustrades with her, snapping the dried-out sticks of timber and scattering them across the floor. She caught her hand on the splintered wood and soon crimson blood dripped in a thin trail down to the untouched fingers on her left hand. The sight of blood wasn't something she cared for, but she wasn’t exactly afraid of it; in her haze, it reminded her of her pretty nails and how staggeringly red they were. She steadied herself with her right arm and rose with a panicked sob; her legs were weak, and her feet were in agony from what she thought was a short walk. As she rose, she saw something or someone at the top of the stairs, which made her already frayed nerves thrash out once again. The dark thing suddenly toppled and fell down the stairs, making clattering thuds as it eventually landed at the bottom in a formless black heap. Sammy stopped herself from letting out a scream by biting down hard on her right index finger, breaking the skin and cracking the remaining nail. The thing did not move or breathe, she heard no groan or any sort of response to the thrashing that gravity had laid down upon it. She could only stare in the dim light of the farmhouse as her legs were planted firmly within the stationary welly boots.
Another haze overcame her, and she suddenly found herself within a machine that roared beneath her, a glass cubicle that stank of cut grass and petrol. Sammy’s hand gripped a large steering wheel tightly, and she didn't once question what she was doing or how she got here; instead, she was wondering why she was wearing a Stone Island jacket that was far too big for her. The haze brought her back to the living room of the farmer’s house, where her eyes met with the ever-growing puddle of black liquid that was now occupying the ragged carpet floor. It was only for a moment that Sammy gained clarity, it was blood she was looking at. Her arms hurt with a pain that stung dully and horribly, and she pulled off the oversized jacket to reveal bruises up and down each of her arms and what looked like dull claw marks interwoven between them. She fought back a sob as she realised the next horrible truth that her once pristine acrylics were no longer an accessory to the red dress that lay in pieces upon her bruised body, but they were now entirely torn off actual nails and all. She forced her hands down into the tattered jacket, which stung her fingertips like a hot stove, and her head darted down to the floor where she followed the puddle and found its origin. A shape, nothing more than a shape of meat, now rested against a cabinet filled to the brim with football trophies and other old rubbish. The shape was red, a deep, heady dark crimson much like the blood it now swam within, and from what Sammy could make out through emerging tears was Matt's silver chain draped upon what was surely a neck. She suddenly relived the feeling of a bump, like going over a curb on your driving test and failing but just that one fucking curb. The bump wasn't a curb and neither was the grinding or the choked guttural screams. It was Matt.
Sammy must have been out cold for days before the milkman came and saw the grizzly scene through the window and drove down the front driveway. It was one of those places that still had milkmen, and it would be the last round for that poor old man who stank of old cheese. Sammy was taken to the hospital and eventually found herself awake and being questioned by two very handsome policemen, that she could only manage a grunt or two towards. When she regained her composure, she was in a small room, the walls painted with the scene of farm animals and a kind voice asking her if she would like apple or orange juice. Sammy said something to the effect of orange, and the nice lady who dressed just like a nurse practically sprinted to the door to tell the doctors of her breakthrough. The next few days were nothing but a haze of spoon-fed meals and lukewarm sponge baths, but after a while, Sammy could speak again and only said things to herself in the wee hours of the morning when the nightmares wouldn't stop. From what she remembered, or rather what she chose to remember, she and a nice man named Matt had made their way to a nice farm, and Matt got lost and never came back. It was like she was in care again, there was breakfast where they all sat at a big table and there was lunch outside where the trees grew big and tall and there was dinner with jam rolls and custard all the same. Sammy’s file wasn't one that any respected detective could crack, a string of deaths throughout her life where she was the only common factor and not a smidge of first-hand accounts to prove anything. Someone said she was a victim of circumstance, and another said she was a nasty little sociopath who had reverted to a temporary child-like state after massive head trauma. In the end, no consensus was made, and Sammy was now an established resident of a psych ward. It was early in the morning when they found a nice young doctor fresh out of university lying dead in the staff room, his throat cut from the inside after he swallowed a scalpel blade he had stowed away under his tongue. His last patient was Sammy, who was found biting down on what remained of the nubs of her fingernails with eyes that went from docile and placid to somehow knowing exactly what they were doing. Snaking down her chin was a trail of fresh crimson blood, and right into the dirty plastic cup below filled to the brim with grimey, mangled fingernails.
