Posts filed under ‘READER’S OPPORTUNITIES’
TO HONOR VETERAN’S DAY I’M REPOSTING THIS STORY
This is my first published story. Published by Enigma in 2003.
REUNION
The June morning was brilliant and clear with just enough of a breeze to keep you cool despite the predicted eighty-degree day. At the age of eighty-two, for Christopher Johnson, getting up in the morning was not an easy chore and had lately not seemed worth the effort. He turned his head and looked at the pillow beside him. “I miss you so much honey,” he said quietly. His wife Peggy had died less than a year ago. One night they went to bed as usual. The last words he had said to her were the words he always said to her before falling asleep, “I love you.” When Chris awoke, Peggy was dead of a heart attack. A few days later he was looking into her grave knowing a large part of his life was now buried in the cold earth. After almost sixty years of marriage, the pain of her loss was intense, almost as intense as the love they had shared all those years.
With Peggy still on his mind, he sat up and began to stretch his arthritic limbs knowing the pain that would follow. Next, he stood up and took a few steps; those first steps were the worst of the day. He winced with every movement, but soon his joints and muscles settled down to the constant pain that accompanied him these days.
He had gotten up earlier than usual, for today, unlike most of his days, he had an appointment, something to do. He opened his closet door, and, in the back, he found what he was looking for: his U.S. Army ranger dress uniform, the one he had worn on his return home after being wounded during World War II. With persistent pain, he maneuvered his body into the uniform that, after sixty years, still fit his slender frame. He looked in the mirror, and the toll of those sixty years stared back at him. The hair on his head and his mustache had gone gray years ago. His eyes, once admired by his fellow soldiers for their ability to spot enemy aircraft or fortifications before anyone else, now watered behind heavy bifocals. He inspected his image, looking over the uniform for signs of moth damage. The area of his uniform he examined first was his chest; there hung the Purple Heart and the Congressional Medal of Honor. He was proud to have served his country, proud of his awards but knew that in combat, a split second could mean the difference between a dead soldier and a hero. Satisfied that his uniform had survived another year, he returned it to the closet and dressed in his usual summer shirt and khakis.
While Chris hung up his uniform, his mind still held the Medal of Honor and the events that led to its award.
The day was D Day, early in the morning of June 6th. Chris was among a group of Army Rangers that would be the first to hit the beach. Their objective was to climb and secure the cliffs overlooking the landing sites. These cliffs held guns that could hazard the ships and soldiers, and the hazard needed to be removed. German soldiers were stationed on the cliffs, ready to rain death on unprotected soldiers landing on the beach below. Chris and his three buddies, Frank Grimes, Larry Schwartz and Duck Dupont were together in the landing craft, along with twenty other rangers heading toward the beach.
Chris had begun basic training knowing no one. Soon he gravitated to three other guys who seemed to be as lost and alone as he was. The four of them gradually became friends and survived the ordeal together. Of the three, he was closest to Duck Dupont. Duck’s real name was Willard; he gained his nickname Duck during a basic training class. The class was walking past the artillery area when a practice round went off. Most of the class flinched, but Duck was on the ground with his head covered by his hands. From then on he was known as Duck.
His thoughts returned to June 6th.
It was still dark and they landed unopposed. The men quickly and quietly disembarked and headed for the base of the two-hundred-foot cliff – it would be quite a climb. When everyone was in position, they fired ropes up the side of the cliff. This brought the response they expected; Germans began firing down the cliff and rangers began to collapse on the beach. Chris and his friends were to stay together and climb along with most of the rangers while the rest provided cover fire. Soon the German fire lessened then ceased as the rangers continued their climb.
The four friends were the first to reach the top of the cliff. What they saw sent a shiver through them all. Before them, set back about fifty yards from the edge of the cliff, stood a series of three bunkers. The first light of dawn streamed through the trees beyond the enemy, and all seemed quiet and peaceful except for the machine guns projecting from behind sandbags. They knew they had to act fast, because if they didn’t, the rangers coming up the cliff would be cut down as soon as they reached the top. They split up into two groups; Chris and Duck went to the left – Frank and Larry to the right. The two flanking bunkers had to be eliminated before the middle position could be attacked. Each group approached the nearest bunker and tossed a grenade inside. The simultaneous explosions sent German soldiers into action. The rangers had missed one. Along with fire from the third remaining bunker, a fourth bunker opened up along with mortar fire from behind the bunker. The fourth bunker surprised the rangers and had a clear shot at them. Duck was literally cut in half by machine gun fire. Larry was attacking the third of the bunkers they had seen, having just pulled the pin from a grenade when he was shot. They never did find Frank. Chris entered the first bunker they had taken out, pushed aside the mangled German bodies and manned the machine gun. He quickly took out the bunker they had overlooked before, creeping up to the last remaining bunker; he destroyed it with grenades. The actions of the four men had saved the lives of the rangers now reaching the summit of the cliff and helped secure the landing site for the invasion.
In the early morning silence, after the heat of battle, Chris collapsed on the ground part from fatigue, part from pain, but mostly from grief – his friends were gone. Chris had shrapnel wounds in his left arm and hip. At some point his helmet had taken a hit and deflected the bullet but the impact gave him a nasty scalp wound. Blood now streamed down the side of his face and soaked his collar.
These are the memories that flooded into Chris’s mind as he put away his uniform and prepared to spend a weekend at the Mid Atlantic Air Museum as a guest of honor, something he had done for the last five years. This would be his first year without Peggy at his side. He knew it would not be the same without her, but he still looked forward to the event.
The museum had organized a weekend devoted to the history of World War II for the last ten years. It was a living history lesson with vintage aircraft flown in from all over the country, and encampments set up with hundreds of reenactors dressed in the World War II uniforms of the United States, England, France and Germany. The museum also invited veterans from the war who would give firsthand accounts of combat. But none of them said what the war was really like because their memories were selective, cleansed by time, and they all carried within them that area of memory they would never enter again.
World War II weekend started Friday morning and, although he wasn’t scheduled to give his presentation until Saturday, Chris always went Friday to wander the hanger and apron crammed with vintage World War II fighters, bombers, trainers and transports. He could remember when the skies were filled with their kind. Now there remained only a few of each. On those warm Friday afternoons, he enjoyed walking through the encampments. At one point he saw three men in ranger combat uniforms. He smiled to himself, glad to see his branch of the army represented. Chris loved strolling through the tents. In his mind, there was nothing like the smell of a real canvas tent; the open flaps were your windows, and the grass was your floor. He had seen the tents his grandchildren used when they camped, it was like camping in a nylon bag, no smell, no character. In one of those old canvass tents, he could stand, close his eyes, and the memories of his days in the army would flood into his brain.
Another reason he enjoyed Fridays was the veterans whose attendance was heavy. The old men and women enjoyed the smaller crowds and slower pace that Fridays afforded. He enjoyed conversations with his contemporaries, reliving the past and recalling the days they were once young and involved in the great adventure they shared.
Saturday morning arrived, the sky again clear and blue. He went through his morning routine, slowly struggling into his uniform and waited for his nine o’clock ride to the museum. Chris looked forward to the day. Although he had never made a big deal about his award, one day bathed in the admiration of people who appreciated the sacrifices made during World War II did not hurt him, not at all.
With his first lecture scheduled for 10:30, he was anxious to get to the museum. He found the tent for his lecture. There were about fifty folding chairs set up. He took a moment and stood there alone, letting his mind recall memories that he usually avoided, memories that he would touch slightly, just slightly today.
As he waited at the speaker’s platform, the tent began to fill up. At the back of the tent, he spied the three young men in ranger uniforms he had seen the day before, standing together apart from the crowd. Maybe today they would learn something about the uniforms they wore.
The chairs were full and people were standing in the back as Chris went into his presentation. He shared with them the events of that early morning on the French coast, sanitized, but with enough action to keep the crowd’s attention. After thirty minutes he was done and ready for questions. Halfway through the questions one of the men dressed as a ranger raised his hand and said, “Sir, I just want you to know we appreciate what you did for your country.”
That brought a smile to Chris’ face, “I appreciate that son,” he answered.
The presentation was over, the tent was cleared, and it was time for a little lunch and a chance to watch the vintage aircraft flying. This was the part he most enjoyed. The drone of the B-17 accompanied the whine of the Merlin powered P-51s. He knew the planes were the big draw, not old men wearing old uniforms, but he was happy to be part of the show.
First to fly were the trainers, SNJs and T-28s. Then the observation aircraft would fly, the L-19s, followed by the transports, the C-47s and a C-54. Before the fighters and bombers took off, the reenactors took the field in front of the crowd. To the left were the men in German uniforms, to the right the U.S. Army.
The uniformed men fired blanks and mock mortars at each other. There were also smoke grenades thrown by both sides. All this action took place in a grassy area between the runway and aircraft taxiway. As usual, the fire department stood ready for the grass fires the smoke grenades always started, and this year was no exception. The grass fires were more of a nuisance than a danger, and they were always rapidly dealt with. In fact, the dense plumes were greater than any of the regular attendees of the show could remember, and the fire company quickly prepared to hose down the grass. Chris stood there with the rest of the crowd as the shroud of smoke drifted over them.
Suddenly, he felt a tap on his shoulder. It was one of the rangers, “Sir, we need your help.”
“Sure son, what can I do for you?” came Chris’ reply.
“Could you join us sir?” the ranger questioned. The ranger started walking towards the smoke set off by the mock battle, flanked by the two other rangers Chris had noticed before, and bewildered, Chris followed.
Soon smoke enveloped the four men. The crowd, watching the firemen putting out the grass fire saw the three reenactors on the field but could not imagine why an old man in uniform was traipsing in after them. They saw the four enter the clouds of smoke and lost sight of them.
Chris walked, not knowing where the three young men were taking him. His arthritis bothered him as he entered the smoke, but a few steps into the haze his pain was reduced and then gone. He noticed something else; he no longer wore his dress uniform but wore the ranger combat uniform, same as the reenactors. All at once he was puzzled and amazed and had no idea what their destination could be.
The three reenactors slowed down, and Chris easily caught up with them. “How in the hell are you, Chris?” asked Duck. Frank and Larry were slapping his back and pounding his shoulders, his young shoulders.
“We’re on a mission and need your help,” said Frank. “We need the squad together,” he continued.
“I’m your man,” said Chris taking off his helmet and running his hand through his thick dark hair. His mind still could not wrap itself around what was happening.
Some of the crowd there to watch the flying saw four figures begin to emerge from the smoke, the figures of four young men. The men entered another cloud of smoke before them and were gone.
Chris and his three buddies came out of the haze. They were on a dirt road surrounded by a forest. They were all holding rifles, but Chris could sense no danger. They were on patrol and Chris felt better than he had ever felt in his life. He was with his best friends, men he had missed all these years and men he loved. The sky was so blue it almost hurt his eyes. The trees and grass were the greenest green he had ever seen. He set out with his three friends, easily matching their stride.
Suddenly, Chris’ eyes filled with tears. He did not know how, did not understand what was happening, but somehow, he knew his young and pretty Peggy was waiting.
The End
HAVEN OF HORROR: A LOVECRAFTIAN STORY
For those who are fans of H.P. Lovecraft you will find a flavor in this story to his horror.
HAVEN OF HORROR
Jeff and Karen were recently married. Shortly after their marriage Jeff was offered a better job than he had at the time with better pay and he accepted. Now they needed to move. With great anticipation they now were on a road trip to explore the area which would be their new home. Jeff loved wandering down roads he had never traveled, and for him this trip was a treat. A new area to be visited ripe for exploration.
As they drove along, not really sure where they were, Karen said, “I’m tired and hungry. Let’s stop at the next town for some rest and food.” They had been on the road for several days driving from California to Pennsylvania. Today, they had been driving for ten hours and they both needed rest and food.
Jeff spied what looked like a seldom used road, “Let’s go down that road. It must lead to somewhere.”
Karen looked at him as if to say, ‘Give me a break’ for it looked like it would lead to nowhere. The newness of marriage had not yet dissolved, but it was getting there.
Karen glanced at the maps they had brought along, “Jeff, this road is not on the map!”
Jeff’s response was, “Great.” Karen just shook her head. And off they went down an unmapped road hoping to find food and perhaps lodging for the night as the sky was steadily darkening the landscape. He looked at Karen and wondered if the stop would lead to ‘cuddling’ – and perhaps more. He wondered how long those episodes would last. He had heard stories.
With Karen constantly complaining about how tired and hungry she was, they approached a small town. Jeff was hungry too, and ready for some nighttime activity. As they entered the town it was as if they were visiting a page out of history. There was not a modern structure. It was like something to a lot for filming an old movie. In the middle of town stood a gas station with only one pump. A hint of days long gone. An old guy in a chair was leaning against the building.
The old man waved and said, “Hi. Don’t see many strangers here.”
The town was Schuylkill Haven.
* * *
Schuylkill Haven, a small town not appearing on any maps, was of little value to visitors who happened upon it. In fact, the town shunned visitors until they were needed. When this occurred, the residents made the heavily rutted road to the town visible and waited for guests. Just as the town was not on maps, so was the road. The entrance to the road was usually heavily concealed for the residents liked, needed their privacy. But the road to the town was now uncovered and the people of the haven waited.
The town of Schuylkill Haven came into existence most unnaturally centuries ago. From a small hill far from any inhabitants, late in the 1600’s the town was born.
One day there was movement of the earth on the side of the hill. The bottom of the hill began to push outward forming a cavity which grew into a cave. The first residents of the town began to arrive from within.
Men, women, and children, all naked, streamed out of the newly formed fissure and studied the surroundings. At first the light nearly blinded them, but eventually they adjusted to the harsh glow of daylight.
The new arrivals were helpless in this new world. With no food or lodging they were certainly doomed. Coming to their rescue was a wandering tribe of Native Americans. With compassion for these new arrivals, they shared food with them, helped them to plant crops, hunt, construct shelters and make clothing. Eventually explores happened upon the town and were amazed to find white men in such a remote location. With the explorers came more modern methods of agriculture and more substantial lodging. Slowly a town took shape, and the residents thrived. But there was a disturbing knowledge revealed to the residents. The elders began to have a greenish tint to their skin and took on strange physical characteristics. Their heads became misshaped and enlarged with mouths wide and menacing. The residents knew they had a secret meant to be kept and concealed. Old age brought unnatural changes to the senior residents.
They wondered for an explanation on the source of this ghastly conversion. No one could mine an answer. There were legends of drawings found in the cave near the town, of beings beyond imagination. Monsters with no place in nature. From this knowledge they speculated that beyond this horrible transformation there existed a third journey to, yet another transformation. But no one could be certain of the changes awaiting the morphed. Before they managed to isolate those transformed some of the residents journeyed deeper into the cave and thought they heard distant waves crashing on some unknown shore. What did the presence of this unknown ocean mean to those transformed? Could these transformed humans be destined for another phase dependent on the ocean? And what had that to do with turning their friends and relatives into strange creatures? Were there cities on the ocean floor awaiting new residents? As if all this wasn’t enough to challenge reality, a horrible event took place. The transformed began attacking the still normal residents. Devouring some of them. The number of mutants was not great and when their threat was realized, it was no problem to repel them to the entrance of the cave. And while a force of guards stood by, a small structure was built covering the entrance with no windows and a solitary door. The residents of the town were now aware of the horror that awaited them in the future.
* * *
While filling the gas tank Jeff asked the attendant if there was any lodging in the town and he replied,
“No hotels in town. But there is a house that will rent out rooms and proceeded
to give them directions.
Tired and hungry, they found the house and were greeted by a kindly woman, who guaranteed a room and dinner. Jeff asked why this town was not on the map.
The woman answered, “Because we are happy the way we are. Don’t want strangers
interfering with our lives. Yet, when strangers do come it’s an event. When
they chose to stay it’s a celebration.” Her remarks seemed strange to Jeff, but he decided not to pursue any more questions, now.
The woman studied the couple and said, “We have a local winery. Would you care for a sample – free?”
Jeff and Karen nodded, and she poured them each a glass.
Sipping, Karen said, “This is excellent wine.” But she soon noticed her vision begin to blur and she slumped to the floor. After a short time, Jeff joined her.
When they first arrived, they noticed a strange structure in the town park. It had uprights maybe seven feet tall and a crossbar of perhaps ten feet. Karen asked Jeff, “What do you think that is for?”
“I have no idea”, he said. “Can’t be for kids. Can’t be for anyone.”
Now they had the answer. They were hung suspended from the structure by the wrists, naked.
Jeff screamed, “What the hell is going on. Where are the police?”
An old man approached them and said, “I’m the police. What seems to be the problem?”
Jeff saw that something about the man wasn’t quite right. It was his face. It appeared a little ‘wrong’.
Jeff yelled, “Are you fucking blind?”
The sheriff, in a garbled voice replied, “Our cloistered friends are about to have a party and you, you could say, will be the guests of honor.”
Jeff, not understanding the sheriff’s response began to scream every curse he knew. While all Karen could do was softly weep.
As the sheriff slowly walked away a siren sounded. All the residents who were outside hurried to their houses. Upon entering the town, Jeff observed a small building, windowless with a single door. The door slowly opened, and Jeff could not believe the spectacle approaching them. Some walked on two, some on four limbs. They were hideous, of human size, but that was where all resemblance to a human ended. They were green with white underbellies. The head resembled that of a frog but with a stark difference, a mouth containing sharp rows of teeth. Above the grotesque mouth was a pair of blunted nostrils. Above the nostrils was a pair of eyes, knowing eyes. Intelligent eyes. Their legs ended in webbed feet. On what appeared to be arms were distorted hands with sharp claws.
The ungodly mass began to make their way to Jeff and Karen, looking predatory and surrounded the naked couple. A hideous scream exited those misshapen mouths. Then they attacked. Horrible screams came from the couple, then suddenly ceased. The beasts were a mad blur of feeding frenzy. Once done with their meal they departed to the enclosure from which they came leaving behind two hanging skeletons.
***
Mark and Candice, along with their three teenage children were on a summer vacation hiking and camping. Mark had been observing the fuel gauge. When he saw a small road off the main, he told the family, “We’re a little low on fuel, and if the road leads to a town it must have a gas station.” He carefully maneuvered his SUV down the rutted, potholed road. After not too long he said, “I told you. there’s a town.” He was proud of himself for his decisions were usually wrong about directions. And when he did decide which way to go, one of the family would chime in, “Remember when you …”
Mark surveyed the town and was right. There was a gas station. But to his surprise it had only one pump, unusual for this day and age. On closer observation, the town looked like something out of a time warp. When he drove into the station, he saw an old man in a rickety chair leaning against the building. Mark waved to the old man, who got out of his chair and slowly drifted over to the SUV.
“How you doin’? the old man asked. “Need some gas?”
Mark answered, “Yes,” and didn’t bother to say what type for obviously there was only one type available.
The man began to pump, and Mark wondered about the quality of the product, but he was low and had no choice.
His family had also been complaining about hunger for some time, so Mark asked the attendant, “Any place to eat around here?”
The old man scratched his chin and said, “No restaurants, but there is a family who do offer meals.” Mark got directions which led to a rustic-looking house which wasn’t a surprise for the entire town appeared rustic.
Mark rang the doorbell and was greeted by a very pleasant woman. Yet there was something about her putting Mark off. But his family was hungry.
Mark said, “The gas station attendant said that you might be able to provide us a meal. We are more than willing to pay and pay we should.”
The woman said, “Of course I can feed you,” and her mind added, And of course you will pay. But before you eat, we have a local wine we offer to tourists with the hope they like it and tell their friends. Let me give you each a sample. I guess your boy and two girls are not old enough to drink, but a taste won’t hurt them.”
The woman poured five glasses of wine, and, as they drank, the look on the faces of the family showed a new weariness.
The End
H. P. LOVECRAFT AND THE CTHULHU MYTHOS
H. P. LOVECRAFT AND THE CTHULHU MYTHOS
My next post will contain a short story, Haven of Horror, which I wrote with the intent of writing something with the feeling of a story by H.P. Lovecraft. If you have never heard that name before and enjoy horror I suggest that you read some of his stories. What follows is an introduction to Lovecraft.
Born in Providence, Rhode Island in 1890 and most of his story took place in New England. He was an unusual man in both appearance with his prominent lantern-jaw chin and his approach to writing. Initially writing poetry he switched to horror. One of his primary influences for some of his stories was Edgar Allan Poe.
Through his writing, Lovecraft created a new genre of horror. A writer writing stories in the same vein as Lovecraft coined to name of the genre the Cthulhu Mythos.
Lovecraft’s popularity grew and waned during his career. Not until after his death, in poverty, at the age of 47 did his style of writing gain popularity. And that style was adopted by a host of other writers. One of his stories was made into the movie, The Dunwich Horror.
If you are a fan of horror and have not yet read any of his works I suggest you try to locate some of his stories. Barnes & Noble published a volume of the complete works of his fiction in 2008. Most of his work is in the form of short stories and with a little effort I’m sure you can find them in used books stores selling horror.
EASTER ISLAND: A POEM
This poem was published by Winson-Paramount Books in 1975.
In a past post I offered a short story about Easter Island.
Something about that island I find haunting.
Easter Island
On sightless eyes
No one may see
They toil.
Probing rock with calloused fingers
They grope.
One minded their effort approached
Uniqueness.
Years passed witness fingers to
Dust.
Monuments remain to visit their labor;
Solemn stone faces looking out,
Pumice minds knowing an age of men
Possessing greatness long gone –
Deaf ears formed with stone axes,
Blood and sweat transformed
To monumental greatness;
Waiting on Easter Island.
THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK: A STORY FOR HALLOWEEN
French Creek is a local which really exists and the trail described is also real. There is also a destroyed structure along the trail. All this came together in my imagination and resulted in the story you’re about to read. Enjoy.
The Legend of French Creek
In southeastern Pennsylvania, the small towns yield to a rural countryside. Heavily timbered, with a sense of remoteness, the area has always been one of legend and mystery. The story you’re about to read is one of the legends generated by this atmosphere. For those curious enough to seek out the location of this tale, the signposts are in the story. A map of French Creek State Park is all you need.
* * *
My name is Will Trizma, and like most writers of the macabre, I am constantly on the look-out for material to weave into a piece of horror, spending time driving down back roads seeking scenes and atmosphere for my stories.
One warm October day, with the foliage a kaleidoscope of rich color, I went for a drive and chanced upon what I thought was a goldmine, but now I’m of a different mind. But, as you can see, a story was created.
My wife, Joan, and I were about to go camping at French Creek State Park on Halloween night. Our dog, Millie, would join us. Her disposition is gentle but she is always aware of strangers or something out of the ordinary.
Joan was a high school teacher and gone most of the day. I spend my days home writing. But when my muse fails, I drive the rural roads taking notes on settings that I may be able to use in a story. It was one such drive that inspired the tale you are reading.
I was driving along highway 23, just east of Elverson, when I saw a roadside store I just had to explore. It was a small building, faded white in color, and above the door was a sign proclaiming, General Store, in equally faded gold letters with a green background, looking like something out of the 1950’s. I parked in the small, graveled lot. Along one side of the store was a good-sized garden with the last tomatoes and peppers of the season. A series of vines snaked through the garden with butternut squash waiting for the first frost of fall to turn them into a golden brown. I smiled, thinking that the bounty of this garden was the source for produce for sale in the store I was about to enter.
I climbed two well-worn stairs and entered an earlier era. Behind two rows of fully stocked shelves was the counter, and behind the counter stood a man who had to be eighty if he was a day. He called out, “Hello, young fella. What can I get for you?”
He wore a white apron full of stains from his labor. Lean and tall, with a ring of white hair and about three day’s growth of whiskers, he was the type of proprietor I would have expected in this encounter.
“I’m just looking around,” I said to the old man.
The store was the sort that existed before the supermarket came into existence. To my right was an ancient refrigerator case holding cold cuts and cheese. I walked the two rows of shelves. There was soup, canned vegetables and a host of other products. But where a modern grocery store might have ten brands of the same product and a vast quantity of each, here there was only one brand with four or five available. As a guy, I thought this made shopping a lot easier. The shelves to the far-left held products for the local sportsman. Ammo and freshwater tackle lined the shelves. After drinking in the atmosphere of the store, I wandered up to the counter. I really wanted to talk to this old fella and get more of the feel for this area to perhaps use in a story.
On the counter was a cardboard display of beef jerky. I took out a sleeve and laid it down.
“That’ll be seventy-five cents,” said the old man. “You from these parts?”
“No, just driving around,” I answered.
“Must be on vacation driving around in early afternoon.”
“No, not on vacation,” I said.
“Young fella like you out in the middle of the day must be unemployed.”
“No sir, I’m a writer. I’m always working, maybe not making much money, but always working.”
“What’cha write?”
“I write horror stories. This area of the county is full of ghost stories and legends. When I’m between stories, I ride around looking for atmosphere and leads I can use.”
“What’s your name?”
“Will Trizma,” I replied.
“Ain’t never heard of you. I do enjoy a good ghost story but never heard of you.”
“That’s one of my problems,” I answered. “Not enough people have heard of me, but I’m working on that. Right now, I’m looking for inspiration for a new story.”
“What’s your new story about?”
“That’s the problem; I’m stuck. I’ve found plenty of atmosphere, but no story line.”
The old man leaned forward, “You want a story?” He looked over his shoulder, although we were the only ones in the store. “I first heard this story from my grandpa. Scared the ‘you know what’ out of me.”
“Sure,” I said full of anticipation. “I enjoy hearing the local lore and set my stories in locales that really exist.”
The old man’s voice grew soft, “This is a story, or maybe not. I don’t know and never had the nerve to check it out. It’s called The Legend of French Creek, although it comes from way before the state park existed.”
I pulled a small pad and pen from my shirt pocket. “Mind if I take some notes?”
“Hell no. Most around here know the story – it’s no secret.”
He began his tale.
“Grandpa first told me this story when I was young. Wanted to scare the hell out of me, I suppose. Used to enjoy doing that a lot. Starts back in the late 1700’s when some people moved in that weren’t welcomed in this neck of the woods. They came from England. Some kind of pagan cult called Drubids.”
“Do you mean Druids?” I asked.
“Ya, something like that. Anyway, they wanted to be left alone so they built a house way out in the woods. There was men and women, but no children. Young, they was. Maybe eight or ten of them.
“Seems the locals, being of the religious type, didn’t take too kindly to these pagans. Then the trouble started. Farm animals turned up missing, some cows and sheep. The locals suspected treachery by the pagans, but they kept their peace. Then, within two weeks’ time, three children went missing. A group of townsfolk paid a visit to the pagans. The heathens said they knew nothing of the animals or children disappearing. But the locals thought they were acting suspicious.
“This all happened in the spring. Then came the massacre.
“It was the night of the summer solstice. The nearest residents to the pagans reported a red glow in the forest that night. Some of the local men, well-armed, went to investigate. They approached the pagan camp and saw the men and women dancing naked around a fire. There was a pile of cut-up carcasses, no one could tell what they were, being thrown into the fire.
“One of the men, nervous I suppose, shot into the air and the pagans made for the cabin. The story goes that the men surrounded the cabin, and then someone threw a blazing brand onto the roof. The cabin caught fire. Screams could be heard coming from the house. Some of the pagans tried to escape through the door and windows, but they were shot and fell back into the inferno. While they waited on of the men poked around in the fire. Found bones, small human bones so the story goes. The men of the town remained until the house collapsed. By morning, it was just a smoking ruin. They left and said little of what they had done to anyone outside the community. Some of the curious would visit the site of the pagan compound, but that ended after a while. And as time passed, the story faded but was not totally forgotten.
“It was in the early 1920’s when a new preacher came to town. During the late summer the townsfolk said they would build him a house. He walked not far from the church and saw a level area with little growth. Apparently, the damn fool picked the site where the pagans’ cabin once stood.
“The house was built before winter set in and the congregation spent the remainder of the winter and the next spring worshipping, led by the new minister.
“Then the night of the summer solstice arrived. No one knows what happened, but the minister’s house burnt down that night with him in it. The church caught fire and burned to the ground too.
“Eventually, during the depression, the town died and the area returned to wilderness. Here’s where the legend takes over, my young friend. All the buildings were overgrown by the forest except for the minister’s. The concrete slab that served as its foundation is still there, along with some burnt up debris. The forest won’t touch that rubble, so the legend says, because the pagans still dwell there underground. I don’t know exactly where it is, but it’s somewhere on the perimeter of French Creek State Park. Folks say it’s still there, easy to find along one of the popular trails, but I never bothered lookin’. Some say they get a strange feeling when they hike past the rubble on the day of the summer solstice. No one goes there that night. Campers all stay snug and warm by their fires or in their tents, and town folks safe in their homes.”
“That’s a great story,” I told the old man. “Maybe I could use some of it in a story. But first, I’ll try to find the ruin you mentioned.”
“Don’t know if you should, mister. All legends have a bit of truth. I wouldn’t want to cause you any harm.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”
I shook his hand and left the small store, my mind full of ideas. I kept in mind the details he gave me about the location of the minister’s house. With our impending camping trip, I thought the coincidence was perfect for me to do some research. If I could locate the site I could use the surroundings to give my story a realistic bent.
* * *
Two weeks later, we were packing for our camping trip. Our dog, Millie, appeared to be as excited as we were, seeing her food and toys packed up and taken out to the van.
We set out on the afternoon of Halloween full of anticipation of leaving our daily lives and spending a weekend in the wilderness with our pup. After finding our campsite, we quickly set up camp and Millie, attached to a long lead, sniffed the forest floor. That night, seated by a roaring campfire with Joan, my imagination ran wild. I pictured Druids descending on our campsite, with us captured for their human sacrifices. Of course, nothing happened. The entire night passed, uneventful. My imagination can be a weird place.
The next morning, we planned our first hike with Millie. The Orange Trail passed behind our tent. It was an easy trail, ideal for Millie, my wife and I. After packing lunch, we set out in late morning with Millie taking the lead, full of excitement. We walked the trail for a little more than two miles when it meandered toward the perimeter of the park. After another half mile, Millie’s excitement on this adventure changed dramatically. Our pup began to growl and pull away from the direction we were going, not wanting to continue. We pulled her along and her growl became a whimper of fear, something we’d never seen her exhibit. Another fifty feet and there it was. I was sure it was the site of the minister’s house described by the old man in the store.
As Millie pulled back on her leash, we approached the destroyed structure. There was the concrete slab about thirty by twenty feet with charred posts sticking out from points in the foundation. A rusted bedspring was the only sign of furniture. A few decaying pipes punctured the concrete slab. What was unusual was the lack of vegetation surrounding the slab. No trees had invaded the immediate area. Only weeds and forest litter marred the land.
We stood there, with Millie pulling in any direction away, Joan said, “What a curious place out here in the middle of nowhere. And why is Millie acting so strange?”
I had yet to relate to Joan the story the old man told me. As we continued on our hike, I told her. We both noticed that the farther we walked along the trail, the more Millie returned to her pleasant disposition.
I knew I had to return to these ruins on summer solstice to investigate.
* * *
I formulated a plan. I would have Joan drop me off the evening of the summer solstice, which would be a Tuesday night. Joan was hesitant but gave in after I told her it would help me with a story I was working on. She knew I was going through a dry period. An hour before dusk, I would set out on the Orange Trail with a pack containing a sleeping bag and whatever I might need for the night. Appearing to be just another hiker, I would make camp near the ruins and see for myself if there was anything to The Legend of French Creek.
The night of the summer solstice was rapidly approaching and my feelings ranged from that of stupidity with this pursuit to fear of spending the night alone deep in the woods.
The morning of June 21st found me packing my gear. I would not build a fire, so I included a can of beans, bread and a can of SPAM©. My wife entered the bedroom and wrinkled her nose as she saw the SPAM© going into my backpack. She does not appreciate this brick of pork-flavored heaven as much as I do.
“So, you’re really going through with this crazy plan,” she said. Joan had been trying to humor me but at the same time talk me out of going for some time now. Her arguments only strengthened my determination to see it through but also added to my occasional thoughts of what a stupid idea this was.
At seven o’clock that night we set out on the forty-five minute drive to the park. Along the way, Joan would continually ask, “Are you sure you want to do this?”
I responded, “Yes,” although it was not as firm a ‘yes’ as I intended.
We entered the park and stopped along the circular road near our former campsite. I got out, shouldered my backpack, and said, “I guess I’m ready.”
Joan replied, “I know you won’t reconsider. Please be careful. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at noon.” We kissed, and she drove off. My writer’s mind was already on hyper drive. And this was the last time he saw my wife, I thought.
I walked the Orange Trail toward the ruin. The smell of campfire smoke filled the air. Alone on the trail, with thoughts full of horror and mayhem, I pressed on. As I approached the site of the burned structure, the sun was a giant orange ball peeking through trees racing toward the horizon. An open space across the trail from my quarry caught my attention. It was there I would make my camp.
The forest was darkening now and becoming chilly. I climbed into my sleeping bag and leaned against a boulder to begin my vigil. Cutting the SPAM© into slices, I made two sandwiches and opened the beans. Saving some SPAM© for my morning meal, I consumed my dinner.
The forest was dark now, but I dare not light a light. I concentrated on the ruin taking note of the sounds and the feelings of dread I encouraged my mind to pursue. I tried to stay awake, but the warmth of my sleeping bag and a full stomach made me drowsy and I soon fell asleep and began to dream.
What happened next I wanted to credit to a dream, but I know it was real.
The blackness of the forest became full of a milk-white vapor, although above, the sky was full of stars. There was no wind, yet the mist came rapidly from different directions and formed a shell of white around the concrete slab. Soon the vapor took the form of a house, becoming a solid structure. Windows, now present, glowed bright red and I could see figures dancing within. The door of the house opened and there appeared a group of naked men and women horribly burned, their bodies smoking. I wanted to look away but could not. Their obscene presence came toward me. They lunged at me. Their hideous laughter screamed in my ears. Now the horrors surrounded me. My mind could not take any more. I lost consciousness and dreamed of daemons and devils surrounding me in an attempt to capture my soul.
I awoke the next morning with a feeling of dread, not wanting to open my eyes. The ruin was the same as it appeared the night before, although the debris on the forest floor leading to my campsite appeared disturbed. I looked down, and to my horror, my sleeping bag bore handprints burnt into the fabric.
I packed up my gear and headed down the trail to meet my wife and return to the comfort of my home, never wanting to return to French Creek again.
* * *
I tried to put the horror of that night clear of my mind, but it wouldn’t happen. I felt I had brought something back from that gruesome night and could not escape its presence. Damned if I could figure out what it was. So, I switched gears and embraced the event. After some research on Druids, I worked my experience and new-found background on a few stories that I managed to sell.
Nearly a year had passed since that dreadful night, when Joan announced, “I think we need to get away. How about a short four-day vacation?”
“Sounds great, but it better be cheap,” I said. “You know money is tight.”
“Camping is not expensive,” she answered. I’ve reserved a site from June 19 to June 22.” She saw my face grow deathly pale, and then quickly added, “A site at Rickett’s Glen.”
“I thought you were talking about French Creek. I’m never going back there again.”
Rickett’s Glen was one of our favorite campgrounds. I quickly warmed to the thought of getting away. The park had a large man-made lake, and we always camped at the water’s edge making good use of our canoe. The only downside was that Millie could not accompany us.
Leaving the house that June morning, I felt great anticipation at the chance to relax and unwind. Just lately, the writing had not been going so well and the words that were produced didn’t satisfy me. I looked forward to returning home and plunging back into my work with a relaxed brain.
Once camp was set up, we decided to take a hike and see a few of the waterfalls for which the park is famous. The air was cool for June, and I anticipated a stress-relieving walk. As I packed some snacks into my backpack, my hand brushed against an outside pocket of the pack I seldom used. There was something small and hard inside. I unzipped the pocket and reached in, withdrawing something that set me shaking. It was a Druid talisman. I knew from my research exactly what it was and its blasphemous purpose. The crude fetish was in the form of a naked woman with prominent breasts and an obvious cleft between her stunted legs. I had seen a drawing of a statue exactly like this in a book of ancient Druid curses and spells. Its specific purpose was to summon Druid spirits to its possessor on the night of the summer solstice. After a year, was I still to be haunted by these demonic specters? I had to dispose of this totem, and soon.
“I think I’ll take a canoe ride before dinner,” I told Joan after quickly forming a plan.
I pushed the canoe out, jumped in, and paddled toward the center of the lake. When I was far from shore, I reached into my pocket, retrieved the crude statue, and hurled it into the water. I was now free of the talisman and free of its purpose, or so I hoped.
Tonight, will be a very long night.
THE END
1929: A LOOK AT GREED
1929: A LOOK AT GREED
1929 is a book about what led up to the Great Depression. And the circumstances which led to the depression could be compared with the situation we see today in this country.
The author is Andrew Ross Sorkin who also wrote Too Big to Fail. You may remember that this is what banks claimed after they were instrumental in the recession of 2008.
What led to the Great Depression was a group of very rich men speculating on the future of the stock market. Greed was the driving force that led to the suffering of so many people.
In this country greed is again a driving force in the country’s current condition. If you have any doubt of the amount of greed and corruption shaping the future of our country you need only look to the White House.
In a recent poll corruption in government replaced the economy as the primary concern of the population. More than 80% view corruption as a major problem in the country.
We are pointed in a direction by greed and lack of concern for the people of this country. Hopefully, in a few days that direction will begin to change.
SPORES FROM SPACE: A SHORT STORY
Here is a story with a possible explanation of the source of the giant mushroom described in the last post.
SPORES FROM SPACE
Will asked Joanie, “What is that big white thing at the far edge of the lawn? Looks like some kind of ball.”
As Joanie approached the object she could see that it was well over twelve inches in diameter. She replied, “It’s not a ball. It looks like some kind of mushroom. Never seen anything like it before.” She took out her cell phone, took a picture, then using the internet began a search for information about the mushroom. The internet could not identify it. Joanie thought this odd for in the past she had often used the internet to identify plant life and it had never failed to come back with an answer. The internet could identify everything. She picked the mushroom up and threw it into the nearby trees.
That was a fatal mistake.
Days later Will tried to contact Joanie with no luck. Her neighbor said he hadn’t seen her for a few days. But the strangest thing. Near the apartment complex was this huge white mushroom. No one could figure out what type of mushroom it was and where it could have come from. No one had seen anything like it before.
* * *
Light years away a planet’s population had grown to such an extent that all could not be fed. And those that did have food available did not have as much as they had in the past. They had to find a food source and find it quickly or starvation on the planet would begin. In back of some of the inhabitant’s minds the fear of cannibalism began to grow. Something needed to be done and fast.
The planet’s scientists had developed a form of space travel using wormholes giving them the ability to travel huge distances in minutes. They had also discovered a great many inhabited planets. The decision was made to use the inhabitants of these planets as a source of food. This decision was voted down by a small fraction of the population, but the prospect of starvation overruled. The only food consumed on the planet was a certain type of fungus. The decision was made to send out huge armies traveling on gigantic spaceships which were now under construction. Along with the soldiers were hundreds upon hundreds of satellites which were going to be used to seed the target planets with spores which would grow into the needed fungus. The spores would transform any animal life they touched into mushrooms.
The attacking planet had also developed two procedures which made this invasion possible to alter the population of the planet and yet remain completely undetected.
One of these methods was the ability to make objects invisible. Invisibility was made possible by shifting light so that light would not bounce off an object rendering it invisible. This method would be used to conceal the invading army and the satellites being dispersed around the planet being attacked. The gigantic spacecraft farther out in space would also be rendered invisible. Of course, invisibility would not hide solid objects from radar. To remedy this problem the had a method of stealthing making them totally undetectable by radar.
The mission to attack planets was set into motion.
* * *
It was a sunny Saturday afternoon and Will decided to mow the lawn. He began his work with the front yard, but before he could get too far he ran across more of those white mushrooms of various sizes on the lawn. He picked them up and threw them into the trees. “Damn things are a pain in the ass,” he muttered.
Will went back to his mower. Glancing across the street he spied his neighbor standing behind his mower. He waved but got no response. He was sure Jeff saw him. He was looking right at Will. But Jeff just stood there like some kind of statue.
Will returned to the mower and started it. He began to feel not quite right. When he felt this way when asked how he felt he said ‘strange’. If his wife noticed he seemed a little off she would ask, “How are you feeling?”
Will would answer, “A little strange.” This never failed to piss her off. What the hell was strange?
But right now, Will felt really strange. Stranger than he has ever felt before. And the strangeness increased and not too slowly. He became confused. Could not remember what he had been doing. It wasn’t long before he could not remember anything. The usual term used for his present state of mind was a vegetative state. But this would not be the term for what Will was experiencing. The proper term would be a fungal state. For what was about to happen next this was beneficial to him. Spared him the distress of being aware of his predicament. Slowly all his limbs began to turn white. Then his torso and finally his head.
Will did not know it but the mushrooms he picked up earlier and threw into the woods had undergone the same change. One mushroom was a squirl mushroom, a small one a mouse mushroom and the largest a ground hog mushroom. Now on the lawn stood a huge Will mushroom.
* * *
The alien invasion to provide a source of food from the planet called by the resident, Earth, appeared to be succeeding. Soon it would be time for the soldiers to begin the harvest. Now to prevent discovery these aliens will be invisible. Good thing for if they were seen by intelligent life on this planet, to use a term the aliens had heard on the planet’s broadcasts, “The sight of the aliens would scare the shit out of them.”
Although the aliens were invisible they were still solid and would occasionally make contact with an intelligent being on Earth, but it would be of little consequence. When the spores began to rain down on Earth they were accompanied by a substance that would erase all memory of what was happening from the time the spores were first introduced until a time after the harvest was completed.
The harvest was extremely successful. Went better than expected. With the spaceships filled to the brim with mushrooms the aliens look forward to, in a few thousand years, returning to Earth. And another harvest would be possible because in ten percent of the spores the activity had been neutralized. With careful calculation of the animal population on the planet only ninety percent of the population would be converted into mushrooms. The remainder would be available to repopulate the planet. And because of memory manipulation, would have no recollection of the harvest. But the fact that something of a peculiar nature did occur eventually became evident.
* * *
Scientists doing population studies of animal life, including humans, were mystified by some of their results. It appears that an event was discovered to have occurred, but could not be explained, thousands of years ago. They began calling the event a near extinction event. Life on the Earth suddenly decreased at an alarming rate. Apparently almost instantaneously. What could possibly explain that decrease?
A MUSHROOM FROM SPACE?
A MUSHROOM FROM SPACE?
In my next post I will offer a short story inspired by an actual event which took place on my property a few weeks ago.
On the far side of the lawn, I saw a large white round object which I took for a ball. It was close to twelve inches in diameter. On close inspection it turned out to be a mushroom that was dangerous even to touch. In my many years of living here I have never seen anything like it and have no idea of how its spores found their way into my yard.
The story which follows speculates on its origin.
THE STATUES WALKING ON EASTER ISLAND EXPLAINED
THE STATUES WALKING ON EASTER ISLAND
As promised in my last post about the Walking Statues on Easter Island, here is a description of the method used to get the statues to walk.
I once saw a documentary about Easter Island and those statues the island is known for.
A group researching Easter Island constructed a statue approximately 14 feet tall. At the top of the statue, they looped two ropes with the end of the ropes manned two groups ready to try an experiment.
The groups began alternating by pulling the rope on one side and releasing the pull on the opposite side. Slowly, once they developed a certain rhythm one side of the statue moved forward. They found that by alternating the pull on the ropes they could get the statue to move forward, one side of the statue at a time.
The statue was ‘walking’.
THE WALKING STATUES: A SHORT STORY
THE WALKING STATUES
The waves of the Pacific gently washed the western shore of the island. An island so remote from any other land mass that it’s a wonder that it was found. How many attempts were made by voyagers in canoes will never be known. People set out on an ocean having no idea of what lay ahead. They were fleeing from their home because war or famine made life unbearable. How many never found land only to die in their attempt for a new life.
Conga stood on that island’s western shore pondering that question. How many people tried before and after his people stumbled upon this tiny land mass just two generations ago. His people’s past was full of both legends and facts. But no one had enough knowledge of their past to distinguish one from the other. But one belief was held as true. That the gods must have played a part in the discovery of this land. Gods they brought with them and gave praise to and worshiped. Conga stood on this remote spot on the island, a part of the island where villagers rarely wandered. He treasured this spot where his only company was his thoughts.
But he now knew he would not be alone for long. Footsteps signaled someone’s approach and he knew instantly who that someone would be. Only one other knew of his love for this spot, and she would soon embrace him. It would be Ula, the love of his life who often came to share the serenity offered here.
As she embraced him from behind she said, “Still trying to imagine where our people came from so many years ago? Instead of looking into the past, look into the future, our future. That is where your happiness lies. Our future together.”
Conga and Ula have pledged to spend their lives together. They had known each other since childhood as friends. But as their feelings for each other intensified spending their future together became a clear destiny. Conga responded to Ula’s thoughts, “I do think about our future, but while I’m here I think of the gods who guided us to this island. I have seen them.
Conga had seen the gods after a Tribal ceremony where a man was denied sleep for days and fasted for a week, and sometimes longer. The gods he had seen were giants and he clearly remembered their features. Their heads were unusually long with a distinctive nose and deep-set eyes. Some had red hair, red hair being a symbol of power deserving respect and honor. Conga was not alone in experiencing these visions. Other young men had endured the same ceremony and had seen the gods. But Conga’s memory of their appearance was the clearest. The gods also told Conga how they must be honored but he could not clearly recall their instructions. In order to revisit the gods with the hope of retaining their instructions he experienced the ceremony once again. With the new ceremony he now recalled the god’s plans for him.
His people were to construct giant statues, a multitude of statues to be spread throughout the island so that the people would never be too far from the memory of the gods. So that they would never forget that their existence on this island was a gift from the gods. Conga spread this knowledge of the mission to other young men who saw the gods and the mission was begun.
* * *
Ten years later.
The mission of construction of these statues spread with enthusiasm throughout the entire population and would eventually produce over 900 statues with the distinctive feature of Conga’s vision. Most were approximately 13 feet tall, but one giant surpassed 33 feet. The people called these statues of their gods moai. And the legend persists to this day that the statues walked to where they were to be located.
During the construction of the statues Conga and Ula were true to the pledge for the future, became one and a son was born. They constructed a hut where the family dwelled among a sparse stand of trees and a view of the western shore.
One day, as night approached, Conga asked Ula, “What more do you need me to do?”
Ula answered, “Your work is done.” She knew why he asked her this. He wanted to partake of his favorite pastime. Conga told Ula he would be gone for awhile and Ula knew where he was going.
For relaxation Conga would climb to the summit of a nearby hill and as night approached he would look down on their hut and see the dim light filtering from within. It brought him pleasure while he thought about his family and how his family would grow in the future.
This vantage point also provided a view of some of the statues his people had provided to honor the gods. Over the course of additional ceremonies, he conversed with the gods about his mission, a mission which would consume his entire life. The gods told him they were pleased with the great number of statues the people have constructed and scattered over the entire island. This brought Conga peace knowing he had served his purpose.
* * *
Nearly a thousand years after the island was populated it was visited by people from a distant land. A land the people of the island could not imagine existed.
Early one morning a craft was sighted the likes of which could not be foretold. It was massive; perhaps it was not a boat but a floating island. The fact that massive trees appeared to be growing from its center gave credence to this assumption. The strange thing was that the trees were adorned with massive pieces of material. The island was about to be visited, and it change its future forever.
The ship approaching was being sailed by Dutch crewmen. The year was 1722, but of course the islanders have no concept of numbered lengths of time or for that matter how long a year was. On this eventful day the sailors onboard the ship were celebrating a special mass for the day was Easter Sunday.
The residents of the island called their home Rapa Nui, but with the arrival of this ship the world would know the island by a different name.
Author’s note: For those who find the legend of the walking giant statues an interesting legend of the island should know it is not completely a legend. My next post will reveal the truth of the ‘walking’ statues.
