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THINK NO EVIL: A SHORT STORY WITH A DANGER
THINK NO EVIL
I have always had an active imagination. If I had had the courage to put a bullet through my head when I first realized the consequences of my thoughts, you dear reader, would have more than five days to live. I suggest, for your own sanity, you put down this story. Now!
Consider yourself warned.
I used my vivid imagination to write works of science fiction and had some measure of success. I was not Ray Bradbury, but I was able to make a reasonable living with my novels with flashy covers showing alien worlds and their weird residents. The occasional scantily clad Earth females depicted on the covers didn’t hurt sales either. I would let my imagination run wild and my pen would follow. I do not know the true extent of the powers, but I fear I may have done some damage light years from Earth.
The first hint of my peculiar ability occurred a month ago. I visited a bagel shop early one morning, as was my habit, to avoid crowds. In my southeastern Pennsylvania community, three people constitute a crowd, four a mob.
I entered the store and found, and much to my satisfaction, found I was the only customer. A husband and wife owned and ran the establishment. They were always there together.
I placed my order, and as I stood idly, a strange thought emerged. How easy it would be to rob this store at this early hour. I could write a mystery. It would be my first attempt at something other than science fiction. My mind was consumed with plotting the crime, and as I waited for my bagels, my thoughts set up the robbery scene. Seven days later, that store was robbed and the couple murdered.
What a strange coincidence, I thought, as I read the newspaper.
A few days after the robbery, I was driving along an interstate highway behind an old pickup truck. A ladder was propped up against the tailgate. I imagined the truck hitting a large bump in the road and the ladder being hurled from the truck and through the windshield of the car following. I switched lanes and forgot the vision.
Seven days later a horrendous accident happened, almost identical to the scene I imagined. It made the local news.
This time I was shaking. Was this just a second coincidence?
I tried an experiment. I pictured a week of continuous rain. We were under drought restrictions at the time, so I thought this would be an innocent and perhaps beneficial test. Exactly seven days later, the rains poured down and rivers overran their banks. I had forgotten about the rivers. Property was ruined. Lives were lost.
To avoid more damage, I went back to writing science fiction. Fiction that I ensured occurred far from this planet.
Then it happened. Two days ago, after I vowed never to conjure up stories about the here and now, but I slipped. I was writing a story about an alien ship traveling through an asteroid belt. Before I knew it, my mind was picturing the asteroid that impacted the Earth some sixty-five million years ago causing the extinction of the dinosaurs. But God help me, my mind wandered and took another step. I wondered what the Earth would be like if an asteroid ten times the size of the one that killed the dinosaurs impacted the Earth.
We have five days left.
THE END
AGE MAKES THIS A GROWING REALITY
I had a friend who said about life, “This is not a rehearsal.”
A SAD REALITY
The ballroom is supposed to form Trump’s legacy.
Some money could be saved. His legacy had already been formed.
UNHOLY GROUND, A HORROR SHORT STORY, CHAPTER VII
UNHOLY GROUND
“Bullshit,” Chris screamed when his parents told him of their plan to move to the country. “Philadelphia is my home. I don’t want to live with a bunch of hayseeds that get their kicks watching corn grow or whatever the hell they grow out there.”
Chris was tall and lean with a shock of red hair and a face full of freckles. He resembled his dad and had his dad’s forward manner. Bob was irritated at how much his son was like him, especially in ways he wanted to change in himself.
“Now listen here,” Bob said. “The decision is made, so you might as well accept it. And watch your language. The attitude you’ve taken lately is one of the reasons we made this decision.
“And furthermore, I’d rather see you keep company with hayseeds than those hoodlums you call your friends. I did not enjoy picking you up at the police station after you and your friends were caught spraying graffiti on that old warehouse.”
Chris said sarcastically, “We were just being artistic.”
“Well son, your form of art is considered vandalism. There are no two ways about it. We’re moving to Pinebrook to make a new start.”
Chris grumbled up to, during and after the move was completed. His attitude improved when he met Junior Dawson. Junior had a talent for getting into trouble and nothing scared him. Well, almost nothing.
* * *
In his fifteen years, Junior Dawson had never strayed far from Pinebrook. For vacations, his family would seek out campgrounds in nearby Pennsylvania state parks. He seldom visited a big city. When Chris moved to Pinebrook, he brought Junior a window to a world he barely knew.
Junior liked Chris’ swagger, his whole attitude. No one in Pinebrook had an attitude, that is if you didn’t count old-man Alexander, who was perpetually pissed off. In Pinebrook there was no reason to have an attitude. People just lived their lives and accepted what came their way.
The two boys were neighbors, but with the size of the farms, their houses were not within sight of one another. Although they were in different classes at school, they became fast friends. One lazy Saturday afternoon, Chris asked Junior, “What do you do for kicks around this place?”
“Oh, we hike and fish. And when it gets warm, we swim in the lake.”
“Shit, John-Boy, I’m talking fun, not Boy Scout camp.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Junior replied. “There’s not much to do around here.”
“No shit,” answered Chris.
“Listen, when I lived in the city, me and some of my pals used to get cans of spray paint and decorate the walls of some vacant and not so vacant buildings. Then you could walk by anytime you wanted and look at your artwork.”
Junior said, “I know what graffiti is but what are you going to paint around her’, the trees? All the farms are busy places. You can’t even sneak up on them at night for all the dogs. There aren’t any vacant buildings except… ‘
“Except what?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit! Except what?”
“Well, there’s this old barn. Sits all by itself in the middle of the woods about a mile or so from here. People around here don’t talk about it much. It’s a strange place. I’ve been to it once and don’t want to go back there again.”
“Man, it sounds perfect. What could be so strange about an old barn in the middle of nowhere? I bet it’s just screaming for a paint job.”
“No, it’s not, Chris. Believe me, it’s not. No one knows how old the barn is, but it looks like it was built yesterday. And although no one tends to it, the forest just grows up to about twenty feet from the barn and stops.”
“Oh, that sounds scary,” Chris said with all the sarcasm he could muster.
Junior said, “I’ve been there once, with a couple of friends during the day. The place gave me the creeps; a strange feeling like someone was watching me. Like someone was about to yell at me. We all high-tailed it outa there. We all felt the same thing and it didn’t feel good.”
“Now you’re really getting me scared, Junior. There’s an old, abandoned barn in the middle of the woods that everyone around here is afraid to visit. Shit, it sounds perfect. We can paint to our heart’s content, and no one will ever disturb our work. Maybe we could make it into a kind of clubhouse, a kind of drinking and smoking clubhouse.
“I don’t think it’s such a good idea, Chris,” Junior said.
“I do. Let’s go.”
After more arguing, Junior finally gave in. The boys headed down the dirt road that separated their properties. Fields of wheat and corn bordered the road, with an occasional stand of trees. The air was full of the smell of a country afternoon and insects, which the boys would swat away. Once past their farms, Junior slowed and began looking for a trail that would lead off to the right. He finally found what he was looking for.
“Here’s the trail to the barn.”
“You call that a trail.”
“I told you no one comes out here. We shouldn’t be here either.”
“Don’t pussy-out on me now, Junior. Take me to your scary barn.”
Following the path was not easy.
“I can’t believe how dense this forest is.” said Chris.
“You want to turn back?”
Chris shoved Junior in the back and said, “Keep going.”
They walked for half an hour, crossing streams and glancing up at the giant canopy of trees blocking the sky. If anything, the trees became denser as they walked making the going extremely difficult.
“Oh, Junior, this place is so scary even the bugs won’t come here,” Chris said.
This only added to Junior’s fears because the bugs really were gone.
Suddenly, up ahead there appeared a clearing. In the middle of the clearing stood a barn, painted white. The doors and shutters surrounding the window of the loft were painted black and closed.
“You are sure this barn is old, Junior? It looks brand new.”
“I told you this was a strange place. And I’m sure it’s old. My grandpa said his grandpa told him about it.”
Chris immediately observed how clear the area was around the building, and asked, “Who keeps the area around the barn free of trees?”
“No one,” answered Junior. “I told you. It just stays clear on its own.”
The boys stood at the edge of the trees.
“Can you feel it, Chris? Like we’re being watched. Like we’re not alone.”
Looking off, Chris pointed to a figure emerging from behind the barn and said, “We’re not alone.”
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