Summary: Hi! I’m Tonia Thompson—horror writer and creator of NIGHTLIGHT: The Black Horror Podcast. This week we have a story from the amazing Eden Royce. I’m a huge fan of Eden’s, maybe because her stories tend toward the darker side, maybe because of the gothic feel of them, but probably because her words haunt you long after you’ve left the world she created.<br> Eden is a full-time writer living in the UK, and as you’ll hear in her interview after the story, a fan of Edgar Allan Poe. Here’s her story, Basque of the Red Death, a tale of vengeance, corsets, and magic.<br> Content Warning: sexual predators, objectification of women<br> ========<br> Basque of the Red Death<br> By Eden Royce<br> She looked like death, but the harsh Carolina sunshine made her look more attractive than she really was.<br> Helen’s gait faltered as she looked up at the woman peering down on her with appraisal and undisguised distaste. Old…so old. Deep lines whittled themselves into her face, causing the chalky powder to rise to the surface of her sandpaper skin. But the woman’s gaze was sharp, even weighty, and it caused Helen to stumble.<br> Her mother seized her arm in a mousetrap grip. “Remember what I tol’ you,” she growled close to the girl’s ear. Her breath was loaded, sour with the potent smells of dry peanut shells and day-old coffee.<br> “Yas’m.”<br> The sun beat down on both of them during the walk to Miss Maggie’s and sweat gathered in the girl’s armpits and between her heavy thighs. It coursed down her back under the worn muslin of her dress like teasing fingers. Gnats taunted them, flying in their soaked faces, then deftly avoiding their clumsy fingers as the pair trudged along the hardpack dirt.<br> After that journey, the shaded porch was almost cool. No sun reached it through the dense overhang of ancient oaks. But there was plenty enough light for Miss Maggie to pass her judgment.<br> “Gal ain’t nowhere near pretty,” she said, tilting her head left then right like a bird considering a crust of bread. “No figure. And this here.” Miss Maggie leaned over the porch railing and ran a finger over the angry, inflamed pustules covering Helen’s doughy white cheek. Helen flinched. Partly from the pain as several of the imbedded pimples pressed deeper into her skin and partly from the way the soft, cool fingers seemed to slide around in their thin casings of flesh. Her mother grabbed a wedge of skin at her sow-like waist and twisted it. Hot fire shot through her side, eclipsing the pain in her face, and she froze.<br> “Not a sound.” This she muttered through compressed lips, but the dusty smell of sun baked peanuts and battery acid coffee hung in the sticky air.<br> Helen sank her teeth into her lower lip.<br> “Bumps, bad skin is a problem,” Maggie continued, pressing in Helen’s forehead and chin. “They’re deep.”<br> “How much?” the mother asked.<br> Maggie wiped her hands on a starched handkerchief and tossed the soiled fabric on the rocking chair behind her. A frail-looking girl, no more than eight or ten, dashed out of nowhere to provide a new cloth and remove the old one. “Not much.”<br> Helen watched the girl scurry away, as silent as she had come.<br> “She might not help you with no mens, but she can do just as good at cleanin’ and such. Better than that lil’ darky, I bet. Oh…” Her mother’s jaw went slack as though she remembered she’d left washing on the line. “Um…’scuse me, miss.”<br> If she was offended, Miss Maggie didn’t show it. “I already got two for cleaning and tidying and such. Twins, in fact. Enough trouble.”<br> “I don’ need a lot. Just need to put food on the table for the young ones. We hardly got nothin’ no more.”<br> Maggie sniffed. Helen wondered if she was smelling the raw grain alcohol scent that clung to her mama. It leaked from her pores, mixing with nervous perspiration to make a rank cocktail. She’d heard the jokes about her mama when people thought she was too stupid to unders...
