Posts filed under ‘Walt Trizna's Stories’
ELMO’S INVENTION: CHAPTER 4, THE TINKERER’S CLUB
CHAPTER 4
THE TINKERER’S CLUB
With the experiments completed and his understanding of what he had observed, there was only one thing to do: Call a meeting of the Tinkerer’s Club.
Elmo moved in a circle of physicists, mathematicians and theoretical scientists at Los Alamos. They referred to themselves as the Tinkerers, one member or another constantly came up with ideas to explore and devices to construct. There were approximately ten members, the numbers would vary with interest and transfers to other parts of the country. Gatherings of the members would take place with as little as two or as many as all current members. It all depended on what the members’ specialty was or were too busy involved in their own ideas. They would ponder on their own time; ideas no one would pay them to ponder. The opportunity to contribute to the knowledge of man was their driving force, also if successful, develop a second income. They referred to their efforts as ‘cellar science’, although they did not all have cellars, but the original members all did. What they all had in common was the joy in letting their imaginations run wild without restrictions. They didn’t all work in cellars, some worked in garages and some in rented space, but they all shared a scientific curiosity.
Elmo was the youngest member. Age was not a factor for being accepted into the group, only a passion for science and a high level of intelligence. Most of the members had projects in progress, or theories they wanted to explore. When a member felt his work had come to a milestone he would call a meeting to be held in his laboratory. Those who would attend would study the results and give advice, if they could, but there was almost always encouragement to press on with the project.
Elmo took a week to prepare his presentation. It would usually involve the members’ theory, applications of the project and any problems which needed to be solved
On the night of the meeting four members arrived to analyze the conjecture Elmo would present.
Harold Kinter promised to attend the meeting. He was forever the first to a meeting for he had only one thing in his life, and that was his science. Physics was his field, and he had occasion to work with Elmo. A few years older than Elmo, Harold was portly and a bachelor and would likely remain so all his life. He spent his workdays and after work hours contemplating esoteric theories to occupy his mind. In another life, he could well have been a model for Sherlock Holmes. Although his habits did not readily welcome others into his world, he was not a loner. He chose to surround himself only with those who could stimulate and impact his thoughts.
Another member, James Forsyth, also agreed to come. Forsyth was also a physicist but the direct opposite of Harold. James was so gregarious that when someone met him, they immediately thought he was a salesman. He had the life of an average guy, married with two children. In his mid-forties, his chestnut hair had begun to gray at the temples. It was only when someone asked him what he did for a living that the impression of James Forsyth changed. He would begin talking about physics and couldn’t stop. Only when he opened his mouth about work did those around him realize he was far from the average guy.
Also due to arrive was William Dupree. He was a mathematician who also craved human contact. Now in his mid-fifties, and a bachelor, he was exceedingly short. At just over five feet tall, he found himself often ignored. Desperately wanting his voice to be heard, he found the Tinkerer’s Club an avenue to have a more intimate relationship with his colleagues.
Elmo was surprised when Kingsley Dasher also agreed to attend. Kingsley rarely attended meetings. When in attendance, he would make Harold Kinter appear to be the life of the party. Kingsley defined the term ‘loner’. Tall and thin, with a shaved head, he was at least sixty but no one knew for sure, well, no one also knew if he was married, had children, or anything of his background and education. Although he rarely attended meetings, when he appeared he was more than welcome by the presenter for Kingsley was considered ‘the brain’.
He would sit alone and listen to the presentation and arguments. Often during the course of a meeting, he would not say a word. When the presentation and discussions were completed, at times he would merely rise and leave, never saying anything. However, when he did speak there was total silence to grasp every word he uttered.
Two days before the meeting was scheduled to occur, Elmo informed Mildred that the Tinkerer’s Club would arrive to discuss his time machine. She responded, “I’ll have a pot of coffee and dessert ready for them.” She knew the coffee would be consumed, along with perhaps a second pot, but the dessert hardly touched, except for Harold Kinter. He definitely would enjoy a dessert.
The day of the meeting, Elmo made a decision on his way home. Mildred made him get rid of the rats and he agreed to. In reality, they were beginning to smell up the entire house, so he had no problem in agreeing. Also, it was work to maintain them. However, now he needed a subject to demonstrate his machine. Elmo recalled that his wife had, for some time now, been aching for a pet cat. She loved cats and often told Elmo, “If I had a cat it would keep me company while you’re at work.”
With this in mind, he stopped at an animal shelter on his way home and selected a six week – old orange and white tabby kitten. When he arrived home and walked into the kitchen carrying a cardboard box, the kitten inside began to meow. Mildred ran to Elmo and took the box he was carrying and peered inside.
“Oh, Elmo, you brought me a kitten.” She lifted the kitten out of the box, and hugging it to her breast, and was rewarded with instant purring. “Elmo, she’s beautiful. Thank you so much.”
Elmo asked, “What will you name her?”
“I’ll have to think about that for a while. I just hope you can tolerate the damage she’ll do until she’s old enough to be declawed.”
“I don’t think that will be a problem, Mil. You’ll be able to have her declawed tomorrow.”
“I can’t do that tomorrow. She’s much too young. She must be at least … Oh no, Elmo, you’re not putting her into your chamber, are you?”
“Dear, you made me get rid of the rats.”
“They were stinking up the cellar and I could smell them in the house every time you opened up the cellar door.”
“Mil, I need to demonstrate the time machine tonight to the Tinkerer’s Club. Look on the bright side; she won’t have a chance to cause damage with her claws.”
“Elmo, if anything happens to my kitten there will be hell to pay.” Mildred looked down at the little ball of fur and scratched her ears which intensified the purring, saying, “I’ll miss your kittenhood, but in all honesty, not the damage you might cause with those front claws.” With a final squeeze she gave the kitten to Elmo who put her back in the box and took her down to the cellar.
After dinner the Tinkerers began to arrive. The first was Harold Kinter, as was the custom. He accepted a steaming mug of coffee and a plate of cake and then descended into the cellar. In rapid order, James Forsyth and William Dupree appeared at the front door, accepted mugs of coffee, and then joined Harold in the cellar.
The last to appear, as also was the custom, was Kingsley Dasher dressed in a suit and tie. All the rest of the members were dressed casually. Kingsley had never been a casual person. Mildred was ready for him. “A cup of Earl Grey, Kingsley?” She knew he preferred tea.
“Why, that would be much appreciated,” he answered. After obtaining his beverage, he joined the rest of the group in the cellar to witness tonight’s presentation. He took his usual location of choice away from the rest of the group. He would appear to be indifferent to the entire event, but all the members knew he would be listening intently and would only comment when he thought his input would be of value or steer the meeting in the direction which was required. Stationed in an old recliner in a corner of the cellar, Kingsley tented his fingers and closed his eyes.
In the meantime, Harold, James and William gathered around Elmo’s machine with great anticipation. Elmo was identified as a valued member for his curiosity and intelligence.
Elmo began, “What you see before you, my friends, is my attempt to produce a time machine. I chose to construct it around an iron lung so that a person, a time-traveler, could comfortably recline inside. The intention was to have the time-traveler travel forward in time and return after a preset interval, however, the machine would remain here.”
Elmo went on to explain his theory for time travel and his calculations. The group was amazed as he discussed the basis of his theory for time travel. Kingsley listened through half-closed eyes. Elmo continued, “However, there is a problem and that is the reason I called this meeting. I have tested my device on a variety of animal subjects, including fertilized eggs. It was with the eggs that I determined the flaw in my machine. You see, the subject does travel forward in time but does not leave the machine. Rather, they age, and after the preset interval of the journey, they do not return to their original state but remain at their future age. Fertilized eggs become chicks. Chicks become chickens. Given the required length of time, rats become skeletons. I would now like to demonstrate this phenomenon.”
“Before you demonstrate your device,” Kingsley asked, “How does it create mass? As you describe your results, mass was created with your egg experiments and where did mass go when you produced a rat skeleton?”
Elmo’s face showed puzzlement. He had not thought of this question before.
The mass question produced total silence in the group. They all knew of the balance between mass and energy. That the formation of mass should result in a tremendous drain of energy from somewhere. By the same token, the loss of mass should result in a dramatic increase in energy. Enough energy to obliterate the area surrounding the experiment. The question of the production and loss of mass stymied the Tinkerers.
Suddenly Harold Kinter began to smile. He thought he had a possible answer to the mass question. He began, “There is only one possible explanation. Somehow, and I’m sure no can answer how, Elmo’s machine has been able to tap into the realm of dark matter and dark energy. I feel that can be the only explanation.
“The existence of this strange form of matter and energy is postulated and may someday be proven as fact. And can be the only explanation for the creation and deletion of mass which I can think of.”
The entire group pondered this explanation and were unanimous in their agreement.
Elmo then went to the cardboard box and picked up the kitten which immediately began to purr and lick Elmo’s hand. “This kitten, six weeks old, is tonight’s subject. I will set the journey into the future to six months. The length of the experiment will be five minutes.”
He deposited the kitten into the chamber, and after adjusting a few dials, initiated the process. As usual, the chamber lit up and filled with mist. After the haze cleared there stood a nearly full-grown cat with the identical markings of the kitten. Elmo lifted the feline out of the chamber and went upstairs to deliver the nearly mature cat to Mildred.
When he returned, Harold, James and William were excited and at the same time puzzled. Harold began, “This is truly amazing, Elmo. I’m sure you are not far from inventing a true time machine.”
William and James concurred with Harold’s observation. James added, “When the problem is worked out, this could be an invention of unimaginable proportions.”
Much to everyone’s surprise, Kingsley cleared his throat and began to speak.
ELMO’S INVENTION: CHAPTER 3, NEW TEST SUBJECTS
CHAPTER 3
NEW TEST SUBJECTS
The next day Elmo drove to Brooker’s Egg Farm. He pulled into the small, graveled parking lot. He liked old-man Brooker. He was a no-nonsense kind of fellow. Getting out of his car, Elmo surveyed the property. Row upon row of low-slung chicken sheds took up most of the land, and the air was full of the constant clucking of the residents.
Nate Brooker, owner of the farm, left his office and walked toward Elmo. Nate was ancient, grizzled and walked with a limp. He was a ‘take no shit’ kind of guy. If you tried to feed him a line or make small talk, he would shake his head and say, “For Christ’s sake, get to the god damned point, will you. I ain’t got all day.” And if you didn’t, he would leave you standing there, alone. Elmo was not talkative, and that suited Brooker just fine.
Extending his hand, Brooker asked, “How you doing, son? Come for a dozen of my fine eggs?”
Brooker was surprised when Elmo said, “Not today. Today I need six fertilized eggs.”
“Fertilized eggs! Are you gonna be raising your own chickens and stop buying from me? Maybe selling eggs yerself. You must be shittin’ me. Get your ass back in your damn car and get the hell off my damn property.”
To say that Elmo was taken aback would have been putting it mildly. “No, sir,” Elmo said. “I need the eggs for an experiment. I have no intention of raising chickens.”
Elmo knew about Brooker’s reputation, but this was a side of the old man he had never personally been exposed to.
“Well, young fella, I guess that’s okay. But if I find out that you’re shittin’ me, they’ll be hell to pay.”
“I assure you; the eggs will just be for an experiment.”
“I’ll hold you to your word, son.”
As they walked to one of the chicken sheds, Brooker asked, “How many you need?”
“I should think about six,” Elmo answered.
They entered the low-slung building, and Brooker pointed out, “This is where we keep the hens for mating.”
Elmo noted the roosters screeching at the top of their lungs.
Brooker began gathering eggs, about a dozen, and then motioned for Elmo to follow him to a small room. “This is where we candle the eggs to see if they’ve been fertilized.” He held the eggs up to the light, and after testing nine, had six fertile ones. “Here you are, son.” He handed Elmo a six-egg carton.
“How much?” asked Elmo.
The price surprised him. He was charged three times as much as he usually paid for a dozen eggs.
Brooker walked Elmo to his car and remade his point, “You sure you will use these eggs for an experiment and not hatch them. And what kind of experiment are we talking anyway?”
Elmo hesitated before answering, “Nate, the experiment is kind of complicated.”
“Well, what the hell isn’t nowadays,” Brooker asked.
“And, Nate, if my experiment works, some of the eggs will hatch.”
“Shit, I knew it.” Brooker was developing a slow burn, so Elmo rapidly said.
“Tell you what,” said Elmo, “if any of the eggs do hatch, I’ll bring the chickens back to you along with the empty shells. Also, I’ll return any fertilized eggs I don’t use.” Elmo thought this would assure Brooker that there was nothing but an experiment going on.
“No, son,” Brooker said. “For some stupid reason I guess I can trust you. I’m sure you won’t start a chicken farm. You’re not the type.”
Elmo could see a slight change in Brooker’s demeanor, the man appeared to relax, somewhat, and said, “Okay, son, I’ll hold you to your word.” With that Brooker walked back to his office and Elmo had his subjects for his next experiment.
Elmo was relieved to observe this vote of confidence. He walked to his car and was about to drive away when he realized he forgot to ask some very important questions. He got out of his car and went to the office, opened the door, and saw Brooker at work sitting at his desk.
“Mr. Brooker,” Elmo asked, “how long will it take the eggs to hatch, and what is the lifespan of a chicken?”
Brooker said, “Fella, you sure do ask a lot of questions for someone who does not intend to raise chickens.”
Elmo could see doubt replacing the relaxed expression Brooker had had before. Elmo quickly said, “This is just information I need to conduct my experiment.” And said once more, “ I am willing to return the chickens, if you want.”
With some trepidation, Brooker said, “That’s okay, son. If you screw me, I’ll find out about it and there will be hell to pay.” Brooker answered the questions and returned to his work.
Elmo was worried that he had asked too many questions. I could have looked that information up in a library,” he muttered.
The day Elmo purchased the eggs was a Friday. The following morning, after a hearty breakfast, and then lingering over coffee, Elmo said to his wife, “Mil, I think I have some grip on the question of what is happening in my time machine, but I need to perform three more experiments. Please, dear, come into the cellar with me. I want a witness to what I am about to attempt. You may be witnessing history.”
Mildred had been through this scenario so many times before. She loved Elmo, but knew how he would react when the experiment did not work, and she was sure that it wouldn’t although the fact that Elmo thought it kind of worked still baffled her. She did not understand his excitement after the rat experiment. With the prospect of something going wrong she knew he would sulk for days and remain to himself, and this was the beginning of the weekend, the only time they spent extended time together. Trying to inject some enthusiasm in her voice, she said, “Okay, Elmo, but don’t get too disappointed if you don’t achieve the results you expect.” She saw the usual glazed eyes before Elmo performed an experiment. He turned and went down the cellar stairs. She followed him not knowing what to expect.
After arriving at the bottom of the stairs, Mildred immediately noticed, sitting near the ‘Time Machine’, a half carton of eggs and said, “Elmo, these eggs should be in the fridge.”
“No, my dear, these are very special eggs, historic eggs, and putting them in the cold might kill them.”
“Oh, Elmo, how can you kill an egg?”
“Mil, these are special eggs. They have been fertilized.”
Elmo looked at his wife and from the expression on her face knew an explanation was required. “You see, Mil, I think I can explain the results of my rat experiments. I’m about to attempt the definitive experiments that will confirm my theory.”
Mildred smiled and prepared herself for the worst. She was beginning to plan what she would do for the next two days without her husband. That’s at least as long as it would take, she thought, him to get over a failure.
Elmo, not catching the doubt on Mildred’s face, placed two eggs into the chamber and began adjusting dials, and then started the process. Once again the interior of the chamber produced great flashes and filled with mist. When it cleared, there stood two baby chicks.
Mildred looked with wonder at the results, and said, “Oh, Elmo, they’re so cute. Now your machine can kill rats and hatch eggs.” She was quite afraid to ask the next question but couldn’t help herself. “Elmo, are you happy with the results?”
“Extremely, my dear. There are two more experiments to perform which will completely verify what the machine is doing.” With that he selected two more eggs, was about to remove the chicks, but decided to leave them in the chamber. Once again he adjusted the dials, and began the experiment, once again the chamber filled with sparks and mist. When it cleared, there stood four chickens clucking their heads off.
Mildred saw the manic gleam in Elmo’s eyes. She saw the same look when her mother’s china teacup disappeared. “Maybe that’s enough,” she said to Elmo. What she was really saying was maybe he should quit while he was ahead, if he was ahead. She actually couldn’t tell. But she also knew nothing she could do or say would stop him now.
She could see the joy in Elmo’s face, and he began doing his little dance, as he shouted, “It worked! It worked!”
Mildred did not understand the reason for Elmo’s excitement. “Elmo, I thought the subject of the experiment was supposed to travel into the future, or perhaps the past. Something definitely happened, but they stayed in the chamber.”
“I know, Mil. There still remain some details to be worked out, but don’t you see, time changed within the chamber. Granted, the subject was supposed to leave the chamber and travel through time, but for now, the time change is occurring in situ.
Mildred was confused, she asked, “In whatto?”
“In situ into the future, and then reappear after the end of the experiment, at the end of the, my dear, it means in place. The subject in the chamber was supposed to disappear preset length of the trial, exactly as he was before he left.”
Mildred said, “Okay, Elmo, but that didn’t happen. The eggs didn’t go anywhere. They just hatched in the chamber.”
“Thanks for noticing that little detail,” Elmo responded. “Granted, this experiment is not free of problems, but I feel I am on the right path to creating a time machine. You see, the subject ages in accordance with the time set for the subject’s journey. That is why, in my first series of experiments, when I sent the rat twenty years into the future a rat’s skeleton was the result.
Leaving the four chickens in the chamber, Elmo reset the dials and then stood back with great anticipation. He began the experiment and when the mist cleared all that was left were four chicken skeletons.
Mildred began to hate this infernal machine, whatever entered it would eventually die, rats, chickens, what was next? She believed in her husband, and something was definitely happening, but whatever it was it wasn’t good. She was amazed when Elmo began jumping up and down and dancing around the cellar. He shouted, “It works! It works! He then grabbed Mildred continuing to dance and shout.
ELMO’S INVENTION: CHAPTER 2, THE TIME MACHINE
CHAPTER 2
THE TIME MACHINE
When Elmo did arrive home that night, Mildred was full of vinegar. As he walked through the door, she shouted, “In God’s name, Elmo, what on earth are you going to do with an iron lung?”
Elmo’s eyes brightened, “It came! I can’t wait to begin my next project.”
Mildred repeated, with added anger, “WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO WITH AN IRON LUNG, AND HOW MUCH DID THIS THING COST?” She could see Elmo’s eyes glaze over when he first heard of its delivery. In the past, this had never been a good sign of things to come.
“Mildred, I’m going to build a time machine.”
Mildred stared at Elmo with the heat of hostility in her eyes, and said, “You are forbidden to use any of my mother’s China,”
Elmo, trying to look contrite, said, “Mil, that will never happen again. I promise you. Anyway, this experiment requires live subjects.
Mildred shouted at the top of her lungs, “I AM NOT GOING INTO THAT THING!”
“My dear, I will never use a person until my theory is proven. But there will come a time when I need a volunteer.”
“Not me.”
“I can assure you, my beloved, it will not be you.”
Mildred gazed into Elmo’s eyes and felt no comfort. He had been known, in the heat of a scientific effort, to go back on his oath.
* * *
Many months passed during which Mildred was not allowed to venture into the cellar. Elmo forbad her entry until the equipment for his experiment was completed. If she needed anything from below, he would gladly get it for her. Just to ensure his secrecy, he attached a sturdy padlock on the outside of the cellar door and he had the only key. All this security did not do much to increase Mildred’s comfort level.
Then one sunny Saturday morning Elmo announced, “Mil, my time machine is finished. I can’t wait to show it to you.”
With a great deal of trepidation, Mildred followed Elmo down the cellar stairs where a large shape was concealed under a canvass shroud. Mildred could tell that Elmo wanted to build mystery while he presented his invention.
“Now, my dear, I present to you Elmo’s Time Machine.”
He pulled at the canvass, and there beneath was the iron lung, but greatly altered. If it had been decades later, Mildred would have said, “The tanning bed has already been invented,” for that is what Elmo’s invention resembled.
Elmo beamed as his wife beheld his creation. The top of the iron lung had been altered. It was now hinged to allow someone to climb in and lie down. The base held a complex array of dials and meters, the controls of the device.
Mildred looked in wonder at the device, and she couldn’t help it. Her curiosity got the best of her. She had seen the results of Elmo’s past experiments, but in spite of herself, she had to ask, “Elmo, what does it do?”
“I told you, Mil, it’s my Time Machine.”
Then she noticed, for the first time, cages of rats and asked, “What are the rats for? And if any escape you are going to be in so much trouble.”
Elmo forced a smile, for he knew Mildred had a temper. He had already pushed the limits of her anger more than once and did not care to explore that territory again. He explained, “They are the test subjects. You didn’t expect me to get in there for the first test.”
Mildred recalled the experiment with her china teacup, and said, “I would hope not.” Yet Elmo could not miss the brief smile that appeared on her face.
Elmo hurried to interject, “I need live subjects for this device,” as he pointed to the rats. “Let me explain my theory to you. It is quite …” He was thinking of saying simple, but instead said, “Complicated,” for he knew Mildred would require the simplest of explanations.
Mildred sat down and prepared herself for an explanation that she was sure would be long and one she would not understand.
Elmo began, “I’ve been thinking, for quite some time now, about the universe and Albert Einstein’s famous equation, E = mc². We consider space to be infinite. I reasoned that if the speed of light was constant, then the relationship between mass and energy must also be constant. Therefore, in the infinity of space, matter and energy do have a limit.
“My thinking settled on the constant of the speed of light, c². What if the speed of light could be changed; then, to keep everything in equilibrium, time would also have to change, if c² was to remain a constant. It’s pretty simple really, to change time you merely have to change the speed of light.
“As we know from Einstein, everything is relative. So, I toyed with the idea of changing the speed of light to change time. If c² was truly a constant, I could go forward or backward in time depending on how I changed the speed of light. If this held to be true, if I could increase the speed of light, time would slow. If I were able to slow the speed of light, time would increase.”
Mildred stared at Elmo and said, “My head hurts.”
Elmo, of course, disregarded this comment and pressed on. “I then designed a chamber with a series of magnets and mirrors to manipulate the speed of light. If the concept of relativity held, then time in the chamber would adjust to the varying speeds of light. The result is my Time Machine. I know that time machines are something out of science fiction. Fictional time machines would transport the subject into the past or future. Always, transporting into the past, as most stories go, had the risk of changing the future. I reasoned that going into the future had the same risks. Because, that future would be someone’s past. Therefore, to make as little impact as possible, my machine stays here, only the subject travels. You can’t imagine how difficult this thought process was to ensure absolute safety.
“I’m sure I can’t,” mumbled Mildred.
“However, there were important precautions that needed to be considered. Namely, viruses, fungi and bacteria that might travel along, in either direction, with the time traveler. You see, my dear, all clothing worn by the time traveler must be thoroughly sanitized along with the traveler and the machine. We wouldn’t carry any unknowns into the time being explored. By the same token, everything the time traveler wore would, along with the machine and the traveler, also need to be sanitized when he returned. I plan to work out any other details which may arise.”
“I’m sure you will,” Mildred said while rolling her eyes.
Once his lecture was completed, Elmo smiled. He was filled with his own brilliance.
Mildred loved her husband, loved his eccentricities, but this was too much to swallow. “Elmo, remember my teacup. You had that all figured out too.”
Elmo could see he was losing ground with Mildred, but he held firm. “Mildred, my dear, this invention is much different. With my earlier machine, granted, I had not worked out all the details. My matter transference machine had a few quirks that just needed to be worked out. Granted, I may have used it prematurely. However, my time machine has been through extensive planning and calculations, and, of course, it will need to be tested. I’m sure that it will work. The difference with this invention is that it will need a living subject.
“This sounds very familiar, Elmo. You assured me that my teacup would be safe, and now it is gone.”
Elmo rapidly interjected, “This machine is fool proof.” He noticed Mildred’s eyebrows rise when he said the word ‘fool’. He continued, “I have gone over my calculations again and again. I’m sure it will work.”
Mildred sat looking at Elmo and he could read the doubt on her face. He knew he had to talk fast. Also, he needed someone to witness the test of his invention, to witness history being made.”
Finally, Mildred said, “As long as none of my china is involved, I guess I can watch.”
Elmo beamed, “Watch this, Mil. This test of my Time Machine will be recorded in history books.”
Elmo went to a cage, selected a rat, and settled the animal into his machine’s chamber and closed the lid. He set the time advance device for one year and the length of the journey for ten minutes. If all went right, and he was sure it would, the rat should disappear, and after ten minutes, reappear from its trip into the future. Through a small porthole at the top of the chamber he observed the rat, expecting the animal to disappear.
Once the machine was started, a series of blinding flashes filled the chamber, along with heavy mist. In seconds the mist cleared, and Elmo looked down on the rat. Nothing happened to the rat.
Once the supposed ten-minute trip was over, Elmo raised the lid of the chamber, and the rat calmly stared into his face. The experiment was a failure.
Elmo was sure of his calculations. He looked at Mildred, who was shaking her head, not saying anything. “Dear, it didn’t work.
“I’m sure it was a valiant attempt, Elmo, but not everything goes the way you expect.”
Gazing at the rat, Elmo decided to give it another try. “My dear,” he said, “maybe there is an unforeseen limitation in the apparatus. Perhaps it does not function correctly for such a short time span as one year.
“I shall attempt to send my subject twenty years into the future.” He adjusted the dials and initiated the machine’s process. Once again the interior of the chamber began to flash, and a heavy blanket of mist obscured the interior. After the mist cleared, Elmo gazed at the skeleton of the rat.
Mildred observed the same result, and with a hint of sarcasm in her voice, said, “Elmo, you have apparently invented a process to kill rats, but first you have to catch them.” As she looked at her husband, she immediately regretted her comment. He was devastated by the results. She went to him and gave him a hug, and said, “I’m sure it just needs a little fine-tuning.” Knowing Elmo wanted to be alone, she went upstairs and left him in the cellar with his machine and thoughts.
Elmo spent the next few hours going over all his diagrams and compared them to the device he constructed. No fault became readily apparent. “Maybe there was some kind of power fluctuation that caused some sort of anomaly. That’s it. That has to be it.”
With new invigoration, Elmo went to the cages and selected another rat which he deposited in the chamber. He first set all the controls to zero and then duplicated the conditions of the last experiment. Once again flashes, and then a dense mist filled the chamber. When the mist cleared, he hurried to observe the results only to see another rat skeleton.
“It’s a failure. I’m a failure,” he shouted.”
After climbing the stairs Mildred heard Elmo’s muffled shouts. She knew he was feeling down and went out of her way not to antagonize him. She had learned when to be playful and when to be serious with her husband.
Elmo came up the stairs and sat in the living room, in the dark, until dinner was ready. He pondered the results of his experiment. There was no doubt that something had happened, but what? Why should a rat survive when the machine was set for one year, yet not survive when the time was set for 20 years? He racked his brain but could not come up with the answer. He had gone over the wiring diagram and compared it to the machine; everything was fine. Perhaps there was a problem with the basic science. Blocking out the world around him, he let his mind wander for an answer. After a short time, a smile grew on his face and, he shouted, “That’s it! That’s it!” and began dancing around the living room.
Mildred sometimes thought that he suffered from manic depression. Elmo’s actions now only strengthened that opinion. She mentally prepared herself and called, “Elmo, dinner.”
Her husband lightly danced into the dining room, held her in his arms and danced to his own inner music. He whirled Mildred around and there was joy in his eyes. Mildred tried to catch her breath, and then asked, “Why are you so happy, Elmo? Your experiment failed. At first nothing happened, you tried again and killed the rat. I wouldn’t call that a reason to be happy.”
Elmo giggled and replied, “You missed it. I tried again and killed yet a second rat.”
Mildred questioned, “And you call that a success, something to celebrate?”
“Well, in the strictest sense of the word, it was not a success, but something happened within that chamber. I’m considering my experiment a partial, tentative success. Better yet, I think I know what happened.”
“Then what did happen, Elmo?”
“I’m not going to say just yet. I need to run a few more experiments. Tomorrow, after work, I’m going to Brooker’s farm.”
“You mean the farm where we buy our eggs?”
“That’s right, Mil. I need some very special eggs, historical eggs.”
Mildred stared at Elmo and now was sure he was manic.
ELMO’S INVENTION: CHAPTER 1, ELMO’S WORKSHOP, THE BEGINNING OF THE TIME MACHINE
ELMO’S INVENTION
CHAPTER 1
ELMO’S WORKSHOP
“Mildred,” Elmo Baker shouted, “Come down here. I have something important to show you.” Standing at the base of the cellar stairs, Elmo was in his usual excited state when a project was completed. Of medium build, with a broad face and a mass of curly black hair, Elmo’s passion was science, physics in particular. Mildred, with great trepidation, began walking down the stairs to the cellar. At the base of the stairs stood Elmo, beaming, not a good sign, and Mildred could tell by the twinkle in his eye as she approached her husband, that a demonstration or explanation of an invention was about to take place. And that twinkle would slowly if the experiment failed, which was often the case.
The year was 1966, and Mildred loved Elmo so, but shortly after their marriage three years ago, it became clear how intense Elmo’s love for science was and that love would follow them all of their lives. Mildred loved Elmo’s sense of curiosity but not the prospect of cleaning up the destruction, the mess of a failed experiment.
“Come here, Mil, I’ve got something to show you.” Elmo held out his hand to Mildred and said, “You have got to see this. I’m ready to make the first test.”
Mildred was not looking forward to what Elmo might present to her. Her husband was one of the first ‘dumpster divers’. Los Alamos was the government facility known for its research of the atom, and it was where Elmo worked. And he knew that when an experiment failed, some of the materials that went into the effort were tossed, deemed trash. Lab bosses also discarded equipment they considered ‘obsolete’ to be replaced by the latest version. But Elmo thought of this trash as treasure. This was much to Elmo’s benefit and was the source that supplied his cellar laboratory. At the end of his workday at his Los Alamos lab, Elmo would back his car up to the dumpster area and go to work. On many days, he would come home with the backseat of his Chevy filled with scientific odds and ends. To Elmo, Los Alamos’ trash was the building blocks of his inventions.
Elmo led Mildred to the corner of the cellar where he had his workbench and lab of the cellar. The remainder of the room was occupied by the usual accumulation of life which now had no use but never thrown away. Below a bare overhead bulb was his invention. Which looked to Mildred like and iron lung, one she had seen delivered. Elmo could see the confusion on his wife’s face, and proudly said, “Doll, I have invented a time machine.”
* * *
Mildred kept her love for Elmo strong, although that could be difficult at times.
Elmo was two years older than Mildred. He was handsome, but that was not what had attracted Mildred to him. It was his passion for a new curiosity he discovered, usually scientific. He found the world of science fascinating, with the wonder of a child enthralled by a rattle. At times he could sit for hours just thinking and occasionally smiling. However, the toys that mystified him were sometimes slightly more dangerous than a toy.
Mildred could not recall how many times Elmo called from the cellar, “Call the fire department!” Shortly thereafter, dense smoke would issue from the open cellar door and begin to fill the kitchen. This was long before 911 existed. Mildred knew the phone number of the local fire department by heart.
She recalled the time Elmo constructed two small chambers attached by wires to an intricate control device with a host of dials and flashing lights. The device was meant to transfer objects through space. He wanted to test the machine before building the full-scale model.
Unfortunately for Mildred, she had been busy in the cellar doing some unpacking. She wanted to display in her hutch the beautiful delicate six china teacups and saucers her mother had left her. She knew exactly where they were packed and couldn’t wait to see them again.
The search did not take long, and while admiring one of the cups, she heard Elmo mutter, “I need something small.” He happened to glance at Mildred and exclaimed, “Perfect.”
Before she realized what her husband was up to, he grabbed a cup and put it in one of the chambers.
“Elmo, what are you doing? That was my mother’s cup!” shouted Mildred. “It’s precious to me.”
Elmo was only half listening as he began turning dials and focusing his attention on the chamber containing the cup. “Don’t worry, Mildred. Your cup is perfectly safe. I’m just going to send it to the chamber at the other end of my workbench.”
Much to Mildred’s surprise, her vision of the cup appeared to waver, and then disappears.
Much to Elmo’s surprise, it did not reappear in the other chamber.
“Don’t worry, Mildred. Let’s just give it some time.”
An hour later Mildred went storming up the stairs with five cups and six saucers, angry and sad at her loss.
Elmo continued to stare at the second chamber scratching his head and repeating over and over again, “I wonder where it went.” He was happy that his wife wasn’t there when suddenly he began laughing hysterically, thinking of the cup suddenly appearing someplace quite by surprise and mystifying some unsuspecting person. He was sure the cup went somewhere as matter. For if it had been converted to energy, all that would be left of his house and most of the surrounding area would be cinders.
THE BEGINNING OF THE TIME MACHINE
One day after visiting the supermarket, although in those days they weren’t very super, Mildred was pulling her two-wheeled shopping cart down the street and was amazed to see a pickup parked in her driveway. It was three in the afternoon, and four burly men stood behind the truck. They looked relieved when they saw her approach. In the bed of the truck was a huge piece of equipment. Mildred recognized it immediately. It was an iron lung.
Just recently, the newly developed polio vaccine began distribution on sugar cubes. Gradually iron lungs were no longer needed. However, Mildred had lived with the fear of polio, knew people who had contracted the disease. Some still depended on the device for their lives to continue. “Where do you want this, lady?” asked the man obviously in charge.
“I don’t want it anywhere,” answered Mildred. She had no idea why they had brought this to her home. Then her mind had a flash, Elmo.
“Does an Elmo Baker live here?” the man asked.
There it was. Her husband had bought an iron lung. Shaking her head, Mildred said, “I’m sure it belongs in the cellar. I’ll show you the way.”
After many grunts and groans, the machine rested on its wheels in the cellar.
“What could Elmo want with this thing?” pondered Mildred out loud.
Hearing Mildred one of the men said, “I don’t know nothing, lady. We just deliver.”
The crew went back upstairs and climbed into their truck and left. And Elmo had some explaining to do when he came home from work.
A RETURN TO ELMO AND HIS ADVENTURES
A RETURN TO ELMO AND HIS ADVENTURES
For the next month or so I’m going to reintroduce you to Elmo. He appears in two of my novellas, Elmo’s Invention and Elmo’s Sojourn. Elmo has a love for science and that love leads him to adventures with unusual ideas about how to fulfill this love.
In Elmo’s Invention Elmo is a scientist working at Los Alamos labs. In this novella Elmo wants to build a time machine. He has studied the science he thinks is involved and is sure he will succeed. He builds the machine and it works, but not as he intended.
He holds a meeting with his colleagues to discuss what may be his problem. One of his colleagues sees a use for Elmo’s time machine but it not the use he had intended. And once the use is leaked to the public Elmo’s life is in disarray.
Join Elmo on his quest to build a time machine and see if he is eventually successful.
WHERE IS THE GOVERNMENT?
WHERE IS THE GOVERNMENT?
We all remember the devastating fires around Los Angeles where thousands of structures were destroyed. The last update I heard about progress in restoring the area was that 30 houses have been built out of the thousands destroyed. It was stated that one of the main stumbling blocks was insurance companies holding the policies of the homeowners. This leads me to the title of this article.
Where is the government?
There are many aspects of life where we feel that government intervention is not helpful. But these homeowners have been diligently paying their premiums and when it comes time to filing a claim they should not have the amount of trouble they are now experiencing. Why isn’t there some branch of government which can step in and speed up the process of getting these people what they are due?
There is one company which was named in being a roadblock in the process of settling with the homeowners. A company which I will not name but has been named in the past for denying a customer the service they had earned.
There was a resident in Florida who had a policy with the above company paying premiums for 13 or 15 years and the company dropped them. The reason was that they might have a claim in the future. Am I the only one who sees this to be terribly wrong? Am I the only one who thinks that some action should be taken when something like this is permitted?
What do you think?
HE FLEW AWAY: A STINK BUG STORY
It wasn’t too many years ago that we were inundated with stink buts. A gift from Laos. Fortunately, birds developed a taste for these odorous insects and the plague of stink bugs disappeared. This story was written during the height of the infestation.
It was published by Cemetery Moon in 2116
HE FLEW AWAY
The stink bug invasion, a product of Asian commerce, spread across the east coast like a cancer. Now, more than thirty-three states suffered their scourge. At first, the insect was nothing more than a mild discomfort. Then, ever so slowly, the discomfort grew into a major irritant, and finally as time passed, a constant source of woe. It was in the winter that the insects would reach their maximum level as a life-changing hindrance. During cold weather they ventured indoors, landing in food, beverages and disturbing sleep-in infested bedrooms, waking those light sleepers with the sound of their flight, and the heavier sleepers when they landed. Residents of the blighted areas thought this was as bad as it could get, but matters were about to take place for the worse that no one had anticipated. The nuisance of the original invasion waned as birds developed a taste for the pest. But before that took place a new, more threatening aspect, replaced the mere nuisance.
One of the many sites of this transition from annoyance to terror took place at French Creek State Park. Located in rural eastern Pennsylvania, a landscape of thick forests and rolling hills, it was an ideal setting for those wanting to leave the cares of life behind and seek nature’s solitude. The location was also ideal for the mindless advances of the now predator insects to accomplish a horrible new phase of their existence.
Walt, along with his dog, Millie, sought out the peace and tranquility of the park one early October weekend. Walt said to Millie, as he filled his van with camping equipment, “I can’t wait to spend some time outdoors with my girl camping.” Millie, a lab mix, bounded around the car anticipating an upcoming adventure. She knew something was up, and as long as she was included, she was happy.
Setting out on a Friday afternoon, a short drive brought them to French Creek State Park.
Walt began setting up his campsite looking forward to a restful evening spent around a blazing fire. However, the tranquil mood changed when Saturday morning dawned with the horrible realization that the invasion of stink bugs in the forest was intense. Walt could not believe the magnitude of the stink bug population as he attempted to clear them from the picnic table so he could make his breakfast.
Millie sensed an ominous presence in the insect invasion, something her master could not. She growled and snapped at the pests knowing they were more of a threat than her master realized.
That morning, as Walt entered the camp bathroom he was shocked to see the walls black with stink bugs. To eliminate the vermin, he slammed his towel against the walls. But that accomplished nothing more than releasing a sickening stench. “Bad idea,” he, mumbled. “It can’t get much worse than this. Back home they haven’t shown up yet. Here, it’s a major invasion. They’re everywhere.” And Walt discovered a new aspect of the pests; they’re dive-bombing now, and biting. A few of them landed on him and immediately bit down, causing intense pain. The fellow camper entered the restroom listening to Walt complain and agreed with a nod of his head to his observations. He was afraid to open his mouth to respond, the insects were that dense.
That night the smoke of the campfire kept the little monsters at bay allowing Walt to enjoy the evening. Millie lay down by the fire but sensed a looming threat in the darkness.
Late Sunday night Walt’s friends, Sherrie and Jeff, arrived in their RV. The next morning, as Sherrie and Jeff witnessed the stink bug infestation, they agreed that this year’s plague of insects was the worst they’d ever seen. Walt tried to remain positive and commented, “It will be better when we go back home, away from the forest. Let’s try to enjoy our camping and ignore the little bastards.”
On their second full day of camping Walt’s friends decided to take Millie for a walk. “We won’t get lost this time,” they promised. The previous day, the trio hiked a totally unplanned six-mile marathon. Without map or compass, they set out for a short leisurely hike. At one point, after the humans realized how lost they were, while Millie enjoyed every turn in the trail, Sherrie asked an old-timer driving by for directions. Big mistake. They walked circles around the same landscape finally sure their local guide was suffering from dementia. Nothing of the directions he gave fit the terrain, and during the hike they were constantly bombarded by stink bugs. “I hope Walt has a fire going when we get back with plenty of smoke,” Sherrie said to Jeff. “Or else you and I are going straight into the RV.
While his friends decided on a hike, Walt hung back at the campsite to try and do some work. He was a writer at the beginning of his career. As he sat in this peaceful setting ideas fired through his mind. The current infestation of stink bugs added to strong possibilities of a story.
Sitting at the picnic table, Walt started to form the idea for a work of horror, lurking on the backburner of his mind for some time now. Working at the picnic table he was constantly brushing away stink bugs landing on him. He muttered, “The little pests are everywhere. We can’t leave this place soon enough to suit me,” a definite turn to his positive attitude. But even with the constant irritation of the insects, the warmth of the sun, and a restless camping night, he began nodding off and decided to rest his head on the table, for just a minute.
As Walt’s breathing grew more regular with sleep the insects returned, the first stink bug landed on his shoulder. Soon insects occupied his shoulders and back, joined by a swarm hovering and quietly settling down to join their comrades. Swarm after swam followed, creating a mass of hundreds of thousands of bugs.
Walt stirred as the insects began penetrating his body with their mindless journey to transition, molding his structure to their own demands. He was now beyond pain as his being entered a new life, a new entity. All that was Walt was gone, replaced by a life form the world had never known. This same horrible transformation was occurring throughout the infected areas as the stink bug population multiplied with unprecedented speed to create a new horror. Gradually a new life form would create swarms defying the laws of nature and challenge all life on the planet.
* **
Hours later Sherrie and Jeff came walking back with Millie in tow. “Let’s see what Walt’s up to,” they told the tired dog. As they approached the campsite they could not believe their eyes. There, sitting at the picnic table, was a pulsating amorphous shape. As they moved closer they realized what they were seeing were thousands upon thousands of stink bugs. Before their horrified eyes, a figure rose and became more defined as the crawling mass of insects flew away leaving a solid form, one enormous shield- shaped evil-looking insect. The monster’s alien eyes surveyed its surroundings and then moved from the table to the ground. It was fully six feet long and stood four feet high. The stench it gave off was unbelievably repulsive. Suddenly, its carapace opened and huge wings appeared increasing the putrid smell even more. Giant wings began to flutter, sending up a cloud of fallen leaves, and the beast began to fly. Soon it was only a dot in the sky and then disappeared.
The End
BOOK REVIEW: THE DELUGE BY STEPHEN MARKLEY
BOOK REVIEW: THE DELUGE BY STEPHEN MARKLEY
The Deluge is an excellently written book where the author takes a surprisingly accurate glimpse into the future.
The book deals with the future of climate change and global warming. Surprisingly the author also has a massive fire which destroys Los Angeles. Among critical events the Capital is also taken over, but this time by an environmentalists’ group. After camping on the Capital grounds, they are thwarted in their mission in a disastrous meeting with the authorities.
There are other conditions in this book which make for a compelling story. Conditions which I hope never comes to pass. States become entities unto themselves regulating entry and establishing a host of frightening conditions for their citizens.
This is an extremely well-written book peopled by interesting characters and weaving an exciting story. The book describes a possible future, part of which has already occurred and also a disastrous future for our country.
TRUMP TRUMPS BIDEN
TRUMP TRUMPS BIDEN
All through Trump’s administration that anything that goes wrong is Biden’s fault. Anything good is because of Trump.
In all honesty Biden was far from perfect and his pardons and use of the justice department were far from above board. But how Trump handles these areas is a few orders of magnitude above Biden’s.
Okay, Biden pardoned his son, Hunter, when he first said he wouldn’t. He also pardoned his family. In my eyes the only reason for a pardon is to forgive a wrongdoing, but that’s only me.
Now let’s look at Trump’s use of pardons. He has pardoned himself and his entire family and his businesses from any crimes concerning the I R S. What could he be hiding? And what are the penalties that are being avoided? Then there is pardoning all the January 6 ‘patriots’ who had been found guilty of a host of crimes including beating policemen. And now he is attempting to reward these criminals.
Now let’s look at Biden’s and Trump’s use of the justice department. It has come to light that Biden is not completely innocent in his use of the justice department. But Biden’s manipulations pale compared to Trump’s endeavors.
Trump constantly accused Biden of weaponizing the justice department, but Trump has done that to the extreme. Trump indicated at the beginning of this term that he was going to go after his enemies, those individuals who prevented him from doing what he wanted to do or those he had some sort of grudge against. And Trump made no attempt of keeping those intentions secret. The entire world would see, by using social media, the identity of those he considered wrong doers. And in doing so negated a great deal of the indictments he had the justice department issue.
In this piece I have pointed out two areas, pardons and the justice department, where Biden and Trump do not have perfect records. But Trump far exceeds Biden in doing what is less than right.
Let us hope and pray that this country never has another president who approaches Trump in the abuse of power which he has exhibited.
THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK: LOCAL HORROR
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’r 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 the 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 fresh water 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 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.
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 peaking 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 remain 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
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