Free fiction #181 – Sarah Jackson

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Canary Glass

Sarah Jackson

The last time I had canary glass in the shop was last November. A centrepiece fruit bowl with a pedestal, decorated with clusters of grapes in relief. I put it straight in the window. It glows in the twilight, you see; back in the 1900s glass manufacturers used uranium to get that bile yellow, canary colour. But it’s the green glow that hooks people. Even I enjoyed watching those frilly, fussy vases become acid and luminous on chilly afternoons, with the dark falling behind them. They look like giant boiled sweets in the sunlight; at dusk they look like poison.

Just before closing, the bell over the door jangled and a woman came in to ask about the fruit bowl. She was in her late sixties, perhaps early seventies. Casually but carefully dressed. She had a street party-organising vigour and a manner so breezy and bright I wondered if she’d learned it in a professional capacity, as a receptionist, or an airline steward perhaps. Maybe a teacher. Someone who was used to handling people, in any event.

We talked about the piece, and I got out my black light and even my little Geiger counter. Those clicks and scratches, like a record player needle being picked up and dropped over and over again, seemed to delight her. Then we talked about the price and her face fell.

“I’m sure they never used to be so expensive!” she said ruefully. “I like to get them for my daughter. She’s not well, hasn’t been for a long time. An accident at work. She was signed off and she’s not been herself since.” She looked up at me, eyes glistening. “She loves these glowing glasses though, so I do like to get them when I can. Sometimes I feel like it’s the only thing I can do for her.”

It’s a hard-headed business, the antiques trade, and I have always been too soft for it. My father knew it (the original Mr Carter; I am merely a reproduction), although he left me the shop anyway. I suggested a compromise: did she own any quality items that I might be able to take off her hands, in part exchange? She beamed. It was agreed that I should visit her home on Sunday afternoon to view a few trinkets, and bring the bowl with me.

When I pulled up at the address on the edge of town I found a large house, old but in good condition. The paint was smart, the lawn was neat. It seemed spry, like its owner Mrs Brenda Wallace. She’d mentioned it was only her and her daughter Ellen living there, her husband having passed away some years before, and I wondered how she kept up with all of it. As if in answer a young man appeared, walking around the side of the house carrying a leaf blower. I said hello but he only shot me a pained expression from under his baseball cap and quickened his pace. I guessed he was shy, I suppose I was the same at his age.

Brenda opened the door and welcomed me into her home. It was a little chintzy for my taste, but warm and clean and bright. I sat at her kitchen table while she poured coffee and began examining the figurines and other bric-a-brac she had collected. I could tell already that it wouldn’t make up even half the cost of the bowl, but I was going to let her have it anyway. She knew it too. The fruit bowl was already unwrapped, gleaming on her breakfast bar in all its toxic citrine glory.

Heavy footsteps approached from somewhere and soon a portly man with a pink face and a shiny bald head followed them into the kitchen. He was carrying a bag of tools in one hand, and using a handkerchief to wipe sweat from his brow with the other. He shot me a wary glance then turned to Brenda.

“That’s all done for you, Mrs Wallace. I put in a new section of pipe where the crack was, should hold just fine.”

“Oh splendid, thank you Jesse.” She spoke to him kindly, but briskly, as if he were a small child, and I felt more certain than ever she had been a teacher at some point.

“No problem, Mrs Wallace. I’ll be going now then?”

“Yes, that’s all for now. Please do come by again next week, I’ve another little job for you.”

He murmured something and left. As I watched him walking up the immaculate drive he stopped and looked back at me through the window. I couldn’t read his expression. After a moment he turned away and carried on walking.

“Well!” Brenda said suddenly. “I think it’s about time I took Ellen her beautiful gift. Won’t you come and meet her? I’m sure she’ll want to thank you herself.” She picked up the heavy yellow bowl with ease.

I’d forgotten her daughter was in the house with us. I felt a little awkward, but decided that declining would be more awkward, so I followed her out of the kitchen. We passed the stairs and stopped in front of a bolted door.

“Would you mind?” Brenda passed the bowl to me as she slid the bolt and flicked a light switch. “Watch your step!”

I saw a narrow, beige-carpeted staircase leading down to another door. Perhaps Ellen had her own apartment in the basement. She must be in her thirties at least, so I imagined she would want a little independence. Though when we reached the door Brenda didn’t knock, just drew a set of keys from the pocket of her slacks and let herself in. The door was exceptionally solid, like a panic room.

“Ellen dear, we have a visitor. Nice Mr Carter from the antique shop,” Brenda called out as we stepped into a dim, warm room. “He has a lovely surprise for you!” She winked at me, and to my dismay closed the door behind us so that we were standing in almost complete darkness. The room had a strange metallic smell, and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickling. 

“Oh silly me! I forgot the light,” Brenda said and patted the wall beside the door frame once or twice. I heard a click, and saw a purple strip of black light flicker above us. The canary glass glowed violently in my hands. I wanted to drop the ghastly thing and run back up the stairs into the cool light and the fresh air.

“Why don’t you pop it down on the floor there?” Brenda said, and I walked a few paces forward like an automaton and set the bowl down with relief. My hands were slick with sweat. I returned to Brenda’s side by the door and was about to discreetly try the handle when she called out in her sprightly voice, face indigo under the ultraviolet light.

“Ellen! Don’t be shy. Come and get your treat.”

Everything was still for a moment, then I heard a shuffling, scraping sound coming from a corner of the room and saw a chunk of shadow detach itself from the wall and lurch toward the glass, a green flare in the middle of the room. The shape was huge, bulky, and seemed to be moving with difficulty, dragging itself. As it approached I first saw its eyes picked out by the black light, wild and shining, and then its slab-like, purple-white teeth.

Frozen with horror, I watched it squat beside the fruit bowl, and use one of its massive limbs – ending in fingers or talons, I couldn’t tell – to scoop up the crystal. The thing opened its jaws wide and crunched down on the glass like rock candy. The sound of squeaking, splintering glass was awful, and shards fell to the floor as the creature opened wide for another bite.

Slowly, I became aware that Brenda was talking to me.

“It’s her favourite. I guess the uranium just tastes good! They don’t know how she survived the explosion up at the plant, but here she is today. And she’s still my sweet girl, however she looks.”

I realised she was waiting for a response. “Y-yes.” Was all I could manage. I wished I could look away, could cover my ears to escape the terrible crunching sound.

“They kept her in a top secret facility at first, but then they let me bring her home. It was a job to fit this place up you know, and the compensation checks don’t stretch too far, and neither does my pension. But I thank my stars there are so many good folks in this town ready to help us out.” She smiled and placed a hand on my arm. “Just like you, Mr Carter. I know you’ll set aside any more canary glass for us, won’t you? Now you’ve seen how much Ellen enjoys it.”

The thing – Ellen! – let out a kind of yawning scream like twisting metal and stood up again, looking straight at us, her eyes round pits of pale blue light.

“Yes! Yes!” I cried. “You can have all of it, no charge.”

Brenda clapped her hands. “Wonderful! Oh thank you so much, that’s so generous. Aren’t we lucky, Ellen? To have such kind neighbours.”

Ellen reached one of her long, long arms towards me. I tore open the door and bolted up the stairs, her rumbling screech echoing behind me.

Now, whenever I find a piece of canary glass I buy it, box it up, and drive out at dawn to leave it on the Wallace’s doorstep. Then I drive away as fast as I can. I hope to god that’s enough.

I saw the plumber at the supermarket the other day, in the cereal aisle. Our eyes met, and I wondered if mine look just as haunted. Does he have the nightmares too?

We passed each other, and said nothing.

May 17th, 2024

Sarah Jackson writes gently unsettling stories. Her short fiction has been published by Ghost Orchid Press, Ellipsis Zine, and Tales From Between. She lives in east London UK and has a green tricycle called Ivy. Her website is sarahijackson.com/writing

This story was originally published in Wyldblood #9 (available in print and digitally)

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