Posts tagged ‘fantasy’
ELMO’S INVENTION: CHAPTER 10, TIME MACHINE REPAIRED
CHAPTER 10
TIME MACHINE REPAIRED
One day after work Elmo stopped, once again, at Brooker’s farm for fertilized eggs.
“How you doing, Elmo?” he shouted seeing Elmo as Brooker one of his coops.
“Not bad,” Elmo responded. “Not bad.”
Brooker said, “I guess you come for more eggs. Got to tell you, son, this deal is saving me money on feed and such. Hope we can keep it going for a long time.”
Elmo thought about all the effort he put into constructing his machine, and all the grief he endured trying to explore some purpose for it. And it all came down to raising chickens. He tried to mask his feelings and said, “We’ve got a pretty good deal going, Brooker. A pretty good deal.”
Elmo accepted six fertilized eggs and made his way home, his heart full of failure wondering what went wrong. He arrived home, still in a funk, and Mildred met him at the door. She was all smiles. “Elmo, it looks like we’ll be getting another free chicken soon.”
Elmo gave his wife a wistful smile and went downstairs to his cellar lab. He loaded the eggs into his machine, set the length of time of aging to one year and the duration for one minute, and then pushed the button that would start the process. He stepped back, expecting the chamber to fill with mist and eventually see mature chickens, but nothing happened.
“Now what?” Elmo shouted in disbelief.
Not only had his time machine been reduced to raising chickens, now it wouldn’t work at all. Must be a disconnected wire, he thought. He removed the eggs and went to get his wiring diagrams. Unscrewing a steel plate to gain access to the workings of the machine, he carefully began to probe searching for a fault.
After a short period of time he muttered, “Aha.” He had found a disconnected wire and immediately knew that must be the problem.
Elmo referred to his wiring diagram, and then back to the wire. He saw where the connection should be made, but to his surprise, that connection had never been completed. The wire had been soldered to a place it should not have been. He also found some burned-out resistors. That was why the device failed to operate. His mind raced. Could this be why the invention did not fulfill its purpose? Elmo made the repair, reattached the panel and retrieved the eggs.
Elmo’s thoughts went wild as he placed the eggs in the chamber, resetting the length of time to one year and the duration to one minute.
He pushed the start button.
The chamber filled with mist, and then quickly dissipated. The eggs were gone. A short time later they reappeared with no apparent change in age. Elmo reasoned, “The eggs must have traveled into the future and didn’t age.
Elmo jumped for joy, shouting, “It works! It works!”
He next shouted, “Mildred, come quick!”
Mildred heard his initial exclamation. After Elmo beckoned her, she started for the cellar with great apprehension. Sometimes things went terribly wrong down there. She flashed back to her mother’s teacup, wondering where it was now and even if it still existed. She never knew what to expect at all when she was summoned down to Elmo’s lab. But she loved Elmo and wanted to give him all the support she could – within reason.
Upon entering the cellar, Mildred found Elmo peering into his iron lung device. He turned and said to her, “Mil, it works, I think. It finally, really works.”
It was the ‘I think’ that bothered Mildred.
“Watch”, he said to Mildred and repeated the experiment. Once again the eggs disappeared in a cloud and then reappeared in another white haze.
Milder muttered, “At least the eggs returned, unlike my teacup.”
Elmo then related to his wife about the loose wire, his reference to the wiring diagram and his mistake in constructing his machine.
Mildred asked, “Is that the end of our free chickens?” She had her priorities.
The question caused Elmo to chuckle realizing his wife’s priorities were so much different from his own.
“I’m afraid so, my dear. But this is more important than chickens.
“Your teacup was part of a different experiment. The reason I called you down is to see that my invention really worked, to see that the eggs actually traveled in time. Now I must run the ultimate test to see if it worked.”
“Well, Elmo, how are you going to do that?”
After removing the eggs from the chamber, Elmo pushed a small stepstool in front of the iron lung.
Mildred said, “You’re not going to do what I think you’re going to do.”
“There is only one way, Mil, that I can think of to know if it really works. A person must be transported into the future and return and report on the experience.
“I need your help. All the parameters are set. All you need to do is push this button to initiate the process.”
Mildred knew there would be no living with Elmo if she didn’t help, and if she didn’t help, he would just get someone else. She mumbled, “All right, Elmo, but it’s the return part I’m worried about.” She added, “Remember the teacup. What happens if you don’t come back?”
Elmo disregarded that possibility.
Before he closed the lid to the chamber, Elmo said, “That was a totally different type of experiment. But remember that every experiment has an element of uncertainty. That’s why they are called experiments.
“I have to know if my machine works, and I’m almost positive that it does. I need to do this experiment to confirm that it does.”
With that Elmo closed the lid and indicated to Mildred to push the button. The chamber filled with a heavy white mist, and when it cleared Elmo was gone. After five minutes it once again filled with the blanketing mist. Once the chambered cleared, and much to Mildred’s delight, there lay Elmo with a huge grin on his face. He pushed open the lid and shouted, “It works! It works!” After all the hard work, disappointment and failure, his time machine finally worked.
“Mildred, I was talking to you fifteen minutes into the future down here in the cellar.”
“How can you know it was in the future, Elmo?”
“Well, for one thing, you don’t remember me talking to you since I entered the chamber.”
“You’re talking to me now, Elmo.”
“Well yes, but something happened while we were talking that will confirm my knowledge of the future.” Elmo waited another few moments and said, “Your roast is going to burn.”
Minutes later the first odors of burning roast filtered down to the cellar.
“Elmo, why didn’t you tell me earlier? I could have saved the roast.”
“And I would have changed the future.”
Mildred hurried upstairs in a huff. Seconds later there came a crash from the kitchen.
He said quietly, “And you’re going to burn your fingers and drop the roast. I forgot to mention that part.”
Elmo was anxious to share the fact that his time machine finally worked with someone in the scientific community. He immediately thought of notifying the Tinkerer’s Club, but that idea did not last long. The last time he consulted the club it ended in a disaster when someone leaked the events of the meeting. The only Tinkerer he trusted was Kingsley Dasher, and that’s whom he would contact.
ELMO’S INVENTION: CHAPTER 6, ELMO MAKES THE NEWS
CHAPTER 6
ELMO MAKES THE NEWS
Mildred watched as the members of the Tinkerer’s Club ascended the stairs from the cellar and prepared to depart. Harold Kinter, William Dupree and James Forsyth bid her goodbye. Much to her surprise, Kingsley Dasher took her hand and said, “Elmo has a marvelous intellect, and his invention could someday garner you a great deal of money. Only time will tell.” With that he walked out the door and was gone.
Elmo was the last to depart the cellar and Mildred could immediately tell that things had not gone as well as he had anticipated. She was puzzled by Elmo’s downtrodden appearance and Kingsley’s departing comment. Wanting to question her husband, she asked, “Elmo, why don’t I pour us some coffee and we have some dessert?”
Elmo, distracted by his thoughts, after a moment, replied, “That’s fine with me, my dear. I have a great deal on my mind, and perhaps talking would help. Things did not go as I had hoped during the meeting, and I need to gather my thoughts. I am confused about the future of my invention. Nothing is going as I had planned.”
Mildred set the kitchen table with two steaming mugs and plates of Elmo’s favorite dessert, spice cake. She watched Elmo sip his coffee and then push the dessert away. Now she knew something was definitely wrong. Elmo never refused spice cake. “What happened in the cellar?” Mildred asked.
Elmo hesitated, and then began, “I demonstrated my time machine using the kitten and the results were as I expected. To everyone’s surprise, Kingsley made a comment after the experiment. As he began to speak, I expected him to give insight into why the machine was not working, but to my surprise he said that it was working. Only it was working in a manner not that I appreciated. He said that I had invented the perfect prison and that my machine had the potential to change society.”
Mildred sat deep in thought remembering what Kingsley had said before departing. Suddenly her face lit up, “He’s right. I never would have made the connection. The man’s a genius. I’m so proud of you, Elmo. Your invention will change our society.”
This did not serve to heal Elmo’s fragile ego, instead, Mildred’s comment only served to increase its fragility.
Elmo had invested a great deal of effort in planning and then building his machine. Now, not only did it not work, but someone else had discovered its use.
Mildred could see that her husband was deeply upset. She extended her hand across the table and said, “Come to bed, my dear. Perhaps there is something I can do to improve your mood.” Mildred was successful, but it wasn’t long before matters took a drastic turn. Once again it was something that Kingsley had hinted might happen, but even he could not predict the extent of the turmoil Elmo’s machine would cause.
* * *
To this day Elmo doesn’t know how it happened or who was the one to break the secrecy surrounding the meeting of the Tinkerer’s Club. For a moment he thought maybe Mildred, but no, she would never break his confidence. He was sure it wasn’t Kingsley. Kingsley had trouble communicating with the members of the club. Elmo could not picture him going to the press or even breaking the club’s confidence with a friend. Elmo doubted he had few friends outside the club. That left James Forsyth, William Dupree and Harold Kinter as the culprit. He questioned them all and everyone denied that they talked about the machine. Elmo knew one of them was lying. His money was on either James Forsyth or William Dupree.
James was a people person and loved being the center of attention. He also enjoyed talking about his work and Elmo could just picture him letting slip the nature of the Tinkerer’s meeting. James’ tongue was often ahead of his brain when he really got going in a conversation.
William was also a suspect. Being short, and as most short people, he feared being ignored, feared being lost in a crowd – literally. So how better to avoid being lost than becoming its center. Elmo could picture him trying to impress people. Telling them of a great new device that would do away with prisons and save society billions of dollars. And after explaining all this, whispering, “Now promise that you won’t tell a soul.”
The more he thought about who the culprit might be, the more Elmo became sure that William was the guilty party, but William, as well as the rest of the members present that night, emphatically denied speaking about the machine to anyone.
The manner in which Elmo discovered that the secrecy of the Tinkerer’s Club meeting had been broken was a phone call he received from a local newspaper. Published only once a week, The Los Alamos Herald was primarily concerned with community events, births, weddings and funerals. Most of what was news in the town of Los Alamos was Top Secret so there really wasn’t much to report. When word of Elmo’s invention began to spread through the tight-knit community, the paper was all over it.
One evening, while Elmo and Mildred were enjoying their supper, the phone rang. “I’ll get it,” said Elmo as he rose to answer. This was long before the age of telemarketers, and for that matter, answering machines. When the phone rang you knew it was something important. Elmo answered, “Hello.”
A voice on the other end said, “Hello, this is Nate Bush calling from The Los Alamos Herald. I’d like to speak to Dr. Elmo Baker.”
Mildred watched Elmo and saw his expression range between puzzlement and fear.
Elmo said, “Elmo here. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve been told you’ve invented a rather unique machine, a machine that may do away with prisons. Could you comment on this device?”
Elmo did not know how he should answer. He thought the events of the meeting would remain confidential. He now felt anger and frustration and did not know where to direct it. He had to respond. He couldn’t lie for he would soon be filing a patent for his machine. “I have built a device that can age the occupant to a predetermined age.”
“How long does this process take?”
Elmo responded, “Oh, just a matter of minutes.”
“How exactly does it work?”
Elmo was not about to admit that he really didn’t know that it was intended to be a time machine and that something went wrong, so he answered, “I’d rather wait until I patent the device before I divulge its workings. Also, I’d appreciate it if you would postpone writing any article until I receive the patent.”
Nate was disappointed at this request but felt he had to respect Elmo’s wishes. He responded, “I’ll write-up the article and wait until I hear that your patent has been granted.”
Elmo, somewhat relieved, said, “I would appreciate that a great deal. I’ll give you a call when the patent is approved.”
After hanging up the phone, Elmo said to Mildred, “Someone broke their word. That was The Los Alamos Herald, and they want to know about my invention. I can’t believe all this is happening about something I truly do not understand.”
* * *
Later that day George Holkum walked over to Nate’s desk. The paper was losing money and George, the managing editor, needed to turn that around.
He asked Nate, “How did that prison thing interview go? Are we dealing with a nutcase or what?”
Nate began to perspire. He knew that the paper was in trouble and needed sales. He also knew he had a fantastic story, but he had given his word. Nate said, “I think it’s the real thing. The man is a scientist, and he wants to keep things quiet until he gets a patent.”
George said, “Publish the story. Maybe it will increase our circulation. We’re not in a position to not publish something important. We have a responsibility to the stockholders.”
Nate responded, “But boss, I gave my word.”
“Your word won’t sell papers. Publish your story!”
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 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.
THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK: CONTINUED
THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK: CONTINUED
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
THE ULTIMATE EXPERIMENT: WHERE SCIENCE MEETS RELIGION
An unpublished story
THE ULTIMATE EXPERIMENT
George Stewart, age 94, with his mane of white hair and flowing beard, looked the part he had chosen in life, that of a distinguished scientist. His mind wandered as he waited in his study for Virginia to arrive. He always anticipated her visits. Twice a week she came. Finally, the door to his study opened and she entered.
“Virginia, how are you doing?” he said.
Virginia was thirty-five of medium build and quite attractive. But it was the nurturing she gave her patients that revealed her inner beauty. She put down her nursing bag and replied, “How are you doing, Dr. Stewart?” although she knew the answer.
Virginia had been an oncology and hospice nurse for four years. The work was demanding and emotionally draining, but she derived comfort in knowing she helped the people she cared for to make their last days as comfortable as possible.
“I’m maintaining Virginia. I’m so very glad to see you my dear.”
Virginia smiled as Stewart adjusted his body in his hospital bed. She enjoyed spending time with Stewart, easily the most famous patient she had ever had. In 1975, he won the Nobel Prize for Physics. His breakthrough theories and research led to the proposal of string theory. At his advanced age, his brain was still nimble. But his body was riddled with colon cancer and the malignant fingers of death had spread to other organs.
Stewart lived alone in a grand old house. His wife died some years ago and he still deeply mourned her. His only child, a son near 70, lived nearby and would visit when he could. Stewart would have liked to see his two grandchildren more, but they had their own lives and families. He cherished the rare visits they managed. A nurse’s aide kept watch over him and tended to his daily needs.
When Virginia began managing Stewart’s care one month ago, he was given three months to live. “I’ll spend my final days at home,” he told his doctor.
Virginia was assigned Stewart’s case and, during her first visit, she told him, “I’m having a hospital bed delivered today to make you more comfortable. What bedroom do you want it set up in?”
“Oh my dear,” he answered, “I want to spend my last days with my very close friends. Set it up in my study.”
He could tell she did not understand his request. “Wheel me into my study and you shall meet them.”
She wheeled him up to the sliding double doors of darkly stained wood. When she opened them her eyes were greeted by floor to ceiling shelves overflowing with books.
“These are my very close friends. I have spent my life with their thoughts, their ideas, and their dreams. On these shelves are the works of scientists, philosophers and poets. I can gaze at their spines and recall the cherished words they hold. This is where I choose to spend my last days.” Over the days she cared for him she grew to understand how much these friends meant to him.
Now she saw Stewart as her patient and friend. As she tended to him, Virginia asked, “Have you received communion yet today?” She knew that Stewart was a devout Catholic and received the sacrament every morning from a visiting priest or lay member of the church.
“Yes, my dear. Monsignor visited me early this morning. I do so love visiting with that man. We prayed together and talked about my journey into the next life. I’ve worked hard in this life. I am satisfied with what I have accomplished. But I am so very tired. I look forward to the next life and being united with my dear wife.”
Virginia finished with her patient and left instructions with the nurse’s aide as to what needed to be done until her next visit. With her work done, Virginia packed her bag and prepared for her next visit. They said their good-byes, and then Stewart mentioned, “I’m expecting a visitor this afternoon, a former student of mine. His name is Donald Ball, and he has made quite a name for himself in the field of quantum mechanics and string theory. I have not seen him for thirty years or more. I can’t imagine what the purpose of his visit might be.”
“Just don’t overdo it Dr. Stewart. I’ll see you in two days.”
Whenever Virginia left Stewart, she never knew whether she would see him again. She knew the end was very close.
* * *
Donald Ball drove his rental car along the back roads of southeastern Pennsylvania. He chose this circuitous route to give him time to think, although his mind had been occupied with one subject for some time now. He wanted to talk about an extremely sensitive and private matter: his old teacher’s imminent death.
Ball had a collaboration to discuss with his mentor. That is why he traveled from California to Pennsylvania. He had in mind the ultimate physics experiment and needed Stewart’s help to prove a theory that, until now, he had not dared share with anyone.
* * *
Ball arrived at Stewart’s residence and parked on the circular drive. The nurse’s aide answered the door and led him to the study. The sliding doors were open. As he entered, he was immediately astounded at the number of books crammed into the room. However, he was more astounded and saddened to see the shell of a man that was once George Stewart.
Stewart smiled as his former student approached the bed.
Ball extended his hand. “It is a pleasure to see you again Professor. How are you?” He immediately gave himself a mental slap for asking a man who was dying how he was doing.
“I meant to say….”
Stewart waved a dismissive hand. “I understand Donald. When one is as close to death as I, life’s daily greetings can seem out of place. I’m glad to see you but I must admit I am puzzled by this visit. I cannot fathom why you would drop your important work at U C Irvine to come visit your old professor?”
Ball knew this conversation would be extremely difficult. He had practiced what he would say since he first conceived the idea, when he first heard of Stewart’s condition.
Motioning for Ball to take a seat, Stewart asked the nurse’s aide to bring some tea.
When they were alone, Ball began to explain his visit. “Professor Stewart, I have always respected you as an outstanding scientist. No, respect is the wrong word. I have always been in awe of your intellect. And I have always respected you as a man, a person of honesty and integrity.”
Stewart smiled, “I appreciate your comments, he said, “but I’m sure you didn’t travel three thousand miles just to compliment me on the life I have lived.”
Ball hesitated, and then said, “Um, professor, this may seem like an odd question, but are you still a religious man?”
This question took Stewart by surprise. “Why yes, I am. I must say I find this conversation most puzzling.”
“Professor, I am here because you have three qualities I am seeking in an individual, someone I need to help me prove a theory of mine. It is a theory that goes beyond science to the essence our very existence. You meet my criteria. You are a highly intelligent physicist, you have led an honorable life and you are dying.”
Stewart said, “This conversation is becoming more and more bizarre. I presume you can explain your comments.”
Ball nodded, “I will try my best Professor. “As you know, I am working at the Super-Kamiokande detector used for detection of neutrinos. I am also conducting a graduate-level course in string theory. While teaching this course, I formed a theory on a subject that I never put much credence in: the existence of heaven.”
“Now I am truly lost,” replied Stewart.
“You see Professor, I have never been a religious man. I was not raised in any faith. But as a scientist, the more I think about life the more I find it difficult to picture our life force, that energy that each of us possesses, coming to a complete end with our death.”
“I can appreciate your observation on life. But I cannot fathom the connection between string theory and heaven.”
Ball began to explain his theory.
“One of the estimations of string theory, as you well know, is the existence of not four but eleven dimensions. Presumably, some of these dimensions are too miniscule to be observable. I began thinking about the existence of alternate universes. I thought of our own universe with its three physical dimensions and the fourth, time. I envisioned two alternate universes, each with three dimensions. I assumed time to be a constant for all three dimensions, ours and the two unknowns.”
Stewart interrupted. “That theory,” he hesitated, “would explain the presence of ten dimensions. You are left with one unexplained ….” The startled expression on Stewart’s face told Ball that he now comprehended the connection between string theory and heaven.
“That is correct, Professor Stewart. We are left with one dimension, one universe that is infinite, a universe of energy, and a universe where physical reality does not exist. The one remaining universe is heaven.”
Both men fell silent. Ball continued, “I have thought about the next aspect of my theory a great deal. As I said, I am not a religious man. But I appreciate the good and the evil in the world. If the one remaining dimension is heaven, then what comprises hell? Could it be a continuum of the heavenly dimension, or does it not exist?”
Ball paused for emphasis, and then continued, “I propose that hell does not exist. The reward for an errant life is oblivion. Your life force is dissipated for some other purpose and your consciousness; your existence is lost.”
Stewart looked at Ball and said, “I must admit your theory interests me. I now see why you require a man who, some would say, led an honorable life and why you require the help of someone about to die. But what is your need for a scientist?”
“History is overflowing,” Ball said, “with people who have vowed to communicate with the living after their death. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the author of the popular Sherlock Holmes stories, considered those works a minor representation of his entire output. He was primarily concerned with the afterlife and communication from the beyond. What happened after he passed? Nothing.
“Harry Houdini spent a good part of his life trying to contact his departed mother, and in the process debunked quite a few mediums. He vowed that he would communicate to his wife from the next world – nothing.
“But these people weren’t scientists. Even if they had been, the level of technology did not exist to allow them to communicate from that singular dimension. I’m asking you, Professor Stewart, after you pass, to send me a sign. Something that we will now plan. Something that will prove my theory.”
Stewart’s eyes twinkled as he said, “I think I know just the event.”
* * *
A few days after Donald Ball’s visit, Virginia noticed a steady decline in George Stewart’s condition. Every time she saw him she thought it would be the last. Each time she approached his bed, Stewart appeared as a corpse, his complexion gray. Only the occasional rise and fall of his chest signaled that his body still harbored life.
“How are you today, Professor Stewart?” Virginia did not expect an answer but he opened his eyes.
“I don’t think I have long for this world, my dear,” he said with great effort. “But I am at peace. I have one request of you before you leave.”
Two hours later, while making another visit, Virginia was paged by the nurse’s aide caring for Stewart.
“The professor passed away.”
Virginia went to pronounce him dead. She had lost a patient and a friend. Then she fulfilled Stewart’s last request.
* * *
Donald Ball was at work when his phone rang.
“Hello, Dr. Ball?”
“Yes, this is Dr. Ball.” He did not recognize the voice.
“This is Virginia Madison. I’m a visiting nurse. I have been taking care of George Stewart.”
Ball knew immediately the purpose of the call.
“George Stewart passed away today. He told me it was very important that you know when he died.”
“Thank you for calling. He was a good man and friend. He will be missed.”
“He was a good man. Good-bye.”
Donald Ball hung up the phone. He sat alone in his office for a long time thinking of what might occur. He felt a chill of anticipation.
* * *
Two days later John Coolidge, a graduate student working for Dr. Ball, sat at the computer console connected to the Super-Kamiokande detector. He had seen what the computer images of past neutrino events looked like and detected a few events himself. He was reading a physics textbook when the alarms began to sound. As he looked at the monitor he said out loud, “Holy shit, I’m going to be famous.”
* * *
Ball looked up from his work as his normally reserved graduate student came running into his office. This usually calm student was in an extreme state of agitation.
“Professor, you’ve got to come quick! We’ve just recorded a unique event. Nothing like this … you’ve got to come!”
“Calm down John. Now tell me what has happened.”
“We’ve detected a new form of neutrino! It is not any of the three known types – electron, muon or tau!”
Now Ball was getting excited. “Tell me about its chirality – its orientation.”
“That’s the strangest part, Dr. Ball. It has none. It is not left-handed as all neutrinos are. I’ve got to get back. Are you coming? There might be more events.”
“I’ll be right there, son.”
After the graduate student left Donald Ball sat for a moment alone. He was simultaneously excited and numb. He cried, and then he laughed. He also felt calmness he had never experienced before. He knew this was a unique event. Because it seemed inexplicable, the event would probably be deemed the result of faulty sensors. But Ball knew better. The new neutrino was the type of particle Stewart had agreed to generate from beyond the grave.
THE END
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.”
UNHOLY GROUND, A HORROR SHORT STORY, CHAPTER IV
UNHOLY GROUND
That night Jake heard the voices again, but they had now grown louder. Unable to sleep, he waited for them to begin moaning and calling him.
“Come join us,” shouted the haunting voices.
There was a new horror this night. The outline of the door of the root cellar took on a blood-red glow, as if the entrance of hell had opened up beneath the barn.
Jake screamed, “Thomas, Thomas, wake up!”
Thomas stirred from a sound sleep. “Quiet, Jake!” What is wrong with you?” he shouted. But his eyes and ears quickly determined the source of Jake’s fear. He heard malevolent voices and saw the glow coming from the cellar door.
Before the boys’ unbelieving eyes, the seam along the double doors brightened as they were lifted from below. The slow creak of the doors intensified as the barn began to fill with the eerie light ushering up from the root cellar. Long, sinewy arms slowly parted the double doors. A ghastly face of gray-green flesh came into view. The two boys screamed for all they were worth. Zeke and Martha came running toward the rear of the barn seeing the glow and fearing that the barn was on fire. They stopped dead in their tracks and confronted the horrible visage of the monster rising from the root cellar.
“Boys, come to me!” shouted Martha.
The family huddled together near the stalls, unable to take their eyes off the demon rising from the cellar. The horror now stood in the barn. It smiled, revealed pointed teeth, and spoke. “You have violated the ground of the Ancients. For this you shall spend eternity guarding the entrance to our domain.”
Suddenly, a host of ethereal figures emerged from the cellar. They flew to the heights of the rafters and descended upon the family. One by one the spirits penetrated each member. As the spirit emerged, the victim fell; their bodies grew indistinct and then disappeared as the phantom they now were shown with intense light. Zeke was the last to fall victim to the spirits. His last earthly thoughts were the warnings and signs he refused to heed.
The Young family flew among the rafters, then into the cellar to begin their eternal vigil.
* * *
John Taylor woke during the night to make his water. His eyes were drawn in the direction of Zeke’s place. A small hill stood between the two properties and beyond the hill a red glow filled the sky. John was sure that Zeke’s barn was ablaze. But as he watched, the glow diminished and then disappeared. No need to go to the Young place tonight, he thought. Tomorrow he would visit Zeke to ask him about the light and make sure there was no problem.
* * *
The sentries posted by the Indians living in the area observed the red glow in the distance and woke the elder of the tribe. He came out of his lodge and looked to where the sentries pointed. His weary eyes saw the distant glow. Shaking his head, he said, “The Ancients are awake and walk the Earth. They have claimed new victims to protect their sacred ground. We must hold council and speak of this matter.”
* * *
The following morning John Taylor paid a call to Zeke Young’s place. As he approached the barn, he was relieved to see that it stood undamaged. He was sure he would find some member of the family within and knocked on the closed door.
There was no reply.
John slowly opened the door, hoping to find no sign of tragedy. The barn was empty save for a heavy sulfurous odor. John left the barn and called out Zeke’s name, still no response. He walked Zeke’s fields and was unable to find him or any member of his family. The four had vanished without a trace. The roan, still tied to a tree, was dead with her eyes wide open, a mask of fear and agony.
* * *
Two sentries from the tribe were sent to observe the white man’s barn built on unholy ground. The usually brave warriors were terrified. They knew this was land possessed by demons. On the second night of their vigil, they saw four images, glowing with an unholy light, emerging from the structure. Then, before the sentries’ startled eyes, the two adult figures took flight and came towards the cowering Indians who fled for their lives.
No further braves were dispatched to this blasphemous ground.
UNHOLY GROUND, A HORROR SHORT STORY, CHAPTER III
UNHOLY GROUND, CHAPTER III
Jake approached his mother one afternoon as she was preparing dinner. He wanted to talk to her before his father came home, sure that his father would call him a baby for the fears that were on his mind. “Mom, can’t I sleep toward the front of the barn with you and dad?”
Martha looked at her youngest. She knew how little Zeke would enjoy company in their bed. He wanted more sons to work the land and Jake’s presence wouldn’t help in that matter. “What is wrong with the back of the barn, Jake?”
Jake struggled with what he wanted to say. Finally, in a quiet voice he said, “I’m afraid when I’m back there at night.”
Martha knew Jake had a vivid imagination. “There’s nothing to be frightened about, Jake. You have your brother for company. Nothing will harm you.”
Jake struggled again to explain his fear. “There are people in the root cellar.”
Now Martha was sure the problem was Jake’s imagination. “You saw people in the root cellar?”
“I didn’t see them, Mom. I heard them. They said they were coming and that I was on their land.”
She could see that Jake was trembling and wanted to comfort him. She hugged him, but at the same time knew that Zeke would not tolerate talking like this. “It’s just your imagination, Jake. You’ll have to sleep in the back of the barn with Thomas. We’ll talk tomorrow if you are still worried.”
That night, before going to bed, Martha said, “Zeke, Jake is afraid to sleep in the barn. Maybe we could let him sleep in the tent?”
Zeke suddenly became angry, “Damn it, woman. There’s nothing wrong with this barn. I’ll make no allowances for Jake.”
Zeke seemed so on edge lately. Martha decided to drop the subject – for now.
BALANCE, A STORY OF HORROR, CHAPTER III
BALANCE, A STORY OF HORROR, CHAPTER III
It was weeks before Nijo had time to search out the Mejocuthru master. The workload was unusually heavy, and her kids were sick so when she wasn’t caring for her patients she was nursing her children.
One sunny cold Saturday afternoon she asked Jim to watch the girls. “I’ve got some errands to run. Would you mind staying home with the kids?”
Jim looked up from the college football game he was watching and said, “No problem. On your way home, why don’t you pick up a pizza for dinner?” He returned to the game as his wife closed the front door.
She made her way to the address Robbie supplied. It was in the Chinese section of town. She consulted a city map and had no trouble locating the home of the Mejocuthru master. She pulled up in front of the building and was momentarily confused, “This can’t be the right address,” she said to herself. The building housed a Chinese restaurant. In the window of the grimy building was a row of cured ducks hung by their necks, suspended over oriental fruit and vegetables. Above were apartments, but the doorway leading upstairs displayed a different number.
Nijo went into the restaurant and was immediately approached by a waiter who asked in a heavy accent, “Can I seat you?” The room smelled of exotic sauces and spices. Clouds had darkened the afternoon sky, and the room appeared not to absorb what little light that filtered through the dirty front window. The few customers present were seated in the darkness muttering in Asian dialects.
Nijo said, “I was given this address by a friend. I’ve come to see the Mejocuthru master.”
The waiter’s expression changed from neutral to one of malice. “That is not possible,” he said. “Who sent you here?”
She gave him Robbie’s name. A brief look of recognition passed over his face.
“Sit here,” he growled, pointing to the area reserved for take-out customers and disappeared through a beaded curtain leading to the kitchen. Sometime later he reemerged, perspiring heavily. He had the same countenance of anger, but now he also bore a hint of uncertainty.
In a gruff voice, he said, “Follow me.”
The waiter led Nijo through the beaded curtain and into the kitchen where a host of Chinese cooks shouted to one another in their sing-song language. Here the exotic smell of the food was overpowering. Hurriedly, Nijo was shown to the rear of the room to a flight of stairs leading to the basement. The steps leading into the darkness were wooden and well-worn. In the faint light from an occasional bare bulb, Nijo found herself walking through a maze of tiny storerooms containing shelves of cans displaying Asian characters and jar upon jar of spices. One room was reserved for nothing but tea; another for huge bags of rice. He led Nijo to the darkest recesses of the cellar and a rust-stained metal door. He unlocked a heavy bolt and motioned Nijo inside. Immediately after she entered, the door was locked behind her. Her nostrils were attacked by the heavy smell of incense. Behind a single wavering candle flame appeared to be a pile of rags. Then the rags began to move, becoming a solitary figure surrounded by cushions. Even after her eyes had adjusted, Nijo could only make out a shadowy figure.
In perfect English, without the hint of an accent, the specter motioned to the pile of cushions and said, “Come here, child, and sit.”
The voice was that of a woman and was gentle but with an undertone of despair. Now seated, Nijo could begin to discern the woman’s features. Her face was a mass of wrinkles with deep-set slanted eyes, a flat nose and small mouth.
“My name is Maggie Wu,” said the woman. “I have been a prisoner in this room for many years. It is a painful, lonely existence, one I wish I could end, but I am powerless to do so.”
Nijo asked, “Why are you held prisoner? Are these people holding you hostage?”
The old woman answered, “I do not know why I am here. They say I did terrible things, but I don’t recall. I have had visitors, but they were either curious or vengeful. This has been my existence for more years than I can remember. “What brings you here, my child?”
Nijo answered, “A friend of mine and I have been practicing Reiki to help our patients. We are hospice nurses and have had some success in relieving some of their pain, but nothing consistent. I asked my friend, Robbie, if there was some stronger discipline we could use with more power and more certainty. Reluctantly, she told me about Mejocuthru and how to find you. She said there were risks but I would risk anything to help my patients.”
“Would you, my dear? I recall your friend. You must have been very persuasive, for not only did I deter her from using Mejocuthru but made her swear not to tell anyone of my existence.”
Nijo said, “I was rather relentless in my questioning. Do not be mad at Robbie. Please agree to teach me.”
The old woman reached out her gnarled hands to Nijo. “Give me your hands,” she ordered.
Nijo extended her hands and felt a strange tingle when they were held by the woman.
The woman said, “You have a deep desire to heal. I have never experienced this power in another. Perhaps you could control the power of Mejocuthru. I will tell you my history; then we will see.
“I was a healer taught by healers from the old country. They said I had many natural abilities and revealed to me powers and cures unknown in this country. I did much good for the Chinese community, but I felt I wasn’t doing enough, that there was a further step I could take.”
“I have the same feelings,” said Nijo, “that there is something beyond the Reiki I use.”
The old woman shook her head in disgust. “Reiki is for amateurs, a weak discipline practiced by weak people. Mejocuthru is where the real power lies. With Mejocuthru you can perform miracles. The old masters warned me of dangers, of doing well but of also doing evil. But I accepted the power. I raised the dead. It was only then I realized the power I possessed.
“The old masters said I would perform unspeakable acts if I used this knowledge. After I began to cure using Mejocuthru, the only problem I encountered was the loss of memory after healing. Soon after I raised a young woman from death I was imprisoned and have been here ever since. I long to be free. No one will explain why I am here, but I know I did some good and that is what is important. Those thoughts are what keep me alive.”
Nijo said, “I do not understand how such a great healing tool can do evil. I want to learn. I want to possess this power.”
The old woman smiled and said, “I will teach you. There is a chant you must learn. One that will release the powers of Mejocuthru into the people you touch to heal the disease that sickens them.
“Come, child. Lean forward and I will whisper the chant so that you may heal the sick.”
Nijo leaned close to the ancient healer. The old woman spoke the chant into Nijo’s ear. When the lesson was finished, the old woman told Nijo, “You are now a Mejocuthru healer. Go and help the sick; the power is yours.”
As soon as she said these words, the old woman’s images appeared to waive; then slowly fade. Before Nijo’s disbelieving eyes, there appeared a boiling black cloud where the woman had been. Rather than dissipating, the cloud began to fall into itself. It became constantly smaller until all that remained was a solitary black dot hovering above the candle. Then it was gone.
Nijo shuddered and rose from the cushions. She had no idea what she had just witnessed, however, she felt a new sense of power that was pleasurable, that needed to be shared. She pounded on the door to be released. The door was opened by the waiter who had led her to the room. Nijo said, “I am finished here,” and walked past the man. After a minute or so, his eyes began to adjust to the darkened room. The chamber was empty. He searched the small room in disbelief and horror.
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