A Jillian Nightingale short story: "Lonely Hill"

This short story stars Jillian Nightingale, the human nurse who tends to supernatural patients in her job at the Agency for the Betterment of Cryptohumanoid Kind. You're familiar with her if you've frequented my blog in the past; if not, you might want to check out her other adventures. Here they are, in sequentially.

The Best Medicine 
Sometimes I Feel Like I'm Being Watched...
Open Enrollment 
In Sheep's Clothing 
Human Women 


"Lonely Hill"

I knew Max wouldn't have asked me to be there unless he genuinely needed me. Which was why I hadn't declined when he'd asked. Max Bartrom was a proud man, and in the time I had known him he had barely shown even a moment of weakness.

He truly didn't want to face this alone.

Then again, I didn't want to face it, either. Hell, I barely liked doing it when I was legally required to, much less willingly walking into it with someone else. But Max was my friend; what choice did I have? Lord knows I'd been in his position many times. 

The child exchange was never an easy process with Jim, my ex. He only kept Hope, our four-year-old daughter, two weekends out of the month, and he was constantly trying to barter those away for weekdays. He always claimed he was trying to do me a favor, so I'd have my weeknights free to catch up on my medical charts. But I knew what he was really up to. When he had her on weekdays he only had to spend minimal time with her. By the time each of us was off work and I'd driven to his apartment (and yes, it was always me who had to drive Hope to him), it was time to put her in bed so he could wake her up early the next morning and whisk her off to daycare. And with his no-obligation weekends he was free to get plastered for three straight nights and bring home whatever little barely-able-to-drink tartlet he happened to pick up at a bar. 

The worst times where when he brought his tart-of-week to the kid exchanges. And I had to smile and say hello while clawing her eyes out in my mind. 

"Human Women"

Another week, another short story.

I'm a week behind, because last weekend my wife and took our two daughters to Disney World for the first time. It was an amazing, exciting, and very tiring trip. We were glad to get back, and I was glad to have a few relaxing days before heading back to school at the end of spring break.

This is another story of Jillian Nightingale, nurse practitioner to supernatural creatures and cryptohumanoids. Her other adventures, while not being necessary to follow this story, can be found in the links below.

"In Sheep's Clothing" 

"Sometimes I Feel Like I'm Being Watched"

"The Best Medicine"  - Jillian's inaugural story

"Open Enrollment"  - this story takes place in Jillian's world, although it doesn't explicitly star her.


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"I don't know if I can do this."

Max Bartrom, bartender of The Scabbard, looked up at me. "What? What're you talking about?"

I swallowed hard. A chilly breeze blew through the gravel parking lot behind the bar. Shifting uneasily, I ground gravel beneath my tennis shoes and wrapped my jacket a little tighter around myself. "Look, I... I don't want to put you out any more than I already have. I'll just call the Agency and have them move the patient from my caseload."

Max dropped the large wooden box he'd carried out to the parking lot at his feet. "What's the matter? You're not scared, are you?"

I dropped my jaw and tried to act surprised by his insinuation. "Scared? Are you kidding me? You should see what I've already dealt with this week. I've talked a ghost out of an existential crisis, successfully gotten three vampires on artificial iron supplements, and diagnosed a mermaid with a gill infection. And it's only Tuesday."

Max smiled. "So, you're not at all concerned about seeing Mister Mephiblasheph today?"

"Of course not," I lied. The fact that my voice leapt an octave did nothing to sell the illusion. "It's just that I know you've already done so much for the Agency this week. I hate to trouble you any more than necessary."

Max cracked his knuckles and sifted through the contents of the box. Despite the cold, stiff wind, he wore nothing thicker than his usual jeans and black t-shirt. "The Agency subcontracts out to me: the more jobs I do for them, the more they pay me. By no means are you inconveniencing me for bringing me more work. In fact, I wish you'd see more dangerous patients every week. I might finally be able to afford that boat I've had my eye on."

The non-cowardly way out of seeing this patient was starting to erode under my feet. "No, seriously, its not a big deal. Providers change patients all the time."

Max stood, something from the box in his hands. "Catch."

He tossed something to me in a slow, underhanded arc. On instinct along I caught it. It was a black, porous rock, about the size of a tennis ball.

Confused, I raised my eyes to Max in time to see him aim a thin, wooden rod, tipped with a white pearl, at me.

And then my world was swallowed in a blinding, howling torrent of fire.

"Oh my god! Oh my god! OH MY GOD!" I screamed, even though I couldn't hear myself. I felt the vibrations in my throat, so I knew I was speaking, but all sound was swallowed in the roar of flames all around me.

I stood, silent in the blinding inferno, for what felt like years. Then the flames disappeared as quickly as they had come, and I slowly blinked my eyes open. Purple spots danced in front of my vision, and I rubbed them in an effort to see more clearly.

I could still feel the warmth of the fire clinging to my jacket, like it had just come out of the dryer. The gravel around my feet was blackened like soot. But I was completely unharmed.

"Huh. How about that," Max said, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "Looks like you can do it, after all."

Gagging on a response, I was suddenly aware of heavy warmth in my hands. My eyes traveled down to the black, porous rock that Max had thrown to me. It was smoking slightly.

My eyes shot up to him. "What in the ever-loving crap was THAT all about?" I screamed at him, heaving the rock at him with all my might. He easily caught it with one hand. The smug jerk.

"You seemed like you needed convincing that I could make you fireproof for your visit to Mephiblasheph today. He is a dragon, in case you forgot. And he has the flu. He's the sort of patient for whom you'd want to be fireproof."

I squeezed my fingers together into white-knuckled fists. Anger grew like an inflating balloon in my chest. "Yeah, I got the general idea of what you were doing, thanks!" I hollered. "I really meant, why the ever-loving crap would you do that to me? Do you get your jollies freaking people out or something?"

Max looked hurt by my words. Which was strange, because in the months I had been working with him, I had never seen him looking so vulnerable. "You just seemed like you needed a little convincing. That's all. Dragonfire is pretty horrible, believe me, even when you only get sneezed on."

I jabbed my index finger at Max. "Look. I told you that I didn't want to do it. That I was content to change my schedule. Did that sound like it had any coded messages of, 'please toss me a fireproof rock and then blast me with a magic flamethrower' hidden in it?"

Max seemed taken aback. He opened his mouth to reply, but I cut him off.

"I am not scared of dragons. Or ghouls. Or vampires. Or any other kind of patient I have to see. And even if I was, I don't need you stepping in to help me be brave. I can be brave on my own." Though my clothes were still warm from the fire, I crossed my arms over my chest and stalked past Max, toward the bar's back door.

"Jillian," came his voice from over my shoulder. I froze with my hand on the door. I didn't want to turn around, because it would certainly ruin the effect of my storming away. But, darn it, my parents raised me better than to be rude. Even to people who had pissed me off. So I turned, and I found Max's face apologetic. "I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry." He gathered the box from the ground, tossing the wand and rock into it. "And I know you don't need my help being brave. I didn't mean to imply that."

A knot of anger that had developed between my shoulder blades loosened. My spine relaxed slightly. "It's just, that... dammit, Max. I'm the first human provider The Agency has ever hired. I've seen a lot, since taking this job. You know that. Hell, I've been here every day since I started this job, picking up magical equipment without which it would be impossible for me to do my job."

Max knew that. He also knew I was getting to the point. Which I assume is why he stayed silent and simply nodded.

"Yes. I was scared about visiting a dragon today. Okay?" I growled. "And, you know what? I've been scared on many occasions, as a normal human entering the homes of cryptohumaoids. But, see, the thing is, I don't think there's anything wrong with that. There's something to be said for having a healthy amount of fear for things that could literally rip me limb from limb if they chose." I raised my eyes to his. He was still watching me speculatively with the box of magical supplies in his arms. "But one thing I haven't done it let that fear control me. Yes, There were patients I would have rather not seen. But I went anyway. Do you know why?"

"Yes," Max said softly. "For Hope."

Hope was my four-year-old daughter. She was my sole motivation for taking the job with The Agency for the Betterment of Cryptohumanoid Kind. More specifically, it was The Agency's paycheck, which paid for Hope's treatments and kept us out of poverty.

I nodded sharply.

"I'm sorry," Max replied. "It was out of line for me to force-demonstrate the firestone. I should have respected your wishes."

"Thank you. I forgive you," I replied. I then lowered my eyes and held out a hand to Max. "Now give it back, please."

Max looked confused.

I gestured with my outstretched hand. "Come on. Please don't make this harder on me."

"Wait a minute," Max stammered. "You mean you're going? You're actually going to visit the sick dragon? I thought we just had an emotional conversation about how I should respect your wishes and let you make your decisions."

"We did," I replied. "And now I'm deciding to visit Mephiblasheph. So I'll need the firestone."

Max's words seemed trapped in his throat. For a few minutes he simply gestured silently with his mouth open. "Are all human women this confusing, or is it just you?"

"The choice to see Mephiblasheph or not is mine alone. I am an independent woman," I said, ignoring his question. "But, that being said, sometimes an independent woman needs a friend to remind her when she's being a scaredycat, and when she needs to woman up and do what needs to be done." I raised my eyes. "And when to trust that her wizard friend is going to supply her with the tools necessary to do her job, like he always has."

Though he looked like he wanted to say more, Max simply shook his head and handed over the firestone. It was still warm.

"And to answer your question, it's not just me. And it's not just human women. If you dated a little more, you'd realize that."

Max had held the box awkwardly on his hip while digging out the firestone, but he'd repositioned the box in his arms and now approached the back door of the bar. I held it open for him. "Oh, please," he scoffed. "I'm one-hundred and eighty-one years old. And, of all the species I've dated, I've never met a woman as complicated as you."

"Sounds more like a problem with the women you've dated than with me," I said over my shoulder. I crossed back through the bar, nodding to the regulars that sat on their usual stools, even though it was barely past nine in the morning. From the bar I picked up my medical bag where I'd left it, and dropped the firestone inside.

Max stepped behind the bar and set to polishing pint glasses, what he'd been doing before I'd come in for my daily supplies. "Same time tomorrow, then?" He asked, an amused twinkle in his eye.

Slinging my medical bag over my shoulder, I replied, "Same time. As long as you promise to get my permission next time before immolating me."

Max draped his bar rag over his arm like a waiter. "I shall be a perfect gentlemen."

"Don't hurt yourself," Rolf, a regular at the bar, mumbled with a laugh.

Max plucked a lime from the bar caddy and flung it at Rolf's head. It bounced harmlessly off his forehead and onto the floor.

"Be good, boys," I called as I opened the door. "See you both tomorrow."

As the door shut behind me, I heard the wizard bartender tell the werewolf on the bar stool, "I'm telling ya, man... human woman. Watch out."

Now fully equipped, mentally and physically, to see my full caseload of fantastic magic and supernatural patients, I simply smiled.

Wool: For Strength!

At the end of 2015, I realized that, for as much as I reportedly love writing, I certainly wasn't doing much of it. At least, I wasn't posting on the places where my writing was supposed to exist, which was Cut and Dry, my creative blog, and Runner Confidential, my running/real-life thoughts blog.

2015 New Year's resolution? One new blog post every week. This is week 2, and so far I'm keeping up. I've decided to post in my two blogs on rotation. Since last week I wrote my first new Runner Confidential post in three months, this week it's Cut and Dry.

This story is a continuation of a story I posted way back in April of 2014, called, 'The Evils of Polka Dots'. You might want to check out the original before reading this one.

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“Okay. I changed my mind. I officially don’t want to do this anymore. I’m ready to go home, and I promise I will never, ever say that my life is boring for as long as I live.” 

My arms trembled around the baseball bat I gripped, white-knuckled, in my hands. The fingerless, cable-knit mittens I wore made gripping the instrument difficult.  

“Don’t be silly!” Great-Aunt Cathrine told me, waving her hand dismissively. “You’ll be fine. Now go ahead and open the door.” 

Aunt Cathrine spoke as casually as if she was discussing the weather. She didn’t sound concerned at all of the snarling, spitting, and howling that was coming from behind the rickety wooden door. 

When she had asked if I was ready to actually try out the magic I'd been creating in my Weaver Apprenticeship, I'd jumped at the opportunity. But then she'd driven me to a run-down side of the city, to an old, brick apartment building that looked like it hadn't been lived in since I'd been born. I didn't know the old woman could pick locks so expertly, until she'd led me inside the ramshackle building and to the third floor. 

“I don’t know, Aunt Cathrine,” I replied, barely keeping my voice from quaking. “Are you sure I can do this?” 

“Of course I’m sure! You’ve already progressed well with your Weaving. It’s time you saw what the magic can do.” With visible effort, she dropped the backpack she was wearing to the floor and started rummaging around inside. “If you don’t want the bat, I still have the crowbar if you want to trade.” 

I'd tried the crowbar earlier, but it had been too heavy for me, so I’d settled on the bat. “It’s not the bat I’m worried about,” I fretted. I didn't want to say, It's whatever's behind that door, so I said, “It’s the mittens.” I flexed my fingers nervously, as if making sure the mittens were still there. 

Aunt Cathrine looked appalled. “Why’re you worried about those? I watched you knit them myself! They’re perfectly adequate, for a first attempt.” 

Perfectly adequate didn’t seem like the best adjective for something that was supposed to protect me from certain death. “Are you sure I shouldn’t have made them with fingers? It feels like they’d be better with fingers.” 

“Bah! Fingers!” Scoffed Aunt Cathrine. “Fingers would make gripping the bat too difficult. And, like I told you, the real power lies in the fists and wrists! Fists for fighting prowess, wrists for willpower!” She poked the gloves with her long, boney fingers. “Wool, for strength! Blue, for confidence!” With her other hand, she tugged on the flannel shirt I wore over my t-shirt, which she and I had sewn ourselves. “Plaid, for protection. Wool, for even more strength. And red, for courage.” 

“You never explained why the magic only works in colors, patterns, and fabrics,” I said. 

"You're stalling," Aunt Cathrine said. I gulped; she was right, but I had been hoping she wouldn't notice. "And as for why magic needs a color, needs a mood, I have no idea. My mother didn't know, so she couldn't teach me when I was a Weaver Apprentice. It just works the way it works." 

I trembled, and the bat in my hands shook harder. "Why didn't Mom or someone else learn to be the Weaver Apprentice? Why did it have to be me?" 

"It has to be passed from a Weaver to a female relative, at least one generation younger," Aunt Cathrine replied. "I never had a daughter. And your mother was always too interested in boys and basketball to bother learning the family secret." 

The snarling behind the door grew louder. "But I'm twelve! I can't do this!" 

"You and I Wove those mittens and that shirt together," Aunt Cathrine said, a little softer than before. She knelt beside me, wincing. Her knees were hurting again. "You know the magic that's in them. They won't let you down. And, more importantly, I won't let you down. I wouldn't let you try this if I didn't think you could handle it." She smiled, still looking young and energetic, despite being in her seventies. "I remember when you were just a little thing. You've grown into such a brave, capable young woman. You can do this, Maggie." 

Tears had appeared at the corners of Aunt Cathrine's eyes. I blinked, and found tears in my eyes, too. 

I bit my lower lip and tightened my grip on the bat. "Okay, Aunt Cathrine. I'm ready." 

Aunt Cathrine stood, wincing again. "Okay. Creatures from The Darkness can sense Woven magic, and they're scared of it. You need to draw on the blue, for confidence. So when you run in, give it your best battle cry, okay?" 

I took a deep breath. "Okay." 

She gripped the knob. "Ready?" 

I stared at the door, gripping the bat tighter. The gloves suddenly started to feel warm on my hands, and my fear started melting away. By the time I opened my mouth, I almost believed what Aunt Cathrine said about me actually being able to do this. "Ready," I said. 

Aunt Cathrine threw the door open, and I ran into the room before I could talk myself out of it. I screamed as ferociously as I could, holding the bat like a sword. 

The room was dusty and dingy, full of overturned furniture and boxes of junk. Evening light created a haze in the air through the grimy windows. At first, I didn't see anything, and my battle cry ebbed away. The I saw some movement in the corner of my eye, behind a moth-eaten couch. I moved around it, holding the bat high, ready to bash. 

At first I thought it was a cat, because it was hairy, and not much bigger than a cat. Then it opened its eyes. All of its eyes. There were, like, twelve of them, each one bulging and bloodshot. And I was so busy counting its eyes that I didn't notice its teeth until it opened its mouth and growled at me. 

Boy, were there a lot of teeth. 

The bat suddenly felt very heavy in my hands. It began to droop. My gloves started to cool. 

"Don't lose your confidence!" Aunt Cathrine yelled form outside the room. 

I tried to reply, but it came out as a tiny whimper. The furry, bug-eyed Darkness creature hurled itself at me. 

My battle cry changed into a scream of terror. But the creature never touched me; instead, it slammed into a invisible wall inches from my face and ricocheted against the busted couch. My flannel shirt heated so quickly that it felt like I'd stepped into a sauna. 

"That's the plaid!" Aunt Cathrine called. "It's protection is only good for one hit that fierce!" 

I looked down, and found that Aunt Cathrine was right. What had before been a plaid shirt was now simply a red, wool shirt. The protection had been used up; the plaid was gone. 

The creature lay dazed on the floor, but it was starting to stir. I screamed again, and this time it was a battle cry. My gloves warmed again. I charged across the room. The bat suddenly felt lighter as I lifted it over my head. The temperature of my shirt matched my gloves. 

The creature looked up at me with those eye again, and it snarled through a mouthful of fangs. My confidence wavered, but I simply screamed louder and brought the bat down on the creature with all my strength. 

The thing exploded in a wave of cold, black smoke. The bat struck the floor, and with an ear-splitting crack, broke in half. 

I stood, stunned, for a moment, until I felt Aunt Cathrine's arms around me and heard her cries of excitement. "You did it, Maggie, you did it!" I blinked for a few seconds, and then I finally was able to understand what had happened. 

Where the creature had been, the carpet and walls were stained with ash and soot. The bat lay splintered at my feet. And my fingerless mittens were gone; they were now only a pile of shredded blue wool on the floor. The shirt Aunt Cathrine and I had made was gone, too. There were only a few shreds of red cloth on the ground and clinging to my t-shirt, but even they were crumbling away to nothing. 

"Oh, looks like you burned through the magic pretty quickly," Aunt Cathrine said, dusting the remains off my shoulders. "The more you need it, the more quickly it gets burned up. And it looks like you needed it. Or, at least you thought you needed it." She picked up the broken piece of the Louisville Slugger from the carpet. "Looks like you put all of that Woolen Strength into one swing, grasshopper!" 

I was still breathing heavy. Now that the Woven magic was wearing off, I was feeling sore all over. And cold, since all I was wearing was a t-shirt in the chilly building. "Aunt Cathrine," I said, unable to take my eyes from the bat's broken handle in my hand. "I'm ready to go home now." 

She put her arm around my shoulder and guided me from the room and down the old building's stairs. "Of course, kiddo. Hot chocolate from Starbucks on the way home, on me." She squeezed me tightly. "None of the other seventh-graders would believe them if you told them what you did this weekend, would they?" 

I numbly shook my head, but smiled anyway. 

We stepped from the building into the wintery January air. Aunt Cathrine took off her own coat and wrapped it around my shoulders. "You going to keep that promise, kiddo?" She  asked.  

I looked up to her, puzzled. "What promise?" 

"That you're never going to say you're life is boring, for as long as you live." 

I actually laughed, and leaned close to her so she could hug me tighter. She did. "For as long as I live." 

"The Evils of Polka Dots"

“And polka dots. Be sure to watch out for polka dots.”

I lowered the notepad I was writing in to my lap and turned my face to my old aunt. “Evil? What are you talking about, Aunt Catherine?”

The woman across the table was more than sixty years older than me, but still she looked at me with child-like eyes. “It’s a little-known fact that polka dots are the most evil thing in the known universe, Maggie. Never forget that.”

“How could polka dots be evil?” I asked, closing the notepad. I was definitely not writing anything else until she answered. “And besides, you told me that no magic is good or evil on it’s own. You said that it’s the user of the magic that chooses good or evil.”

“What patterns have we already covered?” Aunt Catherine asked, pointing at my notepad.

I groaned. It would be like her not to answer my question until I answered hers first. So I flipped my notepad back a page to where I had started writing a few minutes before. “Lesson three: magic in patterns.”

“Beautiful rendition of the title,” she said with a smirk.

“Plaid and tartan: holds enchantments of heightened physical abilities,” I read from the paper. “That’s why Scottish and English warriors wore it as part of their military uniforms for hundreds of years. Until people stopped believing in magic.”

“And part of why socks are still patterned with argyle today,” Aunt Catherine put in. “Be sure to add that part.”

I wrote in the margin as she spoke, then read more from my notes. “Houndstooth: power of persuasion. Someone working magic through houndstooth becomes very easy to follow.”

“Only black-and-white houndstooth,” Aunt Catherine corrected. “That’s why you see it so frequently on business attire. Someone wearing blue houndstooth can make their words have the opposite effect of what they say. And red houndstooth… well, that just looks ridiculous.”

I scribbled more notes next to what I had already written.

“And under that,” Aunt Catherine added. “Be sure to put, ‘Polka dots: pure evil’!”

I wrote what she told me. “Aunt Catherine, why are polka dots evil?”

“Why is the sun hot? Why is rain wet? We’re not meant to understand everything, Maggie. Some things just are.”

I wanted to tell her that I had learned why the sun was hot and why rain was wet in 6^th grade science class last month, but I held it inside. Instead, I asked, “If plaid holds physical enchantments, and houndstooth can make a person more convincing, what does magic worked through polka dots do?”

“Exactly what I told you. It does evil,” she replied, curling her hand like a claw when she said evil. “No matter what you try to do with your magic through polka dots, it comes out evil. Trying to make your friend lucky? They’ll get bad luck. Trying to get rid of an itchy rash? You’ll catch a worse rash. Trying to get school cancelled for the day? It’ll get smashed by an asteroid.”

I looked up from my notepad long enough to raise a skeptical eyebrow.

“It’s happened!” Aunt Catherine insisted. “Polka dots are no laughing matter! They’re seriously bad news! Why do you think they were so big in the 1950’s? We were in the middle of the Cold War! Everyone was having dark thoughts!”  

I knew nothing about the 1950’s, and I had no idea what a ‘cold war’ was, but if Aunt Catherine said so, then it made sense. I jotted it down on my notepad. “Hey Aunt Catherine,” I began. “Why does magic flow so easily through patterns?”

When she smiled, the lines beside her nose deepened. But instead of making her look older, they actually made her look more vibrant, more full of life. “Why, the same way everything flows through colors and patterns, Maggie,” she replied. “For example, describe what you’re wearing today.”

I looked down at my shirt. It was bright yellow, and on it there was a cartoon of a walrus with a huge handlebar mustache and a top hat. “Well, I’m wearing my fancy walrus shirt, a jean skirt, and gray leggings.”

“Why did you choose to wear those this morning?”

“Because it’s Monday, and fun clothes always cheer me up on Mondays, because otherwise it’s the worst day of the week.”

She lifted her eyebrows and gestured with her index finger. “See what I mean? Colors and patterns have a great effect on our emotions! Another example: when you think of people who are sad, like at a funeral, what color are they always wearing?”

“Black,” I responded instantly. 

“Good,” Aunt Catherine replied. “But black is not always a sad color. Black is reserved, inward-seeking. It doesn’t see to impose on others; it simply wishes to be itself, accepted. On that idea, what color is a bride’s wedding dress, usually? And what is it made from?”

“White,” I replied. “And usually something smooth, like silk or lace.”

“White is an extroverted color,” Aunt Catherine said. “White wants to be seen, to be heard. And magic worked through those slick fabrics repel other things – bad emotions, bad luck, bad magic – which only makes white that much more outgoing.”

I nodded, enthralled by her story-telling. “Tell me some more!” I prodded.

Aunt Catherine nodded sharply with her forehead. “Why? You haven’t written down what I just told you!”

I looked down. Though I hadn’t realized it, my notepad and pencil had fallen to the floor.

“Are you the next Weaver Apprentice, or ain’t ya?” Aunt Catherine said, but there was some laughter in her voice. “How am I going to teach you about the forces of creation and destruction, light and darkness, order and chaos, if you don’t write any of it down?”

I laughed a little and stuck my tongue out at her, but wrote down everything she had told me about weddings and funerals and black and white. “What about paisley? You know, the pattern on handkerchiefs? What kind of magic can you do with paisley?”

A sly smile crossed her face. “Oh, you’re not ready for paisley yet, sprout. That’s advanced level stuff. We’ll be lucky if we make it to gingham today.”

I playfully rolled my eyes at my great aunt, but continued to write as I hung on her every word. After all, I liked the Weaver Apprentice lessons. And, the longer she and I talked, the longer I got to put off doing my math homework. Win-win!