‘Forget Me Not’ – By Mark T. Bates (The Curious Dark #7)

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‘Forget Me Not’

A short story …

By Mark T. Bates

(2026)

***

It was a year to the day that Angelique had spent the final hours with her husband prior to his death. A tragic death by his own hand; his brains blown out with a colt revolver that he’d kept locked in the drawer of his writing desk in case any intruder had dared to enter the sanctuary of their home. His body had been left limp, and what remained of his face had lain slumped on his desk; waiting morbidly for Angelique to find soon after he had fired the fatal shot. When she entered the room the barrel of the gun was still smoking where it lay after falling to the floor, having singed the rug it rested on. Angelique would never forget the sight that she’d walked in on during the middle of that fateful night; the night her world had irreversibly collapsed.

Now, she slowly opened the door to his study, and peered into the room that remained exactly as he had left it. She entered, softly closing the door behind with her foot; being careful not to drop the bottle of champagne she held in one hand, or the two crystal flute glasses she cradled in her other. She turned and surveyed the room as she always did upon entering its intoxicating wonder. Taking in a deep breath and closing her eyes for just a moment. A moment in which for a brief second everything was how it once was; before he had pulled the trigger in a moment of incomprehensible madness, and ended both their lives.

Angelique was standing in the study of the now deceased and infamous author David Starkweather. A writer of supernatural-thrillers which had sold by the millions, making them an incredibly wealthy couple. The room had a gothic quality to it, as did the rest of their secluded Victorian mansion. A rather grand house surrounded by miles of forest thick with redwood trees, and resting on a single road which snaked down from the gates of their sprawling estate into the nearest town. This was the house in which Angelique had lived this last year as a complete recluse since the death of her love. An agonising parting from which she knew she would never truly recover.   

His room, as it had always been, remained a beautiful mystery to her. A space in which solitude had provided almost divine moments of literary inspiration. Where David had sat deep within his own imagination for uncountable hours, at a writing desk which sat in the shadow of a glorious bay window. A window overlooking beautifully landscaped gardens that Angelique herself had once spent great pride in tending; but not any longer. Next to the writing desk, the original Victorian-era French window opened out onto a patio, where Angelique and David had spent many mornings sitting with a coffee, basking in the Californian sunrise. Where they would drink wine together in the evenings, and had danced many times under the glow of the pale moonlight.

In the middle of David’s study, an exquisitely designed Persian rug covered a large section of the room’s oak flooring. On the rug, two sofas and an antique velvet Chaise-lounge wrapped themselves around a coffee table. It was here that David would relax of an evening with a cognac and a fine cigar, whilst poring over his writing from the day. Angelique would often watch him read, smiling to herself as he did so; and now she allowed herself to smile once more, as remembering these happier times were all that kept her going. For her, the love they shared was timeless. His unfathomable decision to take his own life for reasons she would never comprehend couldn’t change that.

On one wall opposite the lounge area, a large Baroque-style mirror encased in an intricately patterned bronze border stretched from floor to ceiling. The striking mirror was adorned each side by book shelves bursting with David’s impressive library. An outrageously valuable collection of classic horror fiction, with some books dating back hundreds of years. Vintage editions from Lovecraft, Stoker and Shelley proudly sat side-by-side, a collection brought together by a devout passion that David’s wealth had afforded him the luxury of indulging over the years.

He had also collected a sizable assortment of incredibly rare occult manuscripts. A most curious obsession he had acquired in Angelique’s eyes, but one that she often found fascinating. He would read to her passages from the works of Aleister Crowley and Manly P. Hall; and he would talk of his upmost desire of conjuring the devil, or other spirits from the beyond. They would laugh together as they got drunk, fantasising over such matters. But his love of the occult had become notorious, and the influence it had on David’s work had noticeably grown more prominent during his final years. These were also the years where his success had grown beyond their wildest dreams, and an almost unimaginable wealth had followed.

David had been forty-four-years-old when he placed the end of the gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger. Leaving behind a successful life and a wife that loved him beyond all comprehension. Angelique would never understand what had gone through his mind in that moment; the prior evening had been simply wonderful in her eyes. The two of them had celebrated the completion of his latest novel by cooking a splendid meal together, washed down with a bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape. Then, as always when he finished a piece of work, they had retired to their garden and opened a bottle of vintage Dom Pérignon, a bottle identical to the one Angelique was holding in her hand right now … exactly one year later, to the very hour.

They had toasted his continued success while listening to the poetic lyrics of Jim Morrison; and now Angelique once again closed her eyes and smiled as she remembered embracing her husband as they’d watched the sun set and fall below the line of trees bordering their home; while Riders on the Storm played softly on the stereo. After that blissful moment, David had taken her inside and made love to her by candlelight in his study; before they had made their way upstairs and fallen asleep naked in each other’s arms, as they often did.

At some point during the night while Angelique lay in her delightful slumber, David had risen from their bed. He had taken himself downstairs and poured a large glass of Hennessey. He had also lit a fine Cuban cigar before sitting at his writing desk. Angelique had awoken sharply at the sound that followed. A single shot of gunfire had echoed around the room below where she’d been sleeping. At first, she wasn’t sure what the noise was that had disturbed her delightful rest. She remembered feeling across to his side of the bed, first with her foot and then her arm as she searched for his comfort.

She’d felt groggy and confused from the alcohol she’d drunk and the grip of the dream she had suddenly been pulled from. Sensing her love was not lying beside her where he should have been, Angelique had climbed out of their bed and pulled on a silk dressing gown across her bare flesh. The window to their bedroom was open and she was cold. Her flesh tingled and was covered in goosebumps. She walked out of her bedroom, yawning to herself and shivering as she tied the dressing gown cord tight around her waist. And from there she had walked downstairs to look for her husband, and to investigate the sound that had caused her to awaken so sharply. 

***

A year on, Angelique walked across her deceased husband’s study and sat at the desk where he had created his work, and where he had crafted his final act of blood splattered art. She placed down the bottle of Don Pérignon and the two glasses, and looked at the green leather of the worktop which was still stained with the faded crimson remnants of his suicide. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to remove the desk from the room despite the story it now told. Instead, she’d felt compelled to leave everything exactly as it had once been, as it would now always be.

She carefully popped the cork on the bottle, and as the champagne fizzed, she placed one glass underneath the neck and delicately poured; ensuring not to spoil his desk further with even the slightest splash of liquid. She then repeated the process until she had two full glasses of the finest vintage money could buy. Angelique stared at a photo of her and her love sitting on the table; and in the moment she lost herself as she studied the picture for the hundredth time, and mouthed the words;

“I miss you my darling.”

Angelique walked across to the French-window and unlocked the doors, opening them before returning to the desk which allowed just the faintest of breezes to join her in the room. A single record deck sat to the far end of the desk with a neatly stacked pile of vinyl on the floor next to it. She picked up the first cover and let the vinyl slide out into her hand. Then she carefully positioned the record onto the player, placed the needle onto the first groove; and hit play on the stereo.

She listened intently as the sound of wind and rain once again bled into the tender opening bars of Riders on the Storm. Next, she lit a dozen black candles that scattered the various table tops in the room, before turning out the main light so that their flames flickered within the darkness. She picked up both glasses of champagne and walked outside to the edge of the patio’s balcony, before looking out over the warming embrace of the forest that surrounded her home.

“To you my love, wherever you may be …” she whispered into the air, clinking the two glasses together in her hands.

Angelique then poured the entire contents of one into her mouth, downing the liquid before throwing the glass to the floor and watching as it shattered before her. She brushed her lips with the back of her hand before blowing a kiss into the air as tears streamed down her face. She then walked back inside, and pulled the door closed behind her. As she approached the lounge area, she stopped to admire herself in the commanding mirror that hung on the wall; while the flames of the candles danced excitedly around her. Angelique had wanted to recreate their last evening together exactly as she’d remembered it; and exactly as she had learned to do so from one of the many forms of conjuration magic, that she had studied in this very room.

The champagne, the music of The Doors, the candles and the exact timing of their toast one year earlier. She was even wearing the same floral dress which hung loose around her breasts and sat high above her knees. Through teary eyes, she looked herself up and down in the mirror; her long dark hair resting on her shoulders, the remaining champagne flute grasped tight in her palm. Angelique closed her eyes to picture David clearly in her mind, and whispered his name before softly pleading;

“Come to me, my love …”

She stood there in front of the mirror and endlessly repeated the words. It may have been minutes, it might have been an hour, she did not know. But eventually, beyond all comprehension and everything she thought she knew, Angelique felt the chill of an icy-breath on her neck; and the lightest touch of fingertips on her shoulders. An uncontrollable shiver travelled down her spine … and the remaining crystal glass slipped from her grasp. 

***

The slow caress on Angelique’s shoulders felt like icicles dripping softly down her back. With her eyes still closed she took in a deep breath, and there it was … the unmistakeable smell of the Eau de Cologne David had been wearing on their final evening together. Turning around, she slowly opened her eyes; but there was no-one there. His scent however stayed, hanging delectably in the air around her. As her mind tried to make sense of the confusion, she suddenly felt an invisible force pushing her backwards towards the Chaise-lounge.

Angelique called out David’s name as she landed onto the soft cushions, and as she tried to sit up, she felt a chilling embrace against her. An unseen presence began overpowering her as it began sliding up the bottom of her dress. She felt two hands clasp tight around her hips, and the smell of her husband which enriched her nostrils was now stronger than ever. She felt the weight of his body press down hard upon her; and within moments, he was inside of her.

Angelique moaned as she lay back and clenched her thighs together, squeezing the extraordinary feeling deeper. She felt every movement of her husband despite not being able to see him, and the memory of him in this moment was infinite. As her body shuddered in the throes of a celestial passion, her head rolled backwards. Her eyes were shut once more and a vision of her lover’s face flickered through her mind. In her spasm of pure ecstasy, time stood still.

Eventually, she opened her eyes. Angelique looked upside down into the mirror on the wall … and she froze. In the reflection she could finally see her husband on top of her. But David’s face was not how she had imagined it moments ago. Instead, his face was badly deformed; mangled by the bullet which had been shot from his mouth and through the back of his head. What remained of David stared back at her through the mirrored-glass, the look of a tragic lost soul sat deep within his eyes. Angelique glanced away from the mirror and up to where the body of her husband should have been, but still, there was no-one there. Despite this curious invisibility however, she still felt his body pressed down hard on hers, and she could still feel him within her.

Angelique lay there, not knowing what to do or whether to speak out loud to him; and as her mind pondered, she started to feel him pull away. First from between her thighs, and then the weight lifting from the rest of her body. Angelique desperately looked back towards the mirror as the reflection of David stared back at her through his tortured blood-shot eyes. Flesh and skin hung from his face, exposing his cheek bone. But instead of a natural revulsion, an unconceivable sadness washed over her instead. And she sensed this emotion emanating from him too.

Can this be the only time you come back to me?

Slowly, and with an almost majestic glide, David began moving back away from her further. Angelique, desperate to be held and loved once more could only lay watching as his reflection slowly faded into an endless nothing. Before she knew what was happening his presence had vanished completely … and she was left a sad and lonely widow once more.

*** END ***

Copyright 2025 Mark T. Bates

All Rights Reserved

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Mark T. Bates – Writer Bio

From a young age, Mark immersed himself within the world of genre storytelling. Devouring paperbacks from the likes of Stephen King & Clive Barker, while immersing himself in the movies of John Carpenter & David Cronenberg. All combining to lay the foundations for a life-long love of Horror, Fantasy & Sci-Fi, which has naturally transcended into a passion for telling his own tales.

A number of his short stories have been published online by Crystal Lake Publishing (Shallow Waters) and The Dark Corner blog, whilst he has also appeared in ‘Strangest Fiction Anthology Vol.3’ and on the ‘Creepy Podcast.’ Mark is publishing his own short story series ‘The Curious Dark’ on www.kult-zilla.com – where he also writes plenty of Horror adjacent non-fiction. 

His debut novella – ‘The Curse of Six’ – released with RDG Books in the autumn of 2025, while his second novella – ‘A Slow Decay of Flowers’ – follows in the Spring of 2026 via Alien Buddha Press. 

Mark can be found online in all of the usual places!

‘A Slow Decay of Flowers’ – By Mark T. Bates

‘The Curious Dark (Vol.1)’ – By Mark T. Bates