Posts tagged ‘horror’
MANSION OF NIGHTMARES, A GHOST STORY
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
DO YOU HEAR WHAT I HEAR? A CHRISTMAS HORROR STORY
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
THE RELUCTANT ZOMBI
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
HE FLEW AWAY
This story was inspired by the stink but infestation about seven or eight years ago.
I was camping with my wife and friends and the population of stink bugs was enormous. In the restroom they attacked me. The side of a white RV was almost totally black with the beasts. Luckly, birds eventually developed a taste for them.
He Flew Away was published in 2016 by Cemetery Moon, a print publication.
He Flew Away
The stink bug invasion, a product of Asian commerce, spread across the east coast like a cancer. Now, more than thirty-three states suffered their scourge. At first, the insect was nothing more than a mild discomfort. Then, ever so slowly, the discomfort grew into a major irritant, and finally as time passed, a constant source of woe. It was in the winter that the insects would reach their maximum level as a life-changing hindrance. During cold weather they ventured indoors, landing in food, beverages and disturbing sleep in infested bedrooms, waking those light sleepers with the sound of their flight, and the heavier sleepers when they landed. Residents of the blighted areas thought this was as bad as it could get, but matters were about to take a change for the worse that no one had anticipated. The nuisance of the original invasion waned as birds developed a taste for the pest. But before that took place a new, more threatening aspect, replaced the mere nuisance.
One of the many sites of this transition from annoyance to terror took place at French Creek State Park. Located in rural eastern Pennsylvania, a landscape of thick forest and rolling hills, it was an ideal setting for those wanting to leave the cares of life behind and seek nature’s solitude. The location was also ideal for the mindless advances of the now predator insects to accomplish a horrible new phase of their existence.
Walt, along with his dog, Millie, sought out the peace and tranquility of the park one early October weekend. Walt said to Millie, as he filled his van with camping equipment, “I can’t wait to spend some time outdoors with my girl camping.” Millie, a lab mix, bounded around the car anticipating an upcoming adventure. She knew something was up, and as long as she was included, she was happy.
Setting out on a Friday afternoon, a short drive brought them to French Creek State Park.
Walt began setting up his campsite looking forward to a restful evening spent around a blazing campfire with the smell of burning wood and the way the tranquility of a camping evening brought a sense of wellbeing. However, the tranquil mood changed when Saturday morning dawned with the horrible realization that the invasion of stink bugs in the forest was intense. Walt could not believe the magnitude of the stink bug population as he attempted to clear them from the picnic table so he could make his breakfast.
Millie sensed an ominous presence in the insect invasion, something her master could not. She growled and snapped at the pests knowing they were more of a threat than her master realized.
That morning, as Walt entered the camp bathroom, he was shocked to see the walls black with stink bugs. To eliminate the vermin, he slammed his towel against the walls. But that accomplished nothing more than releasing a sickening stench. “Bad idea,” he, mumbled. “It can’t get much worse than this. Back home they haven’t showed up yet. Here, it’s a major invasion. They’re everywhere.” And Walt discovered a new aspect of the pests; they’re dive-bombing now, and biting. A few of them landed on him and immediately bit down, causing intense pain. A fellow camper entered the restroom and listened to Walt complain and agreed with a nod of his head to his observations. Walt was afraid to open his mouth to respond, the insects were that dense.
That night the smoke of the campfire kept the little monsters at bay allowing Walt to enjoy the evening. Millie lay down by the fire but again sensed a looming threat in the darkness.
Late Sunday night Walt’s friends, Sherrie and Jeff, arrived in their RV. The next morning, as Sherrie and Jeff witnessed the stink bug infestation, they agreed that this year’s plague of insects was the worst they’d ever seen. Walt tried to remain positive and commented, “It will be better when we go back home, away from the forest. Let’s try to enjoy our camping and ignore the little bastards.”
On their second full day of camping Walt’s friends decided to take Millie for a walk. “We won’t get lost this time,” they promised. The previous day, the trio hiked a totally unplanned six mile marathon. Without map or compass, they set out for a short leisurely hike. At one point, after the hikers realized how lost they were, and Millie enjoyed every turn in the trail, Sherrie asked an old-timer driving by for directions. Big mistake. They walked circles around the same landscape finally sure their local guide was suffering from dementia. Nothing of the directions he gave fit the terrain, and during the hike they were constantly bombarded by stink bugs. “I hope Walt has a fire going when we get back with plenty of smoke,” Sherrie said to Jeff, “or else you and I are going straight into the RV.
While his friends decided on a hike, Walt hung back at the campsite to try and do some work. He was a writer at the beginning of his career. As he sat in this peaceful setting ideas fired through his mind. The current infestation of stink bugs added to strong possibilities of a story.
Sitting at the picnic table, Walt started to form the idea for a work of horror, lurking on the backburner of his mind for some time now. Working at the picnic table he was constantly brushing away stink bugs landing on him. He muttered, “The little pests are everywhere. We can’t leave this place soon enough to suit me,” a definite turn to his positive attitude. But even with the constant irritation of the insects, with the warmth of the sun, and spending a restless camping night, he began nodding off and decided to rest his head on the table, for just a minute.
As Walt’s breathing grew more regular with sleep the insects returned, the first stink bug landed on his shoulder. Soon insects occupied his shoulders and back, and before long were joined by a swarm hovering which quietly settling down to join their comrades. Swarm after swam followed, creating a mass of hundreds of thousands of the bugs.
Walt stirred as the insects began penetrating his body with their mindless journey to transition, molding his structure to their own demands. He was now beyond pain as his being entered a new life, a new entity. All that was Walt was gone, replaced by a life form the world had never known. This same horrible transformation was occurring throughout the infected areas as the stink bug population multiplied with unprecedented hspeed to create a new horror. Gradually a new creature was created which would become swarms of monsters defying the laws of nature and challenging all life on the planet.
* **
Hours later Sherrie and Jeff came walking back with Millie in tow. “Let’s see what Walt’s up to,” they told the tired dog. As they approached the campsite, they could not believe their eyes. There, sitting at the picnic table, was a pulsating amorphous shape. As they moved closer they realized what they were seeing were thousands upon thousands of stink bugs. Before their horrified eyes, a figure rose becoming more defined as the crawling mass of insects flew away leaving a solid form, one enormous shield- shaped evil-looking insect. The monster’s alien eyes surveyed its surroundings, and then moved from the table to the ground. It was fully six feet long and stood four feet high. The stench it gave off was unbelievably repulsive. Suddenly, its carapace opened and huge wings appeared increasing the putrid smell even more. Giant wings began to flutter, sending up a cloud of fallen leaves, and the beast began to fly. Soon it was only a dot in the sky, and then disappeared.
The End
SIDE EFFECTS
This story was published by Dream Fantasy International in December 2005.
SIDE AFFECTS
The female picked up her baby and held it close, suckling it for the last time. She did not have a name; language was thousands of years in the future. As she gazed at her infant, only days old, tears rolled down her cheeks. She caressed the small hairy body and kissed the prominent brow, the two characteristics that spelled the infant’s doom. She stood, and slowly walked into the forest. Moments later the forest echoed with a child’s scream, cut suddenly short. The female emerged from the forest alone.
She thought of another member of the loosely formed tribe with a similar baby, who did not have the strength to destroy it. The female raised the child, its aggressiveness and appearance different from the other children living in the clearing in the African forest. The child grew strong and hateful. One day a member of the tribe found the mother dead, partially devoured. The child was never seen again. It entered the jungle, more animal than human, to live as its ancestors did thousands of years before.
***
Modern science could have discovered the explanation for these mysterious births. The cause was a unique receptor, a protein on the surface of the cell. Many receptors discovered today are seven transmembrane receptors; they course the cell wall seven times weaving in and out like a tiny thread. These aggressive individuals had receptors that were fourteen transmembrane receptors, monstrous in size and in action, bringing together hormones in rare mixes, resulting in a savage monster. These receptors disappeared with the extinction of the savage individuals, but the genetic machinery that manufactured these monstrous receptors did not.
Thousands of years ago, as these monsters were born and eliminated, there was another type of individual created. It was rare, rarer than its savage counterparts. These individuals possessed the genetic machinery to produce the aberrant receptors, but this could only occur when there was a change in serotonin levels. These changes don’t normally occur in nature now, and the birth of these individuals continued with their genetic potential unrealized. Unrealized, that is, until the advent of the new antidepressants.
***
Jeff Skovich was a quiet guy, the kind of guy you never noticed, primarily because he didn’t want to be noticed. Only Jeff and his wife Linda knew the torment of his life. Lately he was blowing up at the slightest provocation. He was angry all the time and had more and more difficulty dealing with daily routines. Then, one day, Jeff had a particularly violent argument with Linda. After Jeff had nearly struck her she shouted, “You need help! I refuse to go on living like this,” and stormed out of the house. Confused and hurt, she drove aimlessly for hours and when she returned, Jeff was gone.
Days later, a sullen Jeff returned home, and would not tell Linda where he had been. They spent a week passing each other in the house, avoiding any contact, sleeping in different rooms. The love Jeff felt for Linda ran so deep, he could not bear the thought of life without her but could not confront her. Finally, Linda broke the ice. “I love you”, she told him, but insisted, “You need help for your mood swings, and we really can’t go on like this.”
At first Jeff said nothing, and then his feelings poured out, “I feel hopeless all the time. I can hardly function because nothing seems to have any importance. I use all the energy I have just to get through the day. By the time I come home I’m spent, angry and confused. I just can’t deal with things the way I once did.” As Jeff talked, the tears started to flow from Linda’s eyes and from Jeff’s. Linda knew the man Jeff once was and wanted him back.
Jeff finally agreed to see Dr. Roberts, their family doctor, and after a short discussion Roberts said, “I’m going to put you on one of the new serotonin reuptake inhibitors. I think that this medication will help you. We’ll give it a try and see if it makes a difference.”
Jeff filled the prescription and started the therapy he hoped would return his life to him. After a week he noticed a difference in his approach to problems; instead of flying into a rage, he stopped and thought through the conflict he felt. He was no longer angry all the time, had more patience and was more focused on his work. Linda noticed the change too. She no longer dreaded coming home from her job, trying to gauge Jeff’s mood for the evening. Jeff and Linda began enjoying life and their marriage to the fullest. Jeff’s job as an electrical engineer took off. The work he accomplished won recognition and promotions. Linda also grew comfortable in her life. Her job teaching at the local middle school gave her great satisfaction. Linda adored children but was not able to have her own, so this proximity to children fulfilled a need.
Jeff had now been on the antidepressant for years. His life with Linda could not be better; he found himself feeling guilty at times for the happiness that was his. He was now in charge of a major project for the company. The outlook of every facet of his life was positive.
“You know Linda,” Jeff said one morning, “I think it’s a waste of money for me to continue to take the antidepressant. I feel fine, we get along great, and things couldn’t be better at work. I’m going to have a talk with Dr. Roberts and see what he says.”
Jeff made the appointment and Linda went with him to testify to the changes Jeff had undergone. Dr. Roberts agreed and slowly began to wean Jeff off the medicine. When Jeff began taking the drug, he started at a low dose and gradually increased the dosage until he underwent the full benefits of the drug. Now he reversed the process and began taking less and less, paying attention to any changes in his mood or behavior, until he was taking the lowest dose used. He still was doing fine so he stopped taking the drug altogether.
Weeks, then months went by, and Jeff was even tempered and happy as he had been when he was on the medication, but deep within his genetic makeup subtle changes were taking place. Removing the drug from his system set his cellular machinery into gear, in a manner that had not taken place in man for thousands of years. Proteins were being manufactured that were awesome in length and complexity. They weaved through the walls of his cells fourteen times, like vipers ready to do their damage. The process was slow, gradually creating a monster. The night he began the crossover, Jeff had a dream.
Jeff dreamt he walked an African savanna, hunting for what he knew he needed to continue his existence – food. He stalked his prey, made a kill and feasted on his quarry’s raw flesh. Jeff awoke bathed in sweat, unable to understand his apparition’s meaning. The final image remained imprinted in his mind. In his dream the quarry had been human. This deeply disturbed him for days. He tried to dismiss the dream but couldn’t, for it reoccurred. And as the side effects began to alter his body, his dreams became more and more vivid as his mind was also altered.
Six months went by before Jeff noticed a change in his behavior. He was out shopping one day and was about to pull into a parking space when another car beat him to the spot. Normally, he would have uttered some epithet to himself and gone on his way, but this time was different. He pulled his car behind the intruder to prevent him from leaving, then jumped out of his car and attacked. Jeff hammered his fist on the closed window, confronting an elderly couple. The face of the old man behind the wheel revealed shock and disbelief. Both he and his wife cowered as Jeff continued to yell and pound the window. In desperation, the old man began to blow his horn continuously, hoping to attract attention. The noise and forming crowd brought Jeff to his senses. He jumped into his car and left.
As he drove away, Jeff was shaking with fear and rage. Years ago, when he was depressed, he felt rage, a rage born of desperation. The rage he felt now was different; it was animal. For a moment, he wanted to kill the old couple, not considering the consequences.
He did not mention this incident to his wife. He was both scared and ashamed and wanted to forget all about what had happened. Jeff wondered if maybe he should return to his antidepressant but couldn’t realize that there was no turning back. His genetic machinery was in overdrive and could not be reversed.
Jeff had always had a heavy beard. With his thick black hair, his five o’clock shadow would sometimes appear at three, but now by eleven o’clock he looked like he hadn’t shaved at all that morning, and his normally densely haired torso and arms seemed to be growing additional hair. Another change took place that he did not understand, seeming impossible. His face seemed to be altered ever so slightly. His brow seemed to be thickened. It was almost impossible to notice without close inspection. The way Jeff first became aware of this change was that his glasses felt uncomfortable to wear. But this was not a problem for his eyesight seemed to be improving to the extent that he didn’t need his glasses.
The change that distressed Jeff the most was the change in his temper. These days he avoided Linda for fear of a blowup. Small things that she had always done, her little habits, would now grate his nerves generating a mad rage that he fought to keep under control. He had more fits of anger while in public. One day, an elderly woman entered a checkout line at the same time as Jeff, and he pushed her, knocked her to the ground yelling obscenities. A crowd gathered as he ran from the store. In the distance he could hear the wail of a police siren. He walked for hours until darkness fell, and then returned to the store’s parking lot to retrieve his car.
Day by day, his appearance was changing. His brow was becoming more prominent and there was no controlling his beard growth, and his body was covered with what appeared to be fur. Jeff was at a loss as to what to do, whom to turn to for he found it impossible to communicate his rage.
Then one day, Linda was gone from his life too. She knew he was angry again, but not like before. The rage was constant, and she couldn’t help but notice the change in his appearance. She couldn’t take the anger any longer and asked, “What’s happening Jeff?”
Jeff’s reply was both verbal and physical, “Shut up bitch,” he shouted and slapped Linda as hard as he could. He had never struck her before. Linda fell to the floor and Jeff began to kick and stomp her until his energy was spent. Linda’s face was no longer recognizable. He left and entered a primal world from which he would never return.
THE END
THE INHERITANCE
This story was accepted for publication by Black Petals in July 2006. Don’t you just love happy endings?
THE INHERITANCE
May lay deathly still, listening, as her two daughters, Joan and Heidi, searched through her belongings looking for treasure. Joan was the first to speak, “I hope the old bat dies before the end of the month. That would save us a month’s rent.’
Heidi answered, “Quiet Joan, she’ll hear you.”
Joan replied, “Are you kidding? She’s toast. Even her doctor can’t explain what keeps her going.”
May Connors, age 62, lay dying in her bed in the small bedroom of her apartment in the assisted living wing of The Towers Nursing Home. She appeared as a corpse ready for burial, her face ashen and her jaw slack. Only the rare rise and fall of her chest brought home the fact that her withered body still harbored life. Cancer had ravaged her physically just as cruel circumstances had ravaged her existence. At one time her life was full of promise. Now she had nothing, nothing but the cruel words of her daughters that seared into her brain.
* * *
May’s mind wandered back to when her daughters were young. Five-year old Joan would day, “I love you mom, you’re the bestest mother in the whole world.”
Three-year-old Heidi would add, “I love mom.”
Those moments made the sacrifices she made for her daughters worthwhile. Now her daughters’ cruel words blotted out the love she once held so close.
May clung to life with the hope that her two daughters, distant for so long, would show a measure of love for her before she died. With her daughters’ words she knew that would not be. The love she had sheltered in her heart became a cold hate. A desire for revenge replaced her will to live. Locked in the prison of her body, May’s mind and soul were tormented with the desire to somehow confront the shallowness, the evil her daughters exhibited.
As May’s determination for revenge grew, she heard Joan say, “I always liked this knife set from Switzerland. It would look nice in my kitchen.”
Heidi snickered, “As if you’d ever use them to cook.”
Joan moaned, “I didn’t say I’d use them. I said they would look nice.”
Heidi said, “You can have the knives if I can have the antique mirror. I’ve always admired the frame and it would look good in my bedroom.”
Before she could help herself, Joan commented, “On the ceiling of course!” Both women laughed hysterically while May’s brain did a slow burn.
Joan said, “Since that’s settled, let’s go through the rest of this junk and see what we want. What’s left can go straight to the dumpster out back.”
Then Heidi said, “Especially the crap she’s made over the years. What about her clothes?
Joan replied, “Try to find a dress without food stains that she can be buried in and bag the rest for Goodwill.”
As her daughters mocked all that she held dear, May remembered a life of disappointment and tragedy.
* * *
May recalled five months ago when she visited Dr. Stevens.
“I came for a checkup doctor. I’ve felt rundown lately and have been losing weight.”
Dr. Stevens said, “We’ll run some tests and give you a physical. That should tell us what’s going on.”
Two weeks later May sat in Dr. Stevens’ office. The look on his face told May that the news was not good.
“May, we have discovered your problem. You have pancreatic cancer. It has spread to your liver and stomach. I’m so sorry.”
May was in shock. The rest of Dr. Stevens’ words tumbled into a blur. He went on to talk about options and a realistic assessment of the time May had left, but the words seemed unreal.
The deadly cells had been spreading their evil throughout her body even as she planned her future. May had thoughts of growing old and seeing her daughter’s lives blossom. Now these alien cells did more than plan; they determined her future.
Life had dealt her many blows in the past, but May had always persevered. It seemed distant now, but her life was once a dream, a dream that slowly crumbled. May married late in life yet still managed to have two healthy daughters. She quit her job as an interior decorator and devoted her life to raising her children. Her husband Charlie’s salary as vice president at a local bank provided more than enough to enable the family to live comfortably. Then the life she planned began to fall apart.
One day, as he did every day, Charlie kissed May and said, “I love you, see you tonight.” She never took that kiss for granted because she knew how much he loved her. But she never saw her Charlie again that night, or any other night.
Later that day, the phone rang, and May answered. She recognized the hysterical voice on the line. It was Charlie’s secretary. “Charlie had a heart attack. They’re taking him to Glen Grove Hospital. I can’t believe it, oh May.”
May rushed to the hospital. Dr. Perkins greeted her. He slowly approached her, and then said, “I’m the doctor that first saw Mr. Connors. I’m sorry Mrs. Connors. We did everything we could. Your husband passed away.” Her Charlie, at the age of fifty and fit, died of a massive heart attack.
When her daughters graduated from high school, they also exited May’s life. Joan and Heidi, two years apart in age, went off to college and never returned. They both chose careers in business, and both rose rapidly on their respective corporate ladders. Joan became a manager at a major pharmaceutical company. Heidi worked her way up to chief buyer for a major department store. Neither woman had any thoughts of marriage and would not even think of sharing their lives with children. They wanted their lives to be their own. They lived well and traveled extensively. There was no room in their existence for anyone else. May’s hopes for grandchildren and family gatherings were dashed.
May’s lifestyle went downhill rapidly. In the ten years that followed, May found menial work and seldom saw her daughters. When her children did visit, they would suggest she start selling some of the possessions she and Charlie had accumulated over the years. They never offered to help their mom.
Shortly after a course of chemotherapy, May suffered a stroke leaving the left side of her body paralyzed and her unable to communicate. Her daughters arranged for a placement in assisted living rather than oversee caregivers at home. May’s home and possessions were mostly sold. The rest were kept to furnish her small room.
Now May was dying while her daughters scurried through her tiny apartment like vultures waiting for the end so they could pick May’s life clean. Their mistake was that their greed would not allow them to wait until their mother was gone.
Two days later May died. Her daughters got their wish and split the money they would have paid on another month’s rent. But May also left them much more than money, she left revenge.
* * *
It had been months since May’s death. Joan and her sister had picked over their mother’s possessions and wound up disposing of almost everything the old women owned. Joan found counter space for her mother’s knife set in her immaculate kitchen, a kitchen seldom used.
One day Joan’s friend Phyllis dropped by with the makings of a salad and a bottle of wine. Phyllis drew one of the fine Swiss knives from its wooden holder and noticed a flaw. It was a large knife and there appeared to be a cloudy area on one side of the blade. Phyllis asked her friend, “What is this mark?” Joan took the knife to the sink and tried to clean it without success.
“I’ve never noticed that mark before,” Joan said.
Phyllis asked, “Have you ever used the knife before?” She then replaced the knife in its holder, chose another and prepared the salad.
The next day Joan dragged herself into the kitchen to clean up Phyllis’ salad mess when she noticed the flawed knife on the counter. “Now how did that get there?” she said to herself. As Joan studied the flaw it changed, became more defined. Minutes passed as Joan began to recognize something taking shape. She suddenly screamed, as the imperfection on the knife blade slowly became the smiling face of her mother. The image sharpened and the blade began to move. Joan backed away. The blade followed. Finally, she was cornered in the kitchen. She closed her eyes. On the front of her slacks she could feel a pressure followed closely by a searing pain in her abdomen. Something warm and wet fell onto her feet. She looked down to see the purple-tinged ropes of her intestines on the floor. She looked up to see the knife back away, then come rapidly toward the middle of her chest.
* * *
Heidi had hung her mother’s mirror in the bedroom where she often enjoyed admiring her trim figure in its reflection. It hung on the wall near the bathroom, and she would smile as she glanced at her naked body fresh from the shower.
One day, while applying her makeup, Heidi noticed a cloudy area in the mirror. She tried to clean it but it only became larger. She hoped she wouldn’t need to have the glass replaced.
Heidi awoke early a few days later to catch a flight to France. She was now the chief buyer at the store and had been looking forward to this trip for some time. After her shower, she entered the darkened bedroom. As the mirror caught the image of her naked body, the cloudiness in the mirror began to glow. She stepped closer to examine it. An image began to take shape. Looking at her was the smiling face of her mother. Heidi screamed as the glass exploded. Shards penetrated her eyes. She could feel the vitreous humor and thicker blood flow down her face. With gentle pressure the twin shards were pushed further into her brain.
* * *
Six feet beneath her blanket of earth, in the dank blackness of her coffin, a visage of peace crept across May Connor’s decaying face. One might even say the ravaged face smiled.
THE END
LATEST PUBLICATION: CEMETERY MOON
I thought I would pass along a link to the Cemetery Moon website.
My story is in issue 14. I would like you to read it, but more importantly, I would like you to support the small presses printing words sometimes lost in the wilderness.
A NEW PUBLICATION
HE FLEW AWAY, A NEW PUBLICATION
I mentioned this in a past entry that I had my story, He Flew Away, accepted by Cemetery Moon.
It has now been published and I am providing a link if you should like to make a purchase. It’s been a long time since my last publication and my hope is this is only the beginning.
Check out the Cemetery Moon website, and if you are interested by a copy which includes my story.
Whatever you do, support writers. They are a voice during conflict as we are now suffering and a way to, however brief, enter the world of the mind.
http://www.fortresspublishinginc.com/index_files/cm.html
PUBLISHING UPDATE
Some time ago I told you that I had a story accepted by Cemetery Moon. I recently received word that the story, He Flew Away, will be published close to Halloween. As a preview, if you remember our infestation of stink bugs on the east coast, you might enjoy this story. After the story is published I will provide a link to purchase the edition.
I also want to tell you that my good friend and published poet, Steve Kupferschmid, has had a poem accepted by The Aurorean, a magazine published in Farmington,ME. If you enjoy the poetry of Billie Collins, you are in for a treat. I will keep you updated on these publication.
I know, after promising to write about writing, I have let you down. It’s just that there is so much happening to this country, I cannot fail to have an opinion.
OBSERVATIONS OPINIONS:THE PRESENT
Is it any wonder that the novel by George Orwell, 1984, has recently become a best seller?
Walttriznastories's Blog 