Posts tagged ‘fiction’
Mansion of Nightmares was accepted for publication in the print anthology, Spellbound, by Mélange Books in June 2011.
MANSION OF NIGHTMARES
My name is Patrick Brodie, and I fear I am going mad. Let me change that; I am going mad with the fear of my death. I have lived all my twenty years in a small town in southeast Pennsylvania, and located in the boundaries of this town is where my problem began. I fear this shadow hanging over my life may never end, or perhaps it is over. I shall never know for sure.
I fear sleep, more specifically, dreaming. I am in dread of what might happen during a dream – my destruction. I know I can escape the horror in my dream, but what if some day, I can’t.
Ever since I was quite young, I was intrigued by an old, abandoned mansion not far from my home. I would ask my dad, as we drove by the forlorn estate, “Dad, what is that place?”
“Patrick,” he would answer, “I don’t know. I’ve heard stories about it, but they make little sense. Tell you the truth, I’ve often wondered about the true story of that place myself. Someday, when you’re older, why don’t you trace the property’s history? It shouldn’t be that difficult. Maybe the local historical society would be a good place to start.”
If I had only taken my dad’s advice before I decided to investigate the mansion with my friend, Brian, I might have discovered the legend and Brian might still be alive. But what’s done is done. There is no going back. If I am unfortunate to return to the mansion in my dreams, I may join Brian in what, I fear, is a never – ending hell.
The mansion that is the center of this horror sat at the intersection of two major thoroughfares at the edge of the small hometown. The place was far removed from either road by maybe a thousand feet. For those who drive by it is practically invisible, hidden by towering trees and overgrown with vines. The entrance to the deteriorating road leading to the house was framed by two brick columns with peeling plaster, between the columns hung a heavy chain blocking the entrance.
The mansion was enormous, the largest construction in the area, and surely one of the oldest. The exterior, which once was white, had turned a mottled gray. The two-storied structure contained many additions. Several gables occupied the roof, along with four massive chimneys. The roof was now sagging, a testament of neglect, as columns still supported the entrance with its massive doors.
The property was enormous; I had no idea how large. The area had experienced a rapid increase in construction, yet no Mc Mansions sprung up like mushrooms as they did these days in almost every empty tract of land.
I wanted to explore this fascinating structure, but not alone.
It was a fall sunny Saturday, when I approached my friend, Brian Jacobs, to join me on my adventure. I said to Brian, “You know that old house?” And then I went on to describe it.
“Sure, Pat, that place gives me the creeps every time I pass it. I guess every town has a haunted house, if there’s one in this town, that’s it.”
“Brian, I want you to go with me and explore it.”
“Are you nuts?” He answered. “We’ve both lived here for eighteen years and how many times have you heard of someone talk about going into that creepy place?”
“Well,” I said, “never.”
“Right. So maybe there’s a reason.”
“Like what?” I asked.
Brian answered, “Like you might not come out. I don’t know.”
“Exactly,” I answered, “you don’t know. We could be the first. Where’s your spirit of adventure? What could happen?”
I could not put into words because I was drawn to explore the old mansion, I just was. After I made many derogatory remarks about his manhood, Brian reluctantly agreed. He’s, my buddy.
“Okay genius, how do we get in with no one seeing us?” he asked.
I had already thought about how we would approach the mansion, “Some Saturday we’ll walk over. We only live about a fifteen-minute walk away. I’ll meet you about noon and we’ll go explore.”
“Oh, now I see,” Brian said. “We just stroll past the ‘Do Not Trespass’ signs, duck under the chain keeping everyone out, while we are on a major busy street in the area, and casually saunter up the long drive. Sounds like fool-proof plan to me, fool”.
“That’s not what we’re going to do smart-ass. We’ll approach it from the rear. I’m sure we’ll be able to get in with nobody seeing us.”
* * *
A month or so later we finally had a Saturday when we would both be free for the afternoon. We met and walked through the wild area of trees and brambles to approach the mansion from the rear. As we walked closer to the structure, I was overwhelmed by a feeling of uncertainty. Seeing the building up close lent an entirely new perspective than when viewed at distance from the road. It certainly had the air of neglect, but it still radiated the feeling of a strength not found in this day and age.
Like commandos, we stealthily made our way to the front entrance. This wasn’t necessary for the tall oak trees that surrounded the mansion, to say nothing of the massive number of vines the covered not only the trees, but the house itself, hid any view of the entrance from the road.
As we approached the entrance, I found what I expected; the huge doors were chained and secured with a massive padlock.
“Okay, what do we do now?” Brian asked.
I answered, “No problem. Didn’t you notice all the tall broken windows that we walked past on the first floor? We just break them a little more, and we’re in.”
I could read a great deal of apprehension in Brian. I felt the same, but I was also the one who started this whole thing, and I was determined to see it through. Looking back, you might say good sense was replaced by pride.
We walked around the structure, and before long, found a window destroyed by a fallen branch. We cleared the debris away from the window, and there was our entrance.
The gloom was overpowering, even though it was day. A feeling of dread overcame me, but I had to go on, I was the one that initiated this adventure. Dust lay heavy on the floor and every other surface.
Brian whispered, as if he were in a church or a library, “Pat, this just doesn’t feel right. I don’t think we should be here.”
I answered, “Brian, it’s the middle of the day. Bad things happen only at night, and that’s in the movies. This is real. Let’s go explore.”
We had entered through the dining room, and soon found a massive wooden staircase, decrepit but for the most part intact, leading to the upper levels. Along the way we left our tracks in the dust. It was obvious that no one had been in this house for a very long time. I’m not sure if this allayed or enforced our feeling of discomfort upon entering the structure.
We carefully crept up the staircase, singularly, testing each step before applying our full weight. Surprisingly, the stairs were in good condition, having no trouble accepting our tread, which seemed unusual at the time, but later the reason would become crystal clear.
The landing on the second floor was also intact, along with the long hallway containing six closed doors. Upon trying the doors, we discovered the bedrooms beyond were just a mass of rotten floors and collapsed ceilings. It was evident, also, that many of the gabled rooms and roofs had completely deteriorated, collapsed onto the bedrooms, yet mysteriously, the structure maintained some integrity. As I mentioned earlier the first five bedrooms, we examined were all but destroyed with the above gabled rooms and roof collapsing in on them and becoming victims of the elements. Then we opened the door to the sixth bedroom, and much to our surprise, found the room to be dust covered but intact.
Somehow, the last bedroom we entered had escaped the ravages of time. The walls, although lined with rotting bookcases, appeared strong as well as the floor. This room must have contained a massive library. I could only imagine the magnificent books these now decrepit shelves must have contained. The wall opposite the window contained a massive fireplace, still appeared to be able to welcome a warming fire. Dust was heavy on the floor, but the room was unusually sound. Neither one of us could understand how this room had survived while the others had become decayed.
Brian said, “This place gives me the creeps. Why is this room okay? What is that all about? Let’s get the hell out of here, I’ve seen enough.”
“Okay, Brian, I guess we’ve seen enough up here. Let’s go back downstairs and explore the first floor. That should be much safer and less scary.”
We made our way down and began to explore, I must say, with a great deal more confidence. The only room we had examined so far was what we thought to be the dining room, which when we exited, allowed a view of the staircase. Directly off from the dining room, we entered a large room that must have been the kitchen. A wing off the dining room contained a room lined with decaying bookshelves, which we assumed was a library or study. Another door of the dining room led toward the front of the mansion. That was where we found a massive room, which we imagined must have been the living room where a multitude of guests could be entertained. It was also there that we made a discovery that will haunt me all the days of my life, and I’m sure, cost Brian his.
Brian whispered, although there was no need to, “I’m getting out of here. This place is way beyond creepy.”
I assured Brian we would leave soon, but for some reason, I wanted to explore this room. The room, of course, was empty upon first inspection. Then we noticed a massive fireplace that nearly filled one wall, and above the mantle was a portrait. This was the only remnant of decoration or furniture that remained.
Above the fireplace was the portrait of a young woman. She appeared to be in her early twenties and of rare beauty. She had raven hair made-up in an extreme hairdo of bygone times. Severe was her dress, a dress buttoned high up to her slim neck, but none of these trappings could conceal her beauty. We were both drawn to the painting.
In the painting, the girl stood to the left, while to the right, in the distance, was the very mansion we were now in as it appeared in its glory days. Between the girl and the mansion was a great looming storm. Massive grey clouds swirled through the sky, yet the girl appeared unconcerned. The storm gave the painting an ominous feeling.
Brian said, “She must have been so hot. Who do you think she was?”
I studied the painting, and said, “I’m sure she was important to the owner.”
As we made a closer inspection of the painting, we found that it was not hung over the fireplace, but rather, attached to the wall. We both tried to move it without success.
Brian again whispered, “Shit man, this is beyond creepy. This place has been gutted, for who knows how long, of everything but this picture. What’s that about?”
I answered, but not with a valid explanation, “For the obvious reason, asshole. You can’t get it off the wall. The important question is: why can’t we get it off the wall?”
We left the mansion the same way we entered. But the image of that beautiful girl was hauntingly burned into my mind. Later, I would find she had also made a lasting impression on Brian.
I went home thinking of the mansion and the beautiful girl I had seen in the painting. Perhaps I thought about her a bit too much. For that night, I had a dream that would become the nightmare of my life.
In my dream, I returned to the mansion, but it appeared as it had existed in the past. The structure was gleaming white and not overgrown with vines. The roof was intact and not crumbling in on itself. It was solid and secure. There was a large fence made of iron stances separating the property from a dirt road. The massive expanse between the house and the road was a magnificent green. Then before my eyes night rapidly fell. The mansion was dark with the exception of one room on the second floor, one of the bedrooms. I knew from the location of the light that it was the very room that Brian and I found to be somehow preserved. I soon discovered the reason it was so immaculately intact, but not why.
I suddenly found myself in the bedroom I observed light from the lawn. The fireplace contained a welcoming fire. All around the room candles were lit, offering a mellow glow and the feeling of peace. Opposite the fireplace was a large, canopied bed with the covers turned down. The remainder of the room was filled with what I considered antique furniture. But what do I know.
From a door to the right of the canopied bed, a door slowly opened. I cannot describe the fear I felt at that moment, even though it was just a dream.
From the opened door stepped the young woman from the portrait hanging below. She was barefoot and wore a diaphanous nightgown. Her raven hair was down around her shoulders. Clear were her beautiful breasts and rose-red nipples. My eyes traveled down the gossamer fabric to the black thatch of hair between her legs.
She beckoned me with lovely, outstretched arms and an alluring smile. I felt myself become hard and could not wait to enter those welcoming arms.
As I stepped forward eagerly, my feet tangled, and I fell to the carpeted floor. That act of clumsiness saved my life, but for how long I don’t know.
Before my eyes, the air around the beautiful girl wavered; before my eyes stood a monster backed by time. If there is a hell, this demon was one of its residents. Her delicate hands grew talons, and her body became an obscene visage. I backpedaled out of the room, and once clear of the door, ran for my life.
That was when the dream ended.
I awoke the next morning with a start, tangled in my sheets, fully remembering the wonderful dream that soon became a nightmare. The welcoming sight of my bedroom offered the feeling of safety and security. Those sensations were fleeting, for I immediately knew something was terribly wrong. My feet ached.
Upon inspection, I found that they were blackened, bruised and cut. A cold chill went through my body as I realized the dream was perhaps not a dream. I knew what I had to do.
* * *
I dressed and had a quick breakfast, and then set out for the local historical society. Our town isn’t very large, and the mansion stood on such a large piece of property that I was certain there some knowledge of the place’s history must be recorded.
As I entered the research section, I was approached by a woman who appeared to be in her thirties. Otherwise, the area was empty. She said, “I’m Marjorie Factor, head of research for the most part, I am research. How can I help you?”
I told her about the mansion. “I’m curious about the history of the place. And why the property was never sold.” To my surprise, she knew exactly the piece of property I was talking about.
“You’re talking about the old Brewster place. We do have information on the history of the place. It was quite a magnificent piece of property, in its time. I’ll show you where to find the documents, but after you have studied them and want more information, I suggest you return them tomorrow. That’s when our volunteer, Elizabeth McConnell, will be working here. She is in her late eighties and knows more about the area than anyone I’ve met around here. She can fill you in about the Brewster Manor legend. She was told about the legend by her mother, who lived into her nineties. Her mother, Florence, worked as a maid for Nathaniel Brewster. Florence was present when the seeds of the legend were sown.
“I’ll show you what records we have, but if you’re interested, I strongly suggest you come back tomorrow and speak to Elizabeth. Depending on how much detail you want, she can tell you things that have never been recorded.”
Marjorie led me to a basement room lined with file cabinets. She said, “Our material is referenced by year and subject. I suggest you begin with the name, Brewster. Enjoy your research.” She then left me to my work.
I quickly found a heavy file with the heading, Brewster. I brought the file to one of the tables provided, sat down with my pad and pen, and began reading.
Nathaniel Brewster made a fortune in building railroads. There was a long article about his background published in 1869, when he moved to this area. He was then in his forties and a bachelor. Brewster said, in an interview, that he was married to his work. But the next article indicated that was about to change. The article was an engagement announcement of Mr. Nathaniel Brewster to Miss Amy Douglas. The article was accompanied by a picture of the couple.
Brewster looked like a man who was accustomed to being the one in control. He appeared intense, with piercing eyes, not one you would want to cross. Amy was a beauty. She had black hair and looked to be in her early twenties. She strongly resembled the girl in the portrait we discovered in the mansion. Could she be the same woman in the painting?
Further article described Brewster’s business success. Then, in an article dated 1871, there was a piece talking about the beginning of construction on Brewster Manor, designed by a famous architect. The building of Brewster Manor was apparently a major point of interest in the community.
I soon came to nearly the end of the file when I discovered a shocking piece of information about the Brewsters. At the back of the file were three small articles, folded, that could easily be missed. One was a birth announcement, and one an obituary filed on the same day. Amy had died giving birth to her daughter, Sarah.
The final article was the obituary of Nathaniel Brewster. He lived more than twenty years after his wife, Amy, died. His wife was mentioned in the obit, but there was no mention of a daughter. I felt this was very strange and was certain I would return tomorrow to learn the Legend of Brewster Manor and try to make some sense of my mysterious dream.
After gathering my notes and returning the Brewster file, I went to find Marjorie. She was stationed at her desk; she looked up and asked, “Did you find what you wanted?”
I answered, “Yes and no. I would really like to talk to your volunteer about the legend of the mansion. When will she be in?”
“Come tomorrow after ten. I’ll let her know if you want to talk to her. I’ll tell you; I think she would be anxious to talk to you about the residence.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”
* * *
The next morning, while I sat eating breakfast, my mom received a phone call. She turned to me while she held the phone, “Its Brian’s father. Brian’s parents are frantic. He went to sleep last night, and everything appeared normal. Now he’s gone. They haven’t a clue as to where he may have gone.
“Do you know anything about where he may have gone? Did he say anything?”
“I haven’t seen Brian for a few days,” I answered. “And the last time I did see him he was fine.” But as I talked to my mother, I could not help but wonder if Brian had had the same dream. What had I set in motion with my curiosity?
My mother was still on the phone when I left for the historical society. It was not ten yet, I just needed to leave the house and be alone with my thoughts. I thought about prospects that were unbelievable, unthinkable, that couldn’t possibly happen.
I entered the historical society a little after ten and proceeded to Marjorie’s desk. Sitting next to Marjorie was a frail old woman, whom, I was sure, was the volunteer that would answer my many questions.
As I came closer, I heard Marjorie say, “This is the young man I was telling you about, Elizabeth. He was researching the old Brewster place, and I told him you could give him more detail, and about the legend.”
The old woman stood and came around the desk to shake my hand. At first sight, she appeared frail, but that was deceiving, for she had a firm grip and pale blue eyes that twinkled as those of a younger woman. With a determined walk she led me down to the research area.
As we walked, she said, “It’s most unusual that anyone is still interested in Brewster Manor, especially such a young man as you. May I ask why you want to know about the place?”
“Well,” I said, “I’ve noticed the place since I was a small kid. I just wanted to know more about it.”
Elizabeth suddenly stopped. “You haven’t been in there have you, son?”
My silence answered the question.
“Oh dear,” Elizabeth said, “This is not good. This is trouble. I’m probably the only one who knows the legend of Brewster Manor, and surely the only one that knows it is more than a legend.”
We approached a reference table and sat opposite each other. The concern on the old lady’s face sent a chill down my spine. She began speaking quietly and would eventfully answer my questions and confirm my worst fears.
“As I’m sure you know, Brewster Manor was built by Nathaniel Brewster. He was a wealthy man and somewhat of a loner, that is, until he met his future wife, Amy.
“The local papers were full of their marriage and then the building of the mansion. Once the mansion was built, they hired a small army of servants, one of which was my mother. My mother’s name was Florence, and she was there when talk of the legend began. She, however, knew that at least some of it was not legend, but truth.
“Nathaniel and Amy moved into the manor. They were so happy. Nathaniel worshiped his wife. My mother overheard him tell Amy over and over how much she had changed his life and made him more human. In a short time, Amy became pregnant, and the couple could not be happier. Nathaniel looked forward to filling the mansion with children and having heirs to pass on his wealth. Those were the happiest days poor Nathaniel would ever have.
“Amy was a petite woman, and the baby grew to be quite large. This was the 1870’s and medical knowledge was not it is today. Amy died giving birth to her daughter, Sarah.
“Nathaniel Brewster was devastated, to say the least. A dark curtain settled over the entire household; one that would never lift.
“I don’t know if Nathaniel ever held his daughter. Her care was left to the servants. Nathaniel Brewster once again sought refuge in work, and as my mother told me, at nights in drink. He appeared, to my mother, to hate the baby. He held the infant responsible for his wife’s death.
Nathaniel kept the child a virtual prisoner in the mansion. She was not allowed to leave unless supervised. And it came to a point that she was not allowed to leave at all. Her teachers were brought in. They became her only window to the world. She became an avid reader and devoured books.”
“I found rotting bookshelves in what must have been her bedroom.”
After a nod, Elizabeth continued, “Baby Sarah went from infant, to toddler, to child with little input from her father. Then a strange change occurred. As Sarah reached her teenage years, Nathaniel took a sudden interest in his daughter, for she became the image of her mother. Nathaniel developed a love-hate relationship with her. In his twisted mind, he hated Sarah because she had robbed him of his wife, but he loved the image of his wife that Sarah had become.
“As Sarah approached her late teens, the resemblance she had to her mother was more than remarkable; it was eerie. Nathaniel had his daughter sit for a portrait. That painting was hung over the mantle in the main room.
“Then one night, things went horribly wrong. My mother said that Nathaniel was up late one night drinking, as was usually the case. She watched him stagger upstairs, and instead of going to his bedroom, he entered his daughter’s.
“No one knows exactly what happened that fateful night, but a terrible scream was heard throughout the house. In a few moments, Sarah came running down the stairs, her clothes in disarray. She ran out the front door and into the forest as Nathaniel Brewster shouted, ‘Damn you to hell. You took my wife and now offer me no pleasure.’
“Sarah was never seen again.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. This story was beyond horrible. So that’s whose portrait hung over the fireplace. “But that doesn’t seem to be much of a legend,” I said. “It’s just a horrible truth.”
“There you are right, young man; now the facts become legend. Nathaniel Brewster became a man existing on the border of insanity. He lived for two years after the incident with his daughter. His decline was rapid after those two years, alcohol was the most likely culprit. As finally he lay dying, the servants gathered around him. He had no close family.
“My mother was present when he shouted with his dying breath, “Sarah, protect my home.”
“Suddenly my mother, and all the rest of the servants, heard a loud thud that shook the entire mansion. No one could imagine what had happened. The next morning it was discovered that the portrait of Sarah Brewster no longer hung over the mantle but was attached to the wall. No matter how hard the servants tried, it was impossible to move.
“Distant relatives were located. They ordered the contents and the property sold. The only item remaining in the mansion was the portrait of Sarah Brewster. No one wanted to damage the wall while the mansion was for sale, and so it remained. I am told that it remains there to this day.”
The old woman was silent, looking at me intently. Finally, I answered, “It still does.”
Elizabeth shook her head, and said, “I was afraid it was still there, and that you saw it. This is where the legend begins.
“Many buyers expressed an interest to purchase the mansion, primarily for the property. The house had fallen into disrepair the twenty odd years since Amy’s death. Nathaniel showed no interest in preserving it while he lived there. The building was not worth the asking price, but the property was of great value. But the property was never sold.
“All the serious buyers just disappeared.”
Elizabeth sat quietly, and then said, “They all disappeared after examining the mansion, and the portrait of Sarah Brewster over the fireplace. The legend developed that somehow the mansion did not want to be sold; that Sarah protected it. Some of the locals think that it had something to do with the portrait and Nathaniel beckoning his daughter to protect his property. Eventually, buyers no longer came forward and all the locals in the area stayed clear of the mansion. The legend of the portrait was forgotten, and then you came along. I should mention that some have reported seeing a light in the upper floor. But that was surely a reflection of headlights, or the moon.
“Anything strange happen to you since you went exploring, son?”
I remained silent, and then told her about my dream and Brian’s disappearance.
Now it was Elizabeth’s turn to remain silent. She finally said, “I don’t know what you’ve started or where your friend is, but I don’t think you will see him again.”
She rose and made her way out of the room leaving me with my thoughts and fears.
* * *
Full of terror and doubts of the unknown I left for home.
It took me some time to muster my strength, but I decided that I must return to the mansion. No matter what the danger, I had to see the portrait of Sarah Brewster one more time.
Taking the same route as before, I once again stood gazing at the painting. I stared at the same lovely face in the foreground, but sudden movement drew my attention to the left of the figure. The gray storm clouds between the woman and the mansion to the right in the background began to stir.
I rubbed my eyes, hoping to remove the moving image, yet the clouds continued to swirl. Before my horrified eyes, images began to take shape within the clouds. Gray faces began to emerge. The closest to Sarah, over her left shoulder, was that of Brian. His visage was one of intense horror. Slowly, other faces were revealed in ever decreasing size leading to the mansion. Could these be the potential buyers that disappeared?
I shook my head in disbelief, and then noticed yet another change. Now Sarah was smiling, a smile that possessed an intense evil.
How could I ever explain what happened to Brian? Who would believe that he now resided in this torturous painting? I ran from the mansion knowing that in my dream, if I had not stumbled, my horrified image would be there too.
* * *
It’s been years now since I decided to explore that horrible structure. We’ve had heavy snow of late, and the weight of the snow has caved in the mansion’s roof. The mansion is dying. Perhaps once it is gone, those poor souls trapped will be freed. In the meantime, I fear my dreams.
THE END
January 4, 2024 at 3:27 pm
The inspiration for writing this short story, Second Chance, was from hearing those questioning the value of space exploration. They say, “Why send all that money into space?” If these folks are pure in their belief, they must reject all that our investment into space has provided. They probably don’t use cell phones, watch news broadcast from around the world, or watch weather reports. And don’t forget, space travel has given us Tang.
Second Chance was accepted for publication by Books To Go Now in November 2011, and by Separate Worlds in December 2013.
Second Chance
Richard Walsh, 95, relaxed in his backyard beach chair. The air was crystal clear; this was highly unusual for the smog, blown in from the coastal cities, often obscured the sky. He enjoyed this rare moment and felt at peace as he gazed at a host of constellations. Richard prided himself on being able to identify everyone visible in his piece of the sky. He chose to live in the desert, much to the dismay of his wife Molly, 80, to fulfil his passion for the universe.
They had married forty years ago and were beginning to feel their age. “Why can’t we live closer to Debbie?” Molly constantly asked.
He would answer, “We can fly to visit her and be there in less than two hours. I need the night sky for my studies. I need to be far away from the maddening city lights, but even here, the smog is a problem.” Secretly, he wished they could move farther from the pollution, but they were too old to begin life again in a new location.
Richard was a science writer and worked from home. As he gazed up at the stars, he would mutter, “Someday, man will make journeys into space that I cannot even imagine. That is where our future lies.”
###
Voyages eventually were made to the world’s moon, but Richard died before they were accomplished. The exploration of the moon was as far as space travel went. There were too many problems to tend to on the planet as the population continued to grow and resources were devoured.
GENERATIONS LATER
Dr. Gregor Adomski, with his bushy eyebrows and lion’s mane of gray hair, was an astronomer. At age seventy-three, he had never lost his child-like amazement with the universe. He was an advocate of space exploration. However, there wasn’t a government on the planet that would spend the money to make the jump into space. For generations man pondered the end of their world, the fact that their world would someday cease to exist was known. Scientists could predict cosmic events, but they had little influence on how the information was incorporated in future practices of governments. Those decisions were more of a political nature and science had no place in politics.
Adomski also noted a growing trend. Due to the planet’s growing population, weather conditions had deteriorated during the last fifty years. These changes resulted in massive crop failures and a ‘once in a century’ storm became a common occurrence. Turning to his assistant, Dr. Jeff Farber, Adomski said, “Our world cannot continue on this course. Civilization is on a downward spiral. We still have time to take action to ensure the survival of our society, but will we? Man was meant to explore the universe, to push the limits of his existence. Perhaps future generations can reach distant planets of solar systems that have yet to be discovered. Time is of the essence. We must act now or accept our fate.”
Jeff shared Adomski’s concern. The planet’s doom loomed in the distant future. Yet, most of the planet’s inhabitants were too occupied in their daily lives to care about an event that would not occur for thousands of generations. The average person thought, Why should I care about what happens in the distant future when I need to feed my family now?
Satellites were launched. Their purpose was to monitor weather and improve communications of the planet, not as stepping stones for space travel. Jeff hoped that someday space exploration would begin. But his heart told him it would not be so; the planet was consumed by too many problems to make precious resources available for space exploration. When he went home and shared his concerns with his wife, Janet. She only reinforced the population’s mindset.
She would say, “Why do you need to worry about something so distant when there are so many problems facing the planet here and now? I just don’t understand your priorities.”
Jeff recently visited a farm; most of the population of the planet was encouraged to do so to see how the governments were staying ahead of any crisis. The tour was led by Stuart Gromley, more of a scientist than a farmer, gaining the knowledge necessary to provide the food needed by the ever-expanding population.
Gromley began his tour, which would be short, for in reality, farms no longer existed, land was too precious, to grow crops greenhouses the size of skyscrapers was used. Through enhanced fertilizers and crop genetics, what would have taken thousands of acres to grow took just one acre of land. Farms went vertical. Gromley was proud of his farm and said to the tour, “As you can see, not an ounce of precious soil is wasted. Hydro farming allows us to grow any crops we want with only water and chemicals. Healthy food is brought to your table with little drain on the planet.”
The hand of a young woman shot up.
Gromley muttered, “Shit, there always has to be one,” and then said out loud, “Do you have a question?”
“Yes,” she responded, “I have read papers stating that some of these chemicals used to produce our food can build up in our bodies and produce cancers.”
Gromley shared a secret thought that many of his profession shared, Honey, would you rather die now of starvation or die later of cancer? But no one ever said this out loud.
Gromley held his temper and said, “Studies are still ongoing to see if these claims are true. Our research, thus far, has not proven any of these claims.” He did not share the fact that the research was nonexistent.
Overall, however, science improved and extended the lifespan of the world, and the population lived longer. Those in power concentrated on the immediate, as for the distant future, science would always find a way to solve the world’s problems.
TEN THOUSAND GENERATIONS LATER
Adomski and Farber were long dust. The fears they shared for the planet were forgotten.
Laws were passed by the most technologically advanced nations and space travel was ignored in favour of improving the condition of humanity. As these decisions were made, scientists on the planet predicted the maximum population the planet could support. Centuries since that prediction, the population of the planet soared to double that prediction. Yet, with further advances in technology, life continued. However, turmoil broke out on the planet. The more advanced countries continued to live fairly well, but the third world countries were in chaos. These circumstances reinforced the opponents of space exploration in favour of helping the people.
After dinner, Alex Reed, an expert in population dynamics, went to his study and quietly closed the door, blocking out the sounds of his children at play before their bedtime. He did this more and more often to turn on his computer and review the history of his planet and the dreams of space exploration attributed to the writings of Dr. Adomski and a host of the scientist that came along after his death. They all shared the hope that exploration of the universe would go forward and save the species.
Reed was both a scientist and an intellectual. He studied the great accomplishments made in art and literature going back thousands of years, but as a scientist, he knew that at some distant day it would all be destroyed. “All of this will be nothing but cinders,” he said to no one there. “All these magnificent accomplishments of the planet will be lost. Is it too late to think about the preservation of mankind’s history, of the great works produced?”
Reed remembered well the warnings Dr. Adomski had postulated and could not believe how self-centered the people of the planet had become. Even now, with the time of its demise calculated, the population remained uninterested in space exploration. He reasoned that he was only a scientist and had no power over the decisions that determine the destiny of the planet. Elected officials made policy and the rest of humanity, relying on their intelligence, would have to accept the judgement. Election and power were more important than reality.
EIGHTY THOUSAND GENERATIONS LATER
The planet was populated beyond belief. Every acre of land had hundreds of residents and resources were being stretched to the limit. When all the land was occupied, floating cities were constructed. It was not long before the entire surface was in use, reducing the planet to a seething cauldron of toxins and waste. Conditions had been deteriorating for many thousands of years, but they now accelerated to astronomical proportions. Food riots had begun and, more frequently, water riots. As predicted, the sun was getting brighter and spontaneous fires erupted, destroying vast areas and populations. The world was one large metropolis and there was nowhere to run; nowhere to escape the final result.
President Addis, leader of half the planet’s population, summoned top scientists for a conference to discuss the world’s future. The president sat patiently and listened to their talks.
Most were the same, full of hope, yet unable to dictate a plan that would save man.
In attendance was Dr. Scious Minori. She was the world’s leading authority on the state of the planet; the president listened to her speech. The message was most disheartening.
She began by saying, “My presentation will be brief. Our planet, our species, is doomed. I see no hope for any intervention that can alter the future. Our resources are stretched beyond the ability to support the population. Our future will be nothing but turmoil.
“The planet is beyond repair. There are no errors in the calculations. In approximately twenty thousand years, the sun in its death throws will engulf our world. Until then, our existence will be that of a constant conflict. The only peace our people will know is at the end of our existence.
“We have waited too long to ensure survival of our species and all the life that inhabits our planet. Now, it is not possible to journey into space, even though there is time. At this point, to build a facility for space exploration would displace hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions of people. On the entire planet, there is no room for such a center for space exploration. We are at a loss to save our civilization.”
The president, however, missed one presentation that shared a glimmer of hope for the future, not for the planet but for the species, and provided statistics that speculated the proposition that Homo sapiens was not doomed. It was held in a small room with seating for less than thirty. The speaker was Dr. Fermi Rialtos, a bacteriologist. The presentation was so esoteric that it was not considered worthy of the president’s attention.
There were only ten scientists in the audience.
Dr. Rialtos began his talk by saying, “The bacteria I primarily study is E. coli. One of the purposes in my use of these bacteria was the study of evolution. The benefit to studying these organisms is that one can observe thousands of generations in a short period of time. “I inoculated twelve flasks of bacteria and studied them for 30,000 generations with the E. coli exposed to identical conditions through the course of the study. At the conclusion of the experiment, I analyzed the genetics of all twelve flasks. Their pattern of development was identical.
“I feel this demonstrates that evolution is not random. Given similar conditions, life will progress in a similar manner.
“I am also something of an amateur astronomer. There are hundreds of stars, around which planets have or are presently forming. The attributes of some of these planets are similar to our planet, millions of years in the past.”
Dr. Rialtos went on to describe the conditions on some of these recently discovered planets. “One planet I have been studying is very young, a mere neophyte, but I think there may be a possibility that it will someday harbour life. The star it orbits is slightly larger than our own sun, making their years slightly longer, but the planet’s position is a close approximation to that of our own world in relation to our sun. I feel it may be capable of supporting life, but it is only one of possibly thousands that we have discovered in the universe. Perhaps our civilization will be replicated in the cosmos with more lasting results”
He finished by saying, “Embrace your children every day and enjoy the life you have.”
###
Toward the end of their world, the population prayed to the God they believed would save them. But God had other plans.
###
The end of civilization was not pretty.
In the distant past, it would have been survival of the fittest. But now, thanks to globalization and shared technology, all populations of the planet were on an even footing. Equals fought equals to the death to exist. And in the end, as the sun spent the last of its life-giving force, the last of the species perished.
###
On a planet millions of light-years away, backyards were full of people looking skyward, straining to see the star-like light racing across the heavens. The year was 1957.
Tim Riddell, age five, stood outside with his parents. His father, Eli, told him what to look for and where to look. As they watched, the Riddell family could hear voices all around them as neighbours also looked to the heavens.
This was an historic event. It was the first of its kind. Earth was being orbited by a man-made machine.
Tim began to shout, “I see it! I see it!” and his small arm pointed skyward.
All around people also began to point and shout, “There it is!”
Liz, Tim’s mom, said to no one in particular, “I feel so exposed.”
Eli smiled and said, “Tonight, I want to be your Sputnik.”
The space race was on. Sputnik made history for the U.S.S.R. Later, after many embarrassing attempts, the U.S. also launched a satellite. The race would last for decades and initiate Earth’s journey into space.
###
The year was now 2093, and the advances in science and space travel were beyond belief. Those who stood in their backyards gazing up at the sky in 1957 only witnessed the beginning. Science and mankind had developed a propulsion system that enables man to visit the closest neighbouring solar system. At the same time, great advances were made in astronomy with platforms installed in deep space.
One day, Dr. Theo Thurber was monitoring one of the platforms when alarm bells began to ring indicating an event worthy of study. He rushed to his monitor in time to witness the beginning of the death of a distant star. The bright glow of its passing lasted for weeks, and then slowly dimmed and disappeared.
After the initial observation, Dr. Thurber dictated into his records, “Witnessed the death of a distant star two million light years away. Nothing unusual. This is not a significant event.”
Thurber could not know that a distant civilization had come to and end.
© Copyright 2013 Walt Trizna. All rights reserved.
January 2, 2024 at 8:16 pm
A writer’s group I once belonged to would celebrate Christmas at an Italian restaurant. The place had a unique room called the Pope’s room. It was a large circular room with a domed ceiling and had a large circular table and the walls were covered with pictures of past popes. In the center of the table was a bust of Pope John II. We needed a large room for there were often ten or more of us in attendance. The domed ceiling made for a unique feature. What was said on one side of the room, in a soft voice, could easily be heard on the opposite side. That phenomena gave birth to this story.
DO YOU HEAR WHAT I HEAR? was accepted for publication by Bewildering Stories in October 2007.
DO YOU HEAR WHAT I HEAR?
W___ was known for his stories of murder and mayhem. Tales of ghosts and monsters were his claim to meager fame. As member of a writers’ group, he enjoyed sharing his twisted stories with the group and the support they provided. But how could they know, imagine, that the stories, born in his twisted mind, would someday become reality. W___ would carry demons within his mind. Even his wife did not know the visions, the “truths” that journeyed through his muddled brain.
It was during November’s writers’ meeting that the group leader, S___, announced, “In place of our December meeting, I suggest we meet for a holiday dinner. It will be a chance to relax and prepare for the year’s writing ahead.” The approval of the group was unanimous.
Reservations were made and the day of the dinner arrived. It was a rainy evening whenW___ set out for the restaurant, the back-and-forth motion of the windshield wipers gave him a slight headache. He was one of the last to arrive, greeting his fellow writers; he took his seat next to S___. The room was a large room with a single circular table at its center. A curious aspect was the room’s ceiling. It was domed with a most unsettling feature. From one side of the room conversations, even in the softest whisper, were conveyed to the opposite side of this domed affair.
As the meal was served, W___ looked across the table to C___ and G___, deep in conversation discussing light matters. Suddenly, the conversation changed. To his disbelief, W___ heard them plotting his murder. A conversation manufactured in his brain. He clearly heard their voices discussing every detail. W___ sat in disbelief while those about him laughed and shared stories. His friends asked if there was anything wrong, for he was visibly shaken. “I’m fine,” he replied and left the restaurant to make plans of his own.
January arrived and it was time for another meeting. S___ was the last to arrive. “I have terrible news. C___ and G___ have met with horrible accidents. They are both dead.”
The group sat there in shock. Disbelief was soon followed by sounds of sorrow and grief.
The year swiftly went by. It was a good year with many of the members being published. Once again, at the November meeting, S___ announced the plans for a Christmas dinner. The site would be the same as last year.
W___ once again made his way to the restaurant, this time during a light and peaceful snow. He greeted his friends and took his place. Once again, he could hear the whispered conversations from across the room. And once again he heard his murder being plotted, this time it was T___ and B___ who made the fiendish plot. Once again two members of the group were visited with horrible and fatal accidents.
January found the group deep in sorrow once more. That was five years ago. And for each of those years, a Christmas dinner was held and shortly after, two more members met their demise.
Christmas neared once again, but there would be no Christmas dinner, for the only members remaining were W___ and S___. A creature of tradition, W___ reserved the domed room for his private dinner. There he sat, alone with no whispering conversations to fill his head. He gazed around at the empty seats when his ears perked. There were voices plotting his murder. Looking out at the overflowing restaurant, he saw a young family that he was sure was plotting his end. A fiendish smile crossed his lips. His work was not yet done.
THE END
December 20, 2023 at 8:58 pm
The Reluctant Zombi was accepted for publication by Blood, Blade & Thruster, a print publication, in October 2006.
There is a story behind this story.
Blood, Blade & Thruster ran a contest to see which story they would publish according to which story received the most votes. I can’t remember, but the stories must have been published online for people to read and then to vote.
I told friends about the contest. My wife told her friends about the contest. Then our friends told their friends about the contest.
I won. That is why you are now reading this story.
After the story was published someone posted online that they thought my story should not have been published because winning a contest by number of votes was not a valid way to obtain publication.
I guess he should have had more friends.
THE RELUCTANT ZOMBIE
As Norman stumbled through the dank Haitian swamp, he groaned, “Willard, it feels so unnatural walking around with my arms outstretched, but I can’t seem to put them down. “I have an image to uphold.”
Willard, who was shuffling along, shook his head and sighed, “Of course it’s unnatural, you’re a zombie, damn it. And your image is history.”
Norman complained, “I didn’t ask to be a zombie.” With some difficulty, he swiveled his neck and surveyed the Haitian countryside.
Norman took in the landscape surrounding him. He walked through a village. It was nothing more than a few huts of mud and straw along a dusty road. Chickens pecked in the brush along the roadside. Chickens! For some reason their presence made him uncomfortable. “I really don’t want to be a zombie,” Norman muttered. He was a forty-year-old college professor, a dark-haired trim man who always dressed well. Now he was walking around covered in grime and dressed in rags.
Willard said, “If you didn’t want to become a zombie, you shouldn’t have run over the old voodoo woman’s chickens with your jeep. Was she ever pissed? She’s also the one that converted me into a zombie, but that’s another story.”
Norman looked at Willard and could not guess what he once looked like. Willard was pale, gaunt and dressed in rags. His age made undeterminable by his zombie state.
“As soon as you angered her, she began making one of her little dolls. She cackled while she worked. That is never a good sign. The doll is where your soul now resides.”
“I can’t believe this is happening to me, Willard. I came to Haiti to do research on Haitian religions. I am, or was, a respected and well-published anthropologist. Now look at me. I’m wearing rags and walking around like a…, like a …”.
“Zombie!” asked Willard.
“Just because I ran over a few chickens?”
“Um, Norman, they looked like chickens, but they weren’t. Nothing around the voodoo woman’s house is what it appears. They were once her enemies. She changed them into chickens, and you freed them from pecking for insects along the road for the rest of their lives. You ended their suffering. So naturally, in her anger, she turned you into a zombie. I am assigned to train all novice zombies. To instruct how to attack people, teach them what are the best parts to eat.”
Norman made a face at this remark.
“Now what?” asked Willard.
Norman sighed, “I’m a vegetarian. But I will eat dairy.”
Willard said with disgust, “There are no vegetarian zombies. And attacking the dairy section of a store is not going to do much for the zombie image.”
Norman grumbled, “Oh, I wouldn’t want to do anything to detract from the zombie image. Give me a break.”
As the two zombies were arguing, Willard happened to glance over to the voodoo woman’s house. There she stood in the doorway. Willard could tell she was not happy.
She hobbled toward Willard and Norman, a waddling mass adorned with bones and beads. Her crown of thick dreadlocks made her appear as if some multi-legged beast was sitting on her head.
The old voodoo woman shouted at Norman, “I knew you be a troublemaker, with your fancy jeep and running over people’s property.”
Norman mumbled, “Sorry about the chickens.”
“You sorry all right. You be good and sorry real soon.”
The old woman produced her Norman doll, lifted the doll skyward, and began chanting in a low rumbling voice.
Norman’s soul returned to his body. He felt like his old self. He laughed with relief, then glanced up. Willard stumbled toward him; arms raised.
“Willard old buddy, we’re friends – right?”
Willard only growled and roared.
Norman looked desperately for an escape. On either side of him, zombies with ash-gray complexions staggered in his direction. He was surrounded.
The old voodoo woman said, “Here be my ‘children’, and they be hungry.” She cackled as the circle of zombies grew smaller and smaller around Norman.
From beyond the wall of the living dead, Norman pleaded, “Please, make me a chicken!”
THE END
December 18, 2023 at 7:12 pm
This story was accepted for publication by Nocturnal Ooze in November 2006.
THINK NO EVIL
I have always had an active imagination. If I had had the courage to put a bullet through my head when I first realized the consequences of my thoughts, you dear reader, would have more than five days to live. I suggest, for your own sanity, you put down this story. Now!
Consider yourself warned.
I used my vivid imagination to write works of science fiction and had some measure of success. I was no Ray Bradbury, but I was able to make a reasonable living with my novels with flashy covers showing alien worlds and their weird residents. The occasional scantily clad Earth females depicted on the covers didn’t hurt sales either. I would let my imagination run wild and my pen would follow. I do not know the true extent of the powers, but I fear I may have done some damage light years from Earth.
The first hint of my peculiar ability occurred a month ago. I visited a bagel shop early one morning, as was my habit, to avoid crowds. In my southeastern Pennsylvania community, three people constitute a crowd, four a mob.
I entered the store and found, and much to my satisfaction, I was the only customer. A husband and wife owned and ran the establishment. They were always there together.
I placed my order, and as I stood idly, a strange thought emerged. How easy it would be to rob this store at this early hour. I could write a mystery. It would be my first attempt at something other than science fiction. My mind was consumed with plotting the crime, and as I waited for my bagels, my thoughts set up the robbery scene. Seven days later, that store was robbed and the couple murdered.
What a strange coincidence, I thought, as I read the newspaper.
A few days after the robbery, I was driving along an interstate highway behind an old pickup truck. A ladder was propped up against the tailgate. I imagined the truck hitting a large bump in the road and the ladder being hurled from the truck and through the windshield of the car following. I switched lanes and forgot the vision.
Seven days later a horrendous accident happened, almost identical to the scene I imagined. It made the local news.
This time I was shaken. Was this just a second coincidence?
I tried an experiment. I pictured a week of continuous rain. We were under drought restrictions at the time, so I thought this would be an innocent and perhaps beneficial test. Exactly seven days later, the rains poured down and rivers overran their banks. I had forgotten about the rivers. Property was ruined. Lives were lost.
To avoid more damage, I went back to writing science fiction. Fiction that I ensured occurred far from this planet.
Then it happened. Two days ago, after I vowed never to conjure up stories about the here and now, I slipped. I was writing a story about an alien ship traveling through an asteroid belt. Before I knew it, my mind was picturing the asteroid that impacted the Earth some sixty-five million years ago causing the extinction of the dinosaurs. But God help me, my mind wandered and took another step. I wondered what the Earth would be like if an asteroid ten times the size of the one that killed the dinosaurs impacted the Earth.
We have five days left.
THE END
December 14, 2023 at 8:27 pm
CONFLICT
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 every one 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 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 then 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 because 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 wanted 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!”
* * *
The following Wednesday Elmo went to work and immediately became aware that something was not quite right. Everyone stared at him as if he had two heads. His usually friendly coworkers were avoiding making eye-contact with him, were uncomfortable to be in the same room with him. Someone finally handed Elmo the latest edition of the Los Alamos Herald, published that morning.
Elmo was shocked at the headline, shouting in huge bold print, Scientist, Elmo Baker Has Invented a Prison that will Change Humanity. He couldn’t believe it. He kept muttering to himself, “They promised not to publish.” He read on and found to his dismay all the details he shared with Nate Bush. How would this change his life? He was sure it would not be for the better; trouble was surely down the road and he had a feeling the road would not be a long one.
After sitting in his cubicle, he immediately phoned Nate. “You promised not to publish anything about my invention. I trusted you.”
Elmo could hear the guilt in Nate’s voice as he answered, “I wanted to honor my promise but the managing editor insisted I publish the article. Circulation is down and he wanted something that would catch the readership’s interest. All we ever get to report is the local news, and with the gossip in this town, most people know what we publish before we publish it. This story is big.
“But I trusted you. People at work look at me as if I’m some kind of freak. What are the rest of the people in Los Alamos going to think?”
“Take it easy, Elmo. I’m sure this will blow over in no time at all and everything will return to normal.”
The next day Elmo’s life would change in a big way.
* * *
The Los Alamos rag was read by the locals for local news. Because interest in the paper’s stories appealed to former Los Alamos residents, stories were posted with a wire service. That’s how Elmo’s problems reached a new level.
The Friday morning after the story appeared in The Los Alamos Herald, Elmo and Mildred were sitting at the kitchen table enjoying a breakfast of eggs, bacon and toast. Mildred asked, “Things calmed down at work, Elmo?”
“Things are better now. I explained, to anyone interested, that I discovered the ‘prison’ by mistake, that I’m not really sure that it has any practical purpose and that’s the truth. I can’t picture the thing being used, and Kingsley Dasher hinted that there may be problems down the road even though he was the one who first envisioned the device as a prison. I sure didn’t tell anyone that it was a time machine that I really wanted to invent. I can just imagine the response I would get from that bit of information.”
Elmo was about to continue when the ringing phone interrupted him.
Mildred said, “I’ll get that. Hold your thought.”
Elmo watched as she answered the phone. At first she had a puzzled look on her face, and then her eyebrows knit and her forehead wrinkled with shock and confusion. She said to the caller, “Yes, Mr. Slattery, this is the residence of Elmo Baker. He’s right here.”
Elmo was puzzled. He didn’t know a Mr. Slatterly.
Mildred held her hand over the mouthpiece and whispered, “He’s a reporter from The New York Times.”
A film of sweat broke out on Elmo’s forehead. He knew this was going to be trouble. He slowly took the phone from Mildred. “Hello, this is Elmo Baker. How can I help you?”
“Dr. Baker, this is Joe Slatterly from The New York Times, the paper is extremely interested in the wire story published by The Los Alamos Herald. I’d like to come to New Mexico and interview you and take some pictures of your machine. It could change the penal system as we know it. We feel that the public needs to know about your invention.”
Elmo thought about the reaction that the locals had when they read about his invention. He could not imagine what it would be like if the entire country, no wait, the entire world knew about his invention.
Elmo said, “I don’t think I’d be comfortable letting the world know about my invention. The reaction locally was not the best. I’d rather forget about the whole thing.”
“But Elmo. Can I call you Elmo?”
“Sure, Elmo’s fine.”
“You could change society for the better. The convicted could fulfill their debt to society and not experience the degradation and dangers of prison life. There would be less recidivism. Prisoners could get on with their lives without the scars of prison life.”
Elmo began to weaken. “I suppose my machine could serve a benefit to society.”
“I’m sure it would. Have you thought much about patenting and selling it?”
“I do plan to patent it, but after that, I don’t know. I’m just now getting over the shock of how the news was taken around here.”
Slatterly talked fast. He didn’t want to lose Elmo. “Well, an article in The New York Times would certainly provide a great deal of publicity. It might cause some rough spots for you, but it would definitely make the public aware of your device, especially potential customers. And you know what they say. ‘There’s no such thing as bad publicity.’”
Mildred listened to Elmo’s end of the conversation and could tell he was wavering and began to think he would do what the reporter wanted him to do. The gleam in his eyes was beginning to frighten her. See had seen that look too many times before.
After a few more minutes Elmo finished his conversation by saying, “That would be fine, Mr. Slatterly. I’m looking forward to seeing you the day after tomorrow.”
After Elmo hung up Mildred immediately asked, “Elmo, what are you doing? Are you going to talk to that reporter even after how our neighbors and friends reacted after they found out about your machine? How could you?”
Doubt passed over Elmo’s face, but he quickly recovered. “Mil, I could help society, free-up money for uses more important than prisons, like education and medical research.”
“Oh I see, Elmo. You are going to save the world while we become lepers in our own community.”
“That’s a little harsh, Mil.”
“We’ll see,” Mildred said as she stormed out of the room.
* * *
Two days later The New York Times reporter, along with his photographer, appeared at Elmo’s front door. They called ahead from the airport before they left New York to let Elmo know when he should be expecting them. When the doorbell rang Elmo wanted to get to the front door before Mildred, who had been moody ever since the reporter’s call.
Elmo opened the door and extended his hand to the young smartly-dressed man before him. “You must be Joe Slatterly from The New York Times.”
“That’s right, sir. And this is my photographer, Larry Hitchcock. I’ve been looking forward to this interview and seeing your machine.”
Elmo began, “First, call me Elmo. Let’s go down to the cellar. I’ve been planning a demonstration for you.” Elmo led the way to the cellar door and found Mildred standing close to it. She was civil to the two men from The New York Times, Elmo knew she would be. What he feared was how she would react and what she would say after they left.
As the group descended the stairs to Elmo’s laboratory, Elmo said, over his shoulder, “I’ve arranged a little demonstration to show you how my device works.”
Once in the cellar, Larry said, “Look, Joe, an old iron lung. I haven’t seen one of those in years. Elmo, do you collect old medical equipment too?”
Slatterly was in a hurry. He wanted to see the demonstration, talk to Elmo and get out of Hicksville as soon as possible. “So,” Slatterly asked, “where is your machine?”
Elmo pointed to the iron lung, “That’s it, gentlemen. I needed a chamber that would fit a human. Although it may not look like much, what makes this iron lung unique is the electronics I’ve incorporated. Let me show you how it works.”
Walking to a cage at a far wall, Elmo extracted a rat he had recently obtained, and returned to the iron lung. He put the rat in the chamber and motioned for Larry to approach. “Larry, you might want to take a ‘before’ photo of the rat.”
“Sure, Elmo.”
Once the photo was taken Elmo said, “I will conduct this experiment in two stages. This rat is about four months old. The lifespan of a rat is about three years. I will first set the time dial to two years and the length of the experiment to one minute.” Elmo pushed the initiate button and said to the men, “Please observe.”
They stepped closer to the chamber and saw that a white mist had enveloped the rat, and then quickly disappeared. The rodent appeared to be slightly bigger than before.
Elmo said, “As you can see, the rat has increased in size. Now I shall set the time dial to twenty years.”
Once again Elmo initiated the sequence and once again the chamber filled with a white mist. As the mist began to clear, Nate and Larry could see the rat shrivel. It became no more than a husk and then collapsed into a mound of dust and bones. Elmo told Larry, “You can take the ‘after’ picture now.”
Joe and Larry were speechless. Both expected this claim, for a device which could serve as a prison, to be the fantasy of some demented scientist, but here was the proof before their eyes. They were truly amazed at what they had witnessed. Larry took the picture but still couldn’t believe what he had seen.
Joe, still mystified at what he had witnessed, asked, “How did you do that, Elmo?”
“Well,” Elmo began, “the science is rather complicated. Let’s just say that the theory and principles behind this device are based, for the most part, on Einstein’s work.” Elmo could not reveal, in reality, that he did not truly understand how it worked and that it was meant to be a time machine.
Joe asked, “So this thing will kill the occupant?”
Elmo was shocked and quickly answered, “Oh no, no. As you witnessed, the first run only aged the rat. I wanted the rat to expire in order to demonstrate that time, in the chamber, had truly advanced. I wasn’t sure if you would believe, with the first experiment, that the rat had aged.
“If a human had been in the chamber he would have aged twenty years in a matter of minutes. His debt to society, paid.”
After a few more questions for Elmo, Joe said, “I guess we’re finished, Elmo. This will make a great story and the pictures should really open the eyes of the public.”
Elmo felt apprehension with the last comment.
Joe asked, “Elmo, could we get a photo of you standing in front of your machine?”
Elmo hesitated, but finally said, “I guess it would be all right.”
Larry took the picture and the trio then walked up the stairs out of the cellar. Joe and Larry said their good-byes and drove away.
As Elmo closed the door he could hear Mildred walk into the room behind him. This was the moment he dreaded.
“Well, Elmo, were those fellas impressed by your machine? Did they get the story they wanted?”
“Yes, dear, I think things went rather well. I demonstrated the device and they were most impressed.”
Mildred turned and, as she left the room, said with coldness in her voice, “We’ll see what happens when the story comes out. I hope I’m wrong about bad things to come and soon the entire matter just fades away.”
Elmo began to think that this was going better than he had hoped, but that thought was short lived.
November 6, 2023 at 7:24 pm
It has been quite a while since I posted on my blog.
But I’m back.
I plan to post a few portions of my memoir beginning with this piece about my youth and where I grew up.
Also, I will share my novella Elmo’s Invention.
Elmo’s Invention is a prequel to an earlier novella I wrote, Elmo’s Sojourn. Elmo’s Sojourn was published online by Bewildering Stories in 2006. Later, it was published by another publisher in a print anthology.
I sometime ago, purely by accident, found that the first two chapters of Elmo’s Invention were published in China in 2008. I have no idea how that happened.
At the end of Elmo’s Invention, I will provide a link to Bewildering Stories taking you to Elmo’s Sojourn. You will then have an opportunity to read the novellas in chronological order.
MY NEWARK EXPERIENCE
I was born and raised in Newark, New Jersey. I am often reminded that there is a Newark in Delaware, but they use a different pronunciation than the New Jersey version. I guess they don’t want to be confused with my Newark. Just conjecture.
Born in 1947, I lived in Newark until I was eighteen. That’s when I left for Oklahoma to attend college. Graduation was followed by four years in the air force.
Now a description of my Newark home.
Our dwelling was a two-bedroom flat in Newark’s Ironbound section. You entered through the kitchen. Then walk straight into the first bedroom, then straight into the second bedroom, and finally into the parlor. One long line of rooms. No doors between rooms. Total lack of privacy. There were six in my family when all was said and done. A tight squeeze with only two bedrooms.
I enjoy exploring page three of the Sunday New York Times’s real estate section and the dwellings for sale. Usually priced in the millions with many bedrooms and bathrooms and laugh at the downsides sometimes given for the houses. One often mentioned problem is the lack of a window in the bathroom. I realize now how good we had it. Our one bathroom had a window. The only drawback was it lacked a bath tub, shower and running hot water. No running hot water in my home. I thank my lucky stars that we had a window. I lived in that flat for eighteen years.
In the summer air conditioning was supplied by an open window.
In the winter, heating was a challenge.
There were two stoves offering heat fueled with kerosene. One in the kitchen and one in the other end of the flat in the parlor. The stove in the kitchen kept the room cozy in the winter. No heat in the bedrooms and the stove on the parlor was useless.
I slept for years in the parlor in a single pull-out bed. I would drape my clothes on the stove next to my bed during the winter to get them warm. The stove could barely accomplish the task. During the winter ice would form on the inside of the parlor windows. Once it began forming on a wall. I laughed when a few years ago I saw a woman on the news complaining that during the winter she could sometimes see her breath in her apartment. Compare to the way my home looked, her apartment appeared a palace. I’m thinking, What’s your problem? Seeing your breath during the winter in the parlor with a stove was a common event.
This is a taste of my past.
More from my past will follow with entries from my memoir.
October 6, 2023 at 8:53 pm
Have you ever made a mistake and said, “I’m only human?”
Being a writer of science fiction, my mind dwelled on the phrase.
Who knows why?
Of course at this point I let my imagination take over, conquering rational thought. I pictured an expedition to a distant planet much like ours. They landed and found no occupants. After months of searching one of the team found a document explaining the demise of the civilization. “We were a race of perfection. No mistakes were ever made. Eventually, we die of boredom.
June 13, 2018 at 11:02 pm
My short story, He Flew Away, has just been accepted by Cemetery Moon.
If you are familiar with the invasion of stink bugs you might enjoy this story. I’ll let you know when it is available and how to get a copy.
January 8, 2017 at 12:00 am
This piece is a sample of upcoming posts to this blog.
The following is a list of websites to help writers find markets and agents. In the future I will discuss each site in more detail, but I thought I would offer this piece for writers to explore these sites, if they want, on their own.
First, I am sad to say that one of my favorite sites to explore the validity of markets and agents no longer exists. The site is Preditors & Editors, a site I have looked to over the years for their opinion about markets and agents. They will be sorely missed.
Now let’s deal with markets.
To my mind, Duotrope is the go-to site for seeking markets for fiction, non-fiction and poetry. Once free, it now charges 50$ a year to use it. Although there are some that argue about the fee, I think, for the service they provide, it is well worth the cost. This site is a fantastic search-engine to find markets specific to your work.
Here is the site:
https://duotrope.com/index.aspx?bp=search
Here is a site to find markets for science fiction and more. I have yet to become acquainted with it, but I will before I report on it.
http://www.ralan.com/index.htm
Now for agents.
In my opinion, this is the site to first visit when seeking an agent. The site is for the Association of Writers Representative. You can search the site for your specific genre and be connected to the agent’s site. You should never have to pay an agent to read your work. With the agents associated with this site, you never will. They have taken a pledge of honesty.
Here is the site:
http://www.aaronline.org/Find
Next is a site devoted to the writer to query other writers about their experience with publishers and
agents. Great place to check on honesty.
Here is the site:
http://absolutewrite.com/forums/activity.php
Finally, here is a site to use to see an agents background. I will discuss this site in greater detail in a later post.
Here is the site:
http://www.agwentquery.com/default.aspx
I hope this helps my fellow writers on their journey to publication. As promised, a more extensive look at each site will follow. I want to help my fellow writers to be where they want to be.
October 19, 2016 at 8:55 pm
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