Posts tagged ‘horror’
THE SUPERIOR SPECIES: PART V, THE BIRTH
THE BIRTH
Bill March had three women he had used as surrogate mothers in the past who refused to see the babies for whom they had made life possible. They were ready to perform the function again. All were young, in their mid to late twenties and all were single. They were all paid for their service and all three shared similar feelings about their pregnancy. They wanted to provide a family to couples who needed help.
The three women were each implanted with two of the Neanderthal embryos. They were all told that the fetuses belonged to a very wealthy couple, and that they would be paid well for their services and their confidentiality. When it came time to deliver the babies, the births would take place at the couple’s country estate. All preparations had been taken to equip a room at the estate with the criteria of a delivery room, all the latest equipment necessary to handle whatever emergency might occur.
Two of the women miscarried.
These miscarriages revived the doubts March originally felt about the project.
Pat Meyers carried the last two fetal Neanderthals to term. She knew she was pregnant with twins, but she grew no larger than she had when she carried a single child. This disturbed her. She also knew she carried two boys. Even with her doubts, it made her happy to know she was bringing joy and creating a family. She was making it all possible.
Two weeks before her due date, she was moved to a country estate in northern Connecticut. The house belonged to Gold and had been in his family for many years. Mark told the two nurses who would assist in the delivery, “The babies may seem somewhat peculiar. You will be paid to overlook anything out of the ordinary. After all, we must be sensitive to the parent’s feelings.”
Pat went into labor and had an extremely easy delivery. Although she had carried the babies to term, both were less than four pounds at birth.
Each nurse cared for one of the infants. The boys were covered with a fine down of black hair. One of the nurses whispered to the other, “Look at his head. It’s so misshapen after such an easy delivery.”
Once the babies were settled in the nursery, the nurses left the estate. As they walked to their cars one said to the other, “Those infants were indeed peculiar with their misshapen skulls and covered with hair like an ape. But the one thing I will never forget about them was their eyes. They weren’t the eyes of any baby I’ve ever seen. They had a weird look to them, like intelligence. I felt they were looking right through me.
The other nurse responded, “Did you also get the feeling that they feared our touch. I’ve never seen that in a newborn before.”
THE SUPERIOR SPECIES: PART IV, THE CLONING
THE CLONING
John Sanders received the frozen tissue samples from Gold. As he gazed at the sample packed in dry ice, he could not believe he was peering into a box containing a tissue sample of a ‘man’ dead thirty thousand years. Sanders’ ego did not get the better of him. He knew he had been out of the lab for too long to attempt the important work that lay ahead. He employed a promising PhD candidate, Michael Rose, to do the actual work. He would tell Rose as little as possible about the nature of the experiment. The meeting at Gold’s study had left him with the feeling that he was involved in a conspiracy rather than an experiment, the fewer people that knew about the true purpose of the experiment, the better.
Sanders’ first meeting with Rose went well. “Michael, I would like you to help me in a special project.”
“Certainly Dr. Sanders. I’m a little desperate for a new project now that the study I’m working on is going nowhere.”
Sanders said, “It’s a cloning experiment.”
“Fantastic,” said Rose. “What will we be cloning?”
Sanders hesitated, and then answered, “A non-human primate.”
“Has that ever been done before Dr. Sanders?”
“Not to my knowledge. We would be making history.”
Rose could not believe his luck. He was going from a dead-end research project to an historic experiment.
“When do we begin?”
“Immediately,” Sanders said. “I already have a tissue sample from which you can extract the DNA for the cloning. I also have a list of references I want you to read and extract from them the method used to fertilize the egg and develop it into an embryo.”
* * *
Two weeks later Rose had the DNA extracted and the materials he would need for the union of the egg and extracted DNA to begin their journey to a living entity.
Sanders called Mark, “Bill, we’re ready to implant the DNA into the eggs.”
“I’ll ship them out by express mail,” said Mark. “Good luck!”
The eggs arrived in a container of liquid nitrogen. The paperwork indicated that there were ten eggs contained in the container. When all was ready, with Sanders at his side, Rose began the cloning experiment.
The eggs were rapidly thawed. Once thawed, Rose removed their DNA and inserted the ‘primate DNA’ he had prepared. Each egg was given its own petri dish of life sustaining fluids and put into an incubator.
Both Sanders and Rose periodically checked on the eggs. Initially, all ten began to divide. But soon four of the small balls of cells died. The remaining six progressed to a point where they could be slowly cooled, then frozen and stored in liquid nitrogen until they could be implanted into a uterus.
Rose was excited as he entered Sanders’ office. “Dr. Sanders, the embryos are frozen. I’m looking forward to seeing the results of the experiment.”
Sanders said, “I’ll let you know how things progress.”
“Do we have the monkeys that will carry the embryos to term here?”
“No Michael, the implantation will be done at another institution.”
After Rose left, Sanders sat at his desk and thought, You’ll be told the embryos all died after implantation. For you, this experiment is over.
Strangely, Sanders found himself feeling envy for Rose. His dreams had recently been haunted by what this adventure might produce.
SUPERIOR SPECIES: PART III, NEW HAVEN CONNETICUT
New Haven, Connecticut
It was a wild night with a howling and frigid wind buffeting the windows of the senior faculty house on the Yale campus. Sheets of rain kept all the details of the world beyond the windows indefinite.
Four men, leaders in their fields, sat before a roaring fire, the flames reflecting off the dark wooden panels of the study walls. Each man held a brandy stiffer and appreciated the ambiance of the room and the moment. The men were in one of the faculty houses provided to senior members of Yale. The residence was that of Dr. Carl Gold, an evolutionary psychologist. Gold was in his mid sixties, and with his trim build and gray mane of hair, would not be out of place in the boardroom of a major company or arguing on the floor of the senate. He was a leader in his field with a worldwide reputation.
Gold had invited three men he knew by reputation as giants in their own fields. He also knew them all personally, in varying degrees, and was confident that what was discussed this stormy night would not go beyond the walls of his study.
Across from Gold sat Fred Fielding. Tall and gaunt, Fielding had a permanent tan from his many field trips as physical anthropologist. Next to Fielding was John Sanders, a world-renowned human geneticist. Sanders published his work in all the major journals, but most of his work was now tied up in the debate over the use of human stem cells. Sanders, with his short thick build, was the opposite of Fielding. With his thick black hair and swarthy complexion, he was often mistaken for a maintenance man. The broken nose he earned during his collegiate boxing career added to the image.
The last of the three invited guests was Dr. Bill Mark, a fertility specialist and adjunct professor in Yale’s medical school. Tall, slim and blond, with his athletic build, he appeared to be in his mid forties although he was well on the way to sixty. As each man introduced himself and discussed their specialties, Mark wondered if he had been summoned to this meeting by mistake. His discipline did not fit in with the others present. He was not a researcher. He was a physician.
Gold surveyed his colleagues and friends. “Gentlemen, the storm that rages beyond these walls will be dwarfed by the storm that may rage within these walls tonight. I’m sure you are all aware of the magnificent discovery made in the Swiss Alps. The body of a perfectly preserved Neanderthal, using carbon dating, is estimated to be thirty thousand years old. I have spent my life in the study of these creatures. From the time the first Neanderthal skull was found in 1848, this subset of man has remained a mystery. We are still trying to fathom the extent of their intelligence and how they fit into the human tree of development.
“There are many facts about these distant relatives of modern man that lead to fascinating conjecture. To begin with, their brains were ten percent larger than that of modern man, yet they are thought to be simple brutes. We now know that Neanderthals manufactured tools and produced art. The mask found on the banks of the Loire in France was an unexpected find. The fact that they produced art indicates they had an appreciation of life beyond their own existence. They apparently did lack one skill. They were not as adept at fashioning weapons as their fellow bipeds.
“Another intriguing discovery found in the Kebara Cave in Israel was a Neanderthal bone of extreme importance. The bone I refer to was a Neanderthal hyoid bone. This find dispels the theory that Neanderthals could do nothing but grunt. The presence of a hyoid bone indicates they were capable of speech. Taking into consideration other aspects of their skulls, it is thought that Neanderthals had a high, nasal voice.
“There are many questions to be answered, and now we have the means at our disposal to journey from conjecture to fact. I have obtained a sample of the newly discovered Neanderthal. The reason I have called you all together this evening is to formulate a plan, that my utilizing modern genetics and in vitro fertilization, will produce a Neanderthal. We shall be able to answer all the questions that have plagued modern man about the Neanderthal enigma.”
Fred Fielding was the first to speak. “As a physical anthropologist, I look forward to examining the body of the recently discovered Neanderthal. But your point is clear. To see how the physical characteristics, whose meaning we assume to deduce, come into play in a living specimen would mean phenomenal advances in our knowledge of man’s distant relative.”
John Sanders, the geneticist, now spoke up. “With a specimen from this newly discovered Neanderthal, modern genetics could solve, once and for all, the debate of where Neanderthals reside in man’s family tree. However, what you propose is to produce a living individual. To do that would require cloning, a method too dangerous to try on a human – to say nothing about it being illegal.”
Gold said, “My dear Dr. Sanders, you would not be cloning a member of the Homo sapiens species. You would be cloning an example of Homo neanderhtalensis.”
A smile crept across Sanders’ face. This argument would be viable, until the law caught up with the science. “In that case, I am willing to isolate the DNA. What we would need next is a human egg and female willing to carry the Neanderthal to term.”
All eyes were now on Dr. Mark, the fertilization specialist. He said, “I now see where I fit in. I see how we all fit into this project. I will not mince words. I feel uncomfortable about this proposition. The mechanisms of the plan would be simple. I have a supply of donor eggs. We can remove the egg’s DNA and using cloning methods described in the literature, insert Neanderthal DNA and initiate mitosis. I also have a group of women we use in my practice who are willing to carry babies as surrogate mothers, but refuse to see the baby after birth. They want no chance to form an attachment to the child.
“I think the experiment Dr. Gold proposes can be accomplished. My question is should it be done? By using the scientific name of the Neanderthal as a loophole, we feel we are free to create an individual who may possess human emotions, who may possess a soul. This is much different than cloning a sheep or a cat, no matter how much we choose to belittle the difference. I am not sure I can proceed with this endeavor.”
Gold said, “I picked you, Bill, because I knew you would not go easily with this plan. What we are planning to do is of profound importance, and also of profound scientific and moral complexity. Yet, for science to advance, sometimes risks must be taken. I appreciate your arguments. I know there are risks, but we have the capacity to venture into the unknown and bring light to a land of mystery. Through our expertise we can gain knowledge of the beginning of our humanity.”
The debate went on until dawn lit the study windows. Fielding and Sanders warmed to their initial confidence. Mark persisted in his initial skepticism. But in the end, as a new day on Earth began, a new chapter in mankind’s knowledge was agreed upon.
THE DREAM CATCHER, A HORROR COMEDY
This story was accepted for publication by Bewildering Stories in December 2011. My dreams are still quite vivid.
THE DREAM CATCHER
Based on a true dream
Walt was a dreamer, but on occasion, there were consequences.
His wife, Joni, yelled, “Knock it off.” It was the dead of night, about 3 AM, and approaching winter. Thank God the windows were closed, or the neighbors might have gotten the wrong idea.
Joni often shouted, “Knock it off,” or “Leave me alone,” no matter what the level of the windows. However, their two cats were usually the problem, either trying to sleep beside her or getting into a scuffle. But in the wee hours of the morning, Walt was usually the guilty party.
Walt had a most active imagination, both day and night, and night was the problem. Day was good; as a writer, when his imagination was working at full steam ahead, that was beneficial. At night, full-steam-ahead was a drawback, especially for Joni. His dreams were beyond vivid; they were an alternate life. He remembered them in great detail. Some he could recall clearly and think about them when awake. There were nights when he would revisit a location from past dreams to experience new adventures.
On one particular night, the basis of this story, in his dream Walt attended a baseball game. Sitting along the first base line, he hoped to snag a foul ball. The problem was that none came anywhere near him, and the game was half over. Then it began; they started coming his way. The balls, arching over the spectators, had a dream-like quality. (Wonder why?) Try as he might, Walt could not catch one. They sailed by just out of reach or were caught by someone else before he had a chance. For some strange reason, every time he tried to catch a ball he would hit the head of a blond-headed man sitting in front of him. After this occurred a few times, he heard the cry, “Knock it off!”
Walt had constantly been rubbing Joni’s head.
He sheepishly said, “I’m sorry,” and went back to sleep.
The following morning, over breakfast, he related his dream. Joni more or less took it in stride for he’d been known to react to dreams with her on the receiving end. We won’t go into how many times he dreamt he fell over a wall and wound up on the floor with a crash. Walt was not a small person. While they were eating, he joked, “Tonight I’m taking my softball glove to bed.”
Joni rolled her eyes, told him in no uncertain terms what she thought of the idea, and went to work.
That afternoon Walt rummaged through the garage until he found his old glove. When night came, he waited until Joni was in the bathroom and gently placed the glove between their pillows.
As she prepared to climb into bed, she saw the glove, shook her head, and said, “You’re nuts.”
With lights out, Walt hoped to return to the game. Before long, he was once again seated near first base. Soon the foul balls began coming his way. One after another, his glove met them all. He was a catching machine. He couldn’t miss. That night Joni had a good night’s sleep. No mussing her hair.
Walt awoke refreshed with his glove on his hand. “Must have put it on during the night,” he said to himself. He got out of bed and immediately crashed to the floor, stumbling on the scattered baseballs.
Joni peered over the edge of the bed. “Not again,” she said. “This has got to stop.
“Remember the time you dreamed about trapping skunks? It took us a month to fumigate the house.”
That night, Joni had an idea. She waited until Walt began snoring, and then began quietly whispering over and over, “Electronics, money. Electronics, money.”
THE END
BALANCE, A HORROR SHORT STORY
Balance was accepted for publication by Necrology Shorts in January 2010
It is a story where good intentions go horribly wrong.
Balance
Nijo London pounded on the door of her small cell – her world now for over a year – until her fists bled. “Let me out!” she screamed although she knew her plea would go unanswered. She stepped back and studied the door covered with dark brown outlines of her fists from past attempts to summon help. She was not sure why she was being held captive, but there were times she was not sure she wanted to know.
Nijo was thirty-five of medium height and slender, with close-cropped black hair and startling blue eyes. She was slender now because of her imprisonment, but she once drifted up and down in her weight. After each of her two pregnancies, the pounds tended to remain more than being shed.
It had been a year since she last saw the sun. No one would speak to her, let alone answer her questions. But she heard occasional conversations through her door. There was hushed talk of brutal murders. One time she thought she heard the mention of cannibalism, but she couldn’t be sure.
Surely these conversations could not be connected to Nijo; she was a nurse and devoted her life to caring for the sick. But she had vague memories that she didn’t understand; flashes of perception that were more than disturbing. They were horrifying. There was also some connection with these horrors to ancient rituals of healing she had tried to incorporate into her practice. Nijo also recalled the most unsettling consequence of using these ancient rights: the complete loss of memory after she used the power.
* * *
Nijo had been content with her life. Her husband, Jim, was a hard-working engineer and provided a good life for her and their two daughters, Kim, age two, and Heather, age four. She was a nurse, and didn’t need to work, but she loved her profession and could not imagine life without nursing. When caring for the sick, she felt complete. To serve the patients most in need of her skills, she chose hospice nursing, and with that decision she would do a great deal of good but also seal her fate.
The patients she encountered had the most urgent care requirements. They required comfort along the road toward their death. And Nijo provided help along that road with care and compassion. But, deep inside she felt she was not doing enough to ease the suffering of the dying.
It was shortly after this feeling of inadequacy began that she met Robbie. Robbie, Roberta, was a hospice nurse working at the same agency. She was older than Nijo, blond, tall and had a striking presence of authority whenever she entered the room of a patient. Extremely competent in her discipline, she used all the skills at her command to ease the fears and pain of the dying. It was Robbie’s knowledge of a little recognized discipline that would determine Nijo’s future.
Robbie and Nijo became close friends. One day Nijo asked, “There are times I feel I could do more for my patients. Robbie, your patients seem to possess an inner peace different from those I work with. What do you do for them that I don’t?”
Robbie replied, “I’ve learned to use a healing method called Reiki. When you use this discipline, power comes through your hands as you work with the patient to help heal and provide a feeling of peace. For some patients it works, for some it doesn’t, but in our profession, you do what you must to ease pain and suffering.”
Nijo took some Reiki classes with Robbie and began to see the benefits of this mystical approach to helping the dying. However, the success rate was less than she had hoped for, that’s when she asked Robbie, “Is there anything more I can do? Is there another step beyond Reiki?”
Robbie hesitated, and then answered, “There is a force beyond Reiki, but it is dangerous. There are consequences to the practitioner if it is used. You might say, when you use this power, there are debts to be paid. I’ve never had the nerve to pursue it.”
Nijo responded, “If we can comfort the dying, no debt is too much. Will you tell me what this method is called?”
“It is called Mejocuthru. No one knows its origin. Even its most practiced masters seldom use this power. They fear it.”
Nijo asked Robbie, “Who are these masters? How can I meet them?”
Robbie paused, and then said, “I once asked the same questions and was led to a master. But what she told me stopped me from asking more.”
“What did this master tell you?”
“She said that with every use of Mejocuthru you must do the equivalent amount of harm to match the good you accomplished.”
Now it was Nijo’s turn to hesitate. She thought for a while, and then said, “If there is something out there that will help me with my patients, I would like to at least look into it. How can I meet this master?”
Robbie replied, “I shouldn’t have told you about Mejocuthru. It’s dangerous.”
“Look, Robbie, you know the type of patients we deal with. For the most part, their lives are full of pain and suffering, not to mention the emotional strain on their families. I would do anything to help these people. To be honest, I’m surprised you have not used this discipline.”
Robbie thought for a moment and considered how persuasive the master had been against her learning Mejocuthru. She thought the master would also be able to discourage Nijo, so reluctantly, she gave Nijo the master’s address.
* * *
It was weeks before Nijo had time to search out the Mejocuthru master. The workload was unusually heavy and her kids were sick so when she wasn’t caring for her patients she was nursing her children.
One sunny cold Saturday afternoon she asked Jim to watch the girls. “I’ve got some errands to run. Would you mind staying home with the kids?”
Jim looked up from the college football game he was watching and said, “No problem. On your way home, why don’t you pick up a pizza for dinner?” He returned to the game as his wife closed the front door.
She made her way to the address Robbie supplied. It was in the Chinese section of town. She consulted a city map and had no trouble locating the home of the Mejocuthru master. She pulled up in front of the building and was momentarily confused, “This can’t be the right address,” she said to herself. The building housed a Chinese restaurant. In the window of the grimy building was a row of cured ducks hung by their necks, suspended over oriental fruit and vegetables. Above were apartments, but the doorway leading upstairs displayed a different number.
Nijo went into the restaurant and was immediately approached by a waiter who asked in a heavy accent, “Can I seat you?” The room smelled of exotic sauces and spices. Clouds had darkened the afternoon sky, and the room appeared not to absorb what little light that filtered through the dirty front window. The few customers present were seated in the darkness muttering in Asian dialects.
Nijo said, “I was given this address by a friend. I’ve come to see the Mejocuthru master.”
The waiter’s expression changed from neutral to one of malice. “That is not possible,” he said. “Who sent you here?”
She gave him Robbie’s name. A brief look of recognition passed over his face.
“Sit here,” he growled, pointing to the area reserved for take-out customers and disappeared through a beaded curtain leading to the kitchen. Sometime later he reemerged, perspiring heavily. He had the same countenance of anger, but now he also bore a hint of uncertainty.
In a gruff voice, he said, “Follow me.”
The waiter led Nijo through the beaded curtain and into the kitchen where a host of Chinese cooks shouted to one another in their sing-song language. Here the exotic smell of the food was overpowering. Hurriedly, Nijo was shown to the rear of the room to a flight of stairs leading to the basement. The steps leading into the darkness were wooden and well-worn. In the faint light from an occasional bare bulb, Nijo found herself walking through a maze of tiny storerooms containing shelves of cans displaying Asian characters and jar upon jar of spices. One room was reserved for nothing but tea; another for huge bags of rice. He led Nijo to the darkest recesses of the cellar and a rust-stained metal door. He unlocked a heavy bolt and motioned Nijo inside. Immediately after she entered, the door was locked behind her. Her nostrils were attacked by the heavy smell of incense. Behind a single wavering candle flame appeared to be a pile of rags. Then the rags began to move, becoming a solitary figure surrounded by cushions. Even after her eyes had adjusted, Nijo could only make out a shadowy figure.
In perfect English, without the hint of an accent, the specter motioned to the pile of cushions and said, “Come here, child, and sit.”
The voice was that of a woman and was gentle but with an undertone of despair. Now seated, Nijo could begin to discern the woman’s features. Her face was a mass of wrinkles with deep-set slanted eyes, a flat nose and small mouth.
“My name is Maggie Wu,” said the woman. “I have been a prisoner in this room for many years. It is a painful, lonely existence, one I wish I could end, but I am powerless to do so.”
Nijo asked, “Why are you held prisoner? Are these people holding you hostage?”
The old woman answered, “I do not know why I am here. They say I did terrible things, but I don’t recall. I have had visitors, but they were either curious or vengeful. This has been my existence for more years than I can remember. “What brings you here, my child?”
Nijo answered, “A friend of mine and I have been practicing Reiki to help our patients. We are hospice nurses and have had some success in relieving some of their pain, but nothing consistent. I asked my friend, Robbie, if there was some stronger discipline we could use with more power and more certainty. Reluctantly, she told me about Mejocuthru and how to find you. She said there were risks but I would risk anything to help my patients.”
“Would you, my dear? I recall your friend. You must have been very persuasive, for not only did I deter her from using Mejocuthru but made her swear not to tell anyone of my existence.”
Nijo said, “I was rather relentless in my questioning. Do not be mad at Robbie. Please agree to teach me.”
The old woman reached out her gnarled hands to Nijo. “Give me your hands,” she ordered.
Nijo extended her hands and felt a strange tingle when they were held by the woman.
The woman said, “You have a deep desire to heal. I have never experienced this power in another. Perhaps you could control the power of Mejocuthru. I will tell you my history; then we will see.
“I was a healer taught by healers from the old country. They said I had many natural abilities and revealed to me powers and cures unknown in this country. I did much good for the Chinese community, but I felt I wasn’t doing enough, that there was a further step I could take.”
“I have the same feelings,” said Nijo, “that there is something beyond the Reiki I use.”
The old woman shook her head in disgust. “Reiki is for amateurs, a weak discipline practiced by weak people. Mejocuthru is where the real power lies. With Mejocuthru you can perform miracles. The old masters warned me of dangers, of doing well but of also doing evil. But I accepted the power. I raised the dead. It was only then I realized the power I possessed.
“The old masters said I would perform unspeakable acts if I used this knowledge. After I began to cure using Mejocuthru, the only problem I encountered was the loss of memory after healing. Soon after I raised a young woman from death I was imprisoned and have been here ever since. I long to be free. No one will explain why I am here, but I know I did some good and that is what is important. Those thoughts are what keep me alive.”
Nijo said, “I do not understand how such a great healing tool can do evil. I want to learn. I want to possess this power.”
The old woman smiled and said, “I will teach you. There is a chant you must learn. One that will release the powers of Mejocuthru into the people you touch to heal the disease that sickens them.
“Come, child. Lean forward and I will whisper the chant so that you may heal the sick.”
Nijo leaned close to the ancient healer. The old woman spoke the chant into Nijo’s ear. When the lesson was finished, the old woman told Nijo, “You are now a Mejocuthru healer. Go and help the sick; the power is yours.”
As soon as she said these words, the old woman’s images appeared to waiver; then slowly fade. Before Nijo’s disbelieving eyes, there appeared a boiling black cloud where the woman had been. Rather than dissipating, the cloud began to fall into itself. It became constantly smaller until all that remained was a solitary black dot hovering above the candle. Then it was gone.
Nijo shuddered and rose from the cushions. She had no idea what she had just witnessed, however, she felt a new sense of power that was pleasurable, that needed to be shared. She pounded on the door to be released. The door was opened by the waiter who had led her to the room. Nijo said, “I am finished here,” and walked past the man. After a minute or so, his eyes began to adjust to the darkened room. The chamber was empty. He searched the small room in disbelief and horror.
* * *
After arriving home, Nijo called Robbie. The excitement in Nijo’s voice was obvious; a flash of fear crossed Robbie’s mind. Nijo said, “I saw her, the Mejocuthru master. She told me her secrets and then…”
“And then what?” asked Robbie.
In all honesty, Nijo had no idea what she had witnessed. The woman had disappeared. Was this part of the associated curse? Nijo quickly steered the conversation away from the old woman. “I can feel the tingle of this new power in my body,” said Nijo. “I feel I must use it soon.”
The opportunity soon presented itself. Nijo was assigned a patient, Mary Littlecroft, age twenty-six, suffering from bone cancer. Chemotherapy did not provide a cure and her right leg was to be amputated. Mary was heartbroken when told the news. When Nijo came to visit, Mary cried, “I can’t bear the thought of losing my leg. I’ve always been athletic – a runner. I know I’ll survive without my leg, that many people with cancer have no hope at all. I know I’m being selfish, but if I lose my leg…”
Nijo tried to console Mary. After a few visits, Nijo noticed something. Every time she came near the young woman, she felt a tingle she knew was the force of Mejocuthru inside of her waiting to be released. Nijo finally decided to use her healing power on Mary.
After lowering the lights, Nijo approached Mary’s bed and quietly said, “I want to try something I learned. I have never used it before. There should be no pain. It might not work, but I’d like to try.”
Mary said, “I have nothing to lose but my leg. Try anything you want.”
Nijo placed her hands on Mary’s leg. Blue-white sparks danced from her fingertips. Mary groaned, but it was not one of pain but of pleasure. Mary said, “I feel something in my leg that is overcoming the dull pain I feel constantly.” As tears welled in her eyes, she continued, “My leg has not felt like this for a long time.” She pushed away the covers and stood; then walked. That was when the flow of tears became a flood. Mary cried, “I don’t know what you did, Nijo, but something wonderful has happened to my leg. What did you do?”
With an amazed voice, Nijo said, “I learned a new healing discipline. You are the first person I have tried it on.”
To that Mary said, “You have a gift, a healing gift. Thank you so much.”
Nijo was unsure what to say. She had no idea her experience with Mejocuthru would be so positive so quickly. Could this power reverse the cancer or just provide momentary comfort? Nijo said good-bye to her patient, and then walked to her car. She felt a strange emptiness and decided to take a walk along the darkened streets before she returned home. It was something she needed to do. She put her nursing bag in her car and then began walking. After a few steps she blacked out and did not come to again until she was sitting in her car. Not knowing what had happened, she felt uncomfortable about the blackout. Nothing like this had ever happened before. She went home, kissed her husband, and played with the girls after dinner. It was still early when she told Jim, “I’m drained. I think I’ll go to bed early.”
“No problem,” answered Jim. “I’ll put the girls to bed soon and then maybe read for awhile.”
The next morning Jim leafed through the local paper. The rag was a joke in the community. The stories they published were often confusing, and occasionally, made no sense at all. As he read the paper, Jim was known to often shout, “Doesn’t anyone proof-read this stuff? It’s a joke.”
As he sat at the breakfast table, a small article caught his attention. As Nijo entered the kitchen, he said, “Listen to this. Last night someone leapt out of some bushes and struck a young woman in the leg, breaking it. It was near where you saw a patient yesterday. You better be careful in that neighborhood.”
“That’s strange,” said Nijo. “It’s such a quiet community.” She began to cook breakfast and quickly forgot about the article.
Over the next few weeks, Nijo used her Mejocuthru powers on patients whose lives were so full, yet were racked by pain and the specter of death. Every time she practiced this ancient right she blacked-out. Blacking out was the side effect she associated with her healing.
Then the event occurred that would change her life forever. She had a patient, a young woman of thirty, pregnant with twins and found to have colon cancer. She needed chemotherapy, and without it, would surely die. But the therapy would destroy the twins. Nijo was assigned the case. Her patient, Julie, refused the chemo.
“I could not go on with my life if it would cost the lives of my babies,” she told Nijo.
Nijo could feel the stress Julie and her husband, Jonathan, were under. She kept her powers in check, hoping for some miracle, until she realized she was their only hope. The tingling had also begun, more intense than ever before.
Then one day she went to visit Julie and could tell the end was near, probably in a matter of hours. Nijo felt a compassion she could not overcome. She needed to do something to save this young family. She needed to use her powers. Sitting next to Julie, she put one hand on the woman’s head and one on her belly, while she recited the Mejocuthru chant. Feeling a power she had never experienced, she continued to chant with a voice that soon filled the house.
Jonathan became concerned and entered the bedroom. He found Julie sitting up in bed, resting against the pillows and smiling as she clutched her belly. He next gazed at Nijo. She had a vacant stare, walked past him and left the house.
Nijo had used the full force of her powers. She remained in a trance for months after the healing. Little did she realize that the consequence of using so much power would destroy her life and that of her family.
When Nijo returned home after the healing, neighbors reported hearing ungodly screams coming from the home and called the police. They arrived, but it was too late. Nijo sat amid the carnage that was once her family. Veteran officers were sickened by what they saw. After a short trial, Nijo was committed to an insane asylum. This was where she returned from her blackout.
* * *
There was a recent nursing graduate, Debbie, who was assigned to Nijo’s wing in the asylum. Being new, she had not yet developed the thick skin necessary to deal with some of the patients. She had been told to never talk to this particular patient, told she was too dangerous. One night she approached the cell with dinner, and instead of just leaving it, said, “Here’s dinner,” out of force of habit.
Nijo ran to the door. No one ever spoke to her. “Thank you,” Nijo replied.
Debbie said, “I was told not to talk to you. I’m sorry,” then turned to leave.
“I’m not insane,” answered Nijo, “just confused. I’ve been confused for a long time.”
“Why are you here?” asked Debbie.
“I’m not sure, but you are the first nurse that has talked to me. I have a special healing power and am no longer allowed to use it.”
“What sort of power?”
“There is a chant I know that can cure anything you wish to cure. It may cause you to blackout, but it would be a waste to have it die with me. Could I tell you about it?”
Debbie listened to Nijo’s story about the old Chinese woman and the chant she learned. She then asked, “Could you teach me how to use this power? I want to help the sick, that’s why I’m a nurse.”
Nijo leaned close to the small opening in the door of her cell and revealed to Debbie the chant. Debbie immediately felt a tingling over her entire body. She knew something had happened, and then said, “Thank you, Nijo. I know I can do well with what I feel.”
But Nijo never heard Debbie’s thanks. Her body separated into countless particles yet remained united in their intelligence. Her body became a dark boiling cloud which soon concentrated into an indigo point and disappeared. This was the dark, the evil consumed by the power of the owner to heal. This was the balance. Nijo felt herself drifting, leaving the Earth behind; searching for the next level as she being dissipated in space.
THE END
FICTION SEEKING TRUTH, A FREE HORROR STORY
Fiction Seeking Truth was accepted for publication by Bewildering Stories in July 2008. Of course, this is fiction, but it was inspired by a living author and an incident in his life.
FICTION SEEKING TRUTH
Stewart Kingman was a very successful writer of horror stories.
After an exhausting day of writing, he popped a brew and said to his wife, Talia, “Babe, you know my method for developing a story. I take some glimmer of truth and twist it into a tale of horror. What if some of the unworldly situations I create could exist? People read my books to escape to a world that scares the hell out of them, and they enjoy that world because they can always close the book to escape the horror. What if some of the horror existed outside the book? That’s the reason JAWS was so popular – the book was frightening but possible. You could close the book and jump in the ocean and fiction could suddenly become reality and your ass is shark bait.
“Sure, Dracula had his roots in Vlad the Impaler, but old Vlad was just a weird dude, nothing supernatural, but the public craves the unexplainable, needs it. I think I’m going to take a lesson from my old friend Houdini and look for the truth behind the fiction.”
Kingman was fascinated by the life of Harry Houdini, living a public life spent creating illusions and a private life seeking the truth behind the illusion, performing as an escape artist and at the same time a debunker of charlatans claiming to be able to communicate with the dead. Houdini constantly tried to communicate with his dead mother and his efforts only resulted in exposing one fake after another. As he was dying, he told his wife he would beckon to her from the grave but as far as anyone knew, he never succeeded.
Stewart did not discuss his theory of the truth behind fiction any further with Talia, but she knew that he was doing research on the topic. He had a vast library of folklore he used to give him ideas for his stories. He was now spending a great deal of time rereading some of his favorite volumes.
He decided to post a message on his website saying, has anyone had an experience that they feel defies natural law? This opened the floodgates.
“What a bunch of nonesense,” he said as he scrolled through his email.
The message he was searching for arrived late that spring.
Dear Mr. Kingman,
I read the question on your website – about having a strange experience. My life has changed since I had a brush with the hereafter. I can’t explain it, but I seem to be able to control the future. I’m not a nut. I just thought I’d respond to your question.
Yours truly,
Frank Talbot
Kingman emailed Talbot requesting more detail. A few days later Talbot replied.
Dear Mr. Kingman,
It took me a long time to sit down and write this letter. On one hand, I can’t believe I’m corresponding with you, on the other hand, you’ll think I’m nuts.
I’m a lineman in Massachusetts and last winter we had the ice storm from hell. I was up on a pole, after working I don’t know how many hours, when I wasn’t careful and touched a live wire. My work crew told the rest of the details to me. They lowered me from the pole and I wasn’t breathing. They took turns doing CPR and got me going again. The ambulance came, and on the way to the hospital I tried to leave this world again. The ambulance driver gave me a jolt with the defibrillator, and I returned to the living once more.
Now comes the weird part that you might not believe but I swear it’s true.
I was off from work for a couple of weeks, and it’s during this time that strange things began to happen. I was sitting in the living room thinking about my kid brother who’s in the army stationed in Iraq and how great it would be to see him. I blacked out for a minute or two after thinking about my brother. That’s when the TV suddenly came on. On the TV was a news special and the guy reading the news looked like living death, definitely a strange looking dude. Then this guy on the TV, looking like an extra from Dawn of the Living Dead says the 85th armor division is coming home – my brother’s outfit. The screen then went blank.
A month later, my brother came home.
Here’s the really creepy part; the TV wasn’t plugged in. So now you’re sure I’m nuts, but I swear it’s the truth. It’s happened a few times since. I think about something, black out as I’m sitting in front of the TV when Mr. Death Warmed Over comes on the air and makes an announcement, making my thoughts reality. I don’t know where the broadcasts come from and I don’t know how the TV got unplugged. Maybe I had some sort of seizure and unplugged it before the broadcast began. I don’t know.
Anyway, I’ve included my telephone number if you want to call me.
Yours truly,
Frank Talbot
Kingman reread the email. It had a different feeling than all the other he received. Here was an ordinary guy, not full of self-importance, who could not explain what was happening to him. He decided to give Talbot a call.
“Hello, Frank Talbot here.”
“Mr. Talbot, this is Stewart Kingman. I’m intrigued by your experience. I’d like to meet with you and talk about the phenomenon you describe.”
There was a pause, and then Talbot said, “I guess that would be okay, Mr. Kingman.” Talbot gave directions to his house and set up a date for Kingman to come see him. After he hung up, he wondered if Kingman would really believe him; then a smile crossed his lips.
On a pleasant May morning, Kingman set out for Frank Talbot’s house. He drove onto I-95 planning to take the interstate into Massachusetts. The traffic was unusually light, and as he approached the Massachusetts boarder, Kingman found that the only vehicle other than his was a tractor-trailer hauling a sailboat, shrink – wrapped in blue plastic down the highway in front of him.
Kingman had the cruise control set on his SUV and the tunes playing. He was slightly daydreaming when the daydream became a nightmare. The sailboat somehow fell off the trailer and was pin wheeling down the highway heading straight for him. The weight of the rudder caused the boat to spin faster and faster. What followed was pure luck. He swerved to the far-left lane of the three-lane highway with the spinning boat rapidly approaching him. When he was sure he was going to die, the mast swept over his SUV inches above the roof. If the boat had been a little smaller and the mast closer to the ground as the boat lay on its side, he would have become a giant Kingman kabob. He pulled onto the shoulder and sat there until his shaking hands could again grip the steering wheel. The rest of the trip was uneventful.
He found Talbot’s house without much trouble and pulled into the driveway of a modest ranch. He was about to knock when the door opened and there stood Frank Talbot, an average looking guy about thirty years of age. Before Kingman could say hello, Talbot said, “Glad the sailboat missed you.” This caught Kingman totally by surprise.
“How in the hell did you know about the boat?” but Kingman instantly knew the answer to his own question. “You saw it on TV.”
Talbot replied, “I had to find a way to convince you that what I was experiencing was real. I thought that the encounter with the sailboat would get your attention. I caught Mr. Death’s broadcast just before you pulled into my driveway.”
“You definitely got my attention. I nearly messed my pants,” Kingman said. The two men then sat and talked for hours, and when Kingman left he already had the outline for a book, deciding it would be fiction but with an introduction dealing with the fact behind the fiction. Kingman began writing.
It was late summer, and the writing was progressing well. Kingman loved walking the country roads near his property. On an August evening, he set out walking and thinking of the day’s writing and what he would put down on paper next. He never heard the approaching van.
Kingman awoke in the hospital with more pain than he had ever experienced in his life. A young doctor told him of his multiple fractures but reassured him that he would walk again. The doctor also told him that his heart had stopped twice in the ambulance due to the trauma his body had endured. “They defibrillated you,” the doctor said.
Kingman’s recovery took a long time and rehabilitation was painful. Shortly after the accident he learned that the driver of the van, already cited twice for reckless driving, blamed Kingman for the accident. He said that Kingman shouldn’t have been walking on the road. Kingman felt a rage he had never felt before. His pain was excruciating. The painkillers destroyed his writing. He spent hours just dwelling on the accident, the insane accusations of the van driver and how the whole thing had changed his life.
Fall arrived, the changing leaves brightened the countryside, and Kingman took his first steps with the use of two canes. Every step delivered agony, but now he knew he would walk again. He hated the driver that struck him but suppressed it as he tried to overcome the pain and hoped he could be able to write soon.
The trees were now bare; fall was setting the landscape for winter. Kingman still could not write. He would spend hours thinking of plots and characters, but when he sat down to put words to paper, nothing would come.
Late one afternoon, as the shadows lengthened, Kingman sat alone in his family room – thinking. A short walk had left him exhausted, and his legs were screaming with pain. Suddenly, the TV lit the room. On the screen, an announcer looking near death related the news of a suicide and produced a picture. It was a picture of the driver that struck him. Kingman glanced at the TV’s plug and a slight smile crossed his lips.
THE END
UNHOLY GROUND, A GHOST STORY
This is a ghost story with a few twists I hope you enjoy. It is reproduced here, with some minor editing, as it was accepted for publication by Books To Go Now in February 2011.
Unholy Ground
Walt Trizna
Copyright 2011-Books to Go Now
For information on the cover illustration and design, contact bookstogonow@gmail.com
First eBook Edition –January 2011
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without momentary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.
UNHOLY GROUND
Zeke Young
Shaking his head, John Taylor said to newcomer Zeke Young, “I wouldn’t build on this land if I was you.”
Zeke was a lean man, his face weathered from years of working someone else’s property. Now he would have a farm of his own. The year was 1754, early spring, and the men were standing deep in the western Pennsylvania woods. Zeke was not a man to be easily dissuaded. He fixed John Taylor with a hard stare, and asked, “Why would you say that?”
“Heard tell of strange things happening here on this land at night. People have seen a kind of glow in the trees, a moving glow. Them that seen the glow heard ungodly sounds too. Like a kind of moaning. People say this place is damned.
“Even the savages that live in these parts avoid this ground. They say it’s cursed, always has been. They speak of the Ancients, a tribe of demons that live here underground. These devils come to the surface to take those that violate their land. The Indians avoid this area like the plague. I would steer clear of it too if I was you.”
Zeke Young responded, “Sounds like just the place I’m looking for. Snooping neighbors and Indian raiding parties will pass me by. I recon, in the wilderness, a man needs help to survive, but I like my privacy. I’ll offer help when asked, but I’ll not pass the time of day in idle talk. Indians, I can do without.”
John Taylor warned again, “Don’t take it so lightly, Zeke. I tell you the Indians say there are devils living in this here ground. They say that sometimes if you put your ear to the ground, you can here the devils moan. I wouldn’t settle my family in this place.”
“You might not,” Zeke said, “but I sure as hell will.”
* * *
Zeke, his wife Martha, and two sons – Jake age eight and Thomas age twelve – cleared the land. Martha, five years younger than Zeke, had a rugged beauty. Her sons were the image of their father. As they worked the homestead they did, in fact, hear strange sounds. In the depths of the woods there were sounds of unknown origin magnified by the quiet. Sounds that would set the hair on the back of your neck standing, but of course the noise had to be natural, and the source someday discovered.
But Zeke had also seen strange apparitions in the woods. He chose not to tell his family of the ghostly figures he caught glimpses of at night amongst the trees. Once, just before retiring, he left the tent the Youngs were now calling home and set out [DJR3] to ensure that all was secured for the night. In the distance he saw one of the ghostly figures wandering among the trees. Suddenly, the figure jumped into the air and ascended toward the canopy of the forest. As he made his way back to the tent, Zeke found he was bathed in a cold sweat. John Taylor’s warning echoed in his brain.
While constructing his barn, another ominous sign brought to the surface Zeke’s realization that all was not right with this land.
Zeke marked out the placement of the barn. Before the barn was built, he would dig the root cellar. Most mornings found Zeke digging, but one day he changed his routine. It was after supper when he told his wife, “Martha, the root cellar is almost done. I’m going to finish it tonight and then tomorrow I’ll start getting help to build the barn.”
The forest was strangely quiet as Zeke approached the area where the barn would stand. He climbed into the hole that was to be the root cellar and began to dig. As the shadows of the trees lengthened and the sun dipped below the hills, Zeke became unusually anxious. With darkness came a heavy fog shrouding the forest with a ghostly haze. His fears grew until he could no longer work. He gathered up his tools and began walking back to the tent when he happened to glance back to the root cellar pit. An eerie red glow filtered through the trees from the hole and something moved within the misty crimson light.
Men from the area helped Zeke raise his barn. The Young family now lived in it while a house was constructed. With the barn in place the family could now work to establish a farm in this hostile environment. Food would be grown and their future more secure. The barn was a two-story structure with a loft to store hay and three stalls on each side of the main level. The root cellar was under the rear of the barn. It provided storage and a hiding place in case of an Indian attack. But John Taylor was right; Indians steered clear of Zeke’s land. Jake and Thomas made their bed in the rear of the barn while Zeke and Martha slept near the stalls up front.
It was mid-summer when Zeke made a major purchase in establishing his farm. He called out as he approached his property, “Martha, boys, come see the new member of our family. Zeke led a roan mare toward the barn. The boys were excited at the prospect of a horse to ride, until Zeke said, “This mare will make the farm more productive and release the boys to do more chores. Hopefully, she will also fill some of these empty stalls with her foals.”
As Zeke approached the entrance to the barn the horse reared, a wild look in her eyes replaced the calm demeanor she had exhibited up until then. He tried for all his worth but could not get the horse to enter the structure. In frustration he tied the frightened animal to a tree and let her graze.
That night Martha told Zeke, “At times I feel a strange presence in the barn, like I’m being watched.”
“Nonsense,” said Zeke, “now get to sleep.” The confidence in his voice belied the growing fear in his heart.
* * *
Months later, John Taylor saw Zeke working in his fields preparing for fall planting. He decided to stop and see how his neighbor was doing. “How’s it going, Zeke?”
The sight of Taylor caused Zeke to recall the man’s warning which he had to admit was constantly on his mind. Zeke did not want to reveal the strange occurrences on his land. He pulled his horse to a stop and laid down his plow. “Going well enough, John. The only problem is this damn horse. She won’t go into the barn. I’ve tried everything but she stays outside, even in the rain. I figure when the weather turns cold, she’ll smarten up.”
Taylor asked, “Notice anything strange on your property?”
“Can’t say I have,” answered Zeke, already thinking that he had said too much. “Sure, there’s the occasional strange sound but when you’re deep in the woods and all’s quiet, lots of normal sounds seem strange.” Zeke kept his sinister observations to himself. He feared the ridicule and scorn his fears might provoke.
Taylor nodded in agreement. “You’re right there, Zeke. Spent some time camping in the deep woods myself. Heard some weird things.
“That sure is a fine-looking barn you got, Zeke. Going to start the house soon?”
“The farm’s keeping me pretty busy right now. Reckon I’ll start the house after fall harvest.”
The two men said their good-byes.
John Taylor never saw Zeke Young again.
* * *
Jake approached his mother one afternoon as she was preparing dinner. He wanted to talk to her before his father came home, sure that his father would call him a baby for the fears that were on his mind. “Mom, can’t I sleep toward the front of the barn with you and dad?”
Martha looked at her youngest. She knew how little Zeke would enjoy company in their bed. He wanted more sons to work the land and Jake’s presence wouldn’t help in that matter. “What is wrong with the back of the barn, Jake?”
Jake struggled with what he wanted to say. Finally, in a quiet voice he said, “I’m afraid when I’m back there at night.”
Martha knew Jake had a vivid imagination. “There’s nothing to be frightened about, Jake. You have your brother for company. Nothing will harm you.”
Jake struggled again to explain his fear. “There are people in the root cellar.”
Now Martha was sure the problem was Jake’s imagination. “You saw people in the root cellar?”
“I didn’t see them, Mom. I heard them. They said they were coming and that I was on their land.”
She could see that Jake was trembling and wanted to comfort him. She hugged him, but at the same time knew that Zeke would not tolerate talk like this. “It’s just your imagination, Jake. You’ll have to sleep in the back of the barn with Thomas. We’ll talk tomorrow if you are still worried.”
That night, before going to bed, Martha said, “Zeke, Jake is afraid to sleep in the barn. Maybe we could let him sleep in the tent?”
Zeke suddenly became angry, “Damn it, woman. There’s nothing wrong with this barn. I’ll make no allowances for Jake.”
Zeke seemed so on edge lately. Martha decided to drop the subject – for now.
* * *
That night Jake heard the voices again, but they had now grown louder. Unable to sleep, he waited for them to begin moaning and calling to him.
“Come join us,” shouted the haunting voices.
There was a new horror this night. The outline of the door of the root cellar took on a blood-red glow, as if the entrance of hell had opened up beneath the barn.
Jake screamed, “Thomas, Thomas, wake up!”
Thomas stirred from a sound sleep. “Quiet, Jake!” What is wrong with you?” he shouted. But his eyes and ears quickly determined the source of Jake’s fear. He heard malevolent voices and saw the glow coming from the cellar door.
Before the boys’ unbelieving eyes, the seam along the double doors brightened as they were lifted from below. The slow creak of the doors intensified as the barn began to fill with the eerie light ushering up from the root cellar. Long, sinewy arms slowly parted the double doors. A ghastly face of gray-green flesh came into view. The two boys screamed for all they were worth. Zeke and Martha came running toward the rear of the barn seeing the glow and fearing that the barn was on fire. They stopped dead in their tracks and confronted the horrible visage of the monster rising from the root cellar.
“Boys, come to me!” shouted Martha.
The family huddled together near the stalls, unable to take their eyes off the demon rising from the cellar. The horror now stood in the barn. It smiled, revealing pointed teeth, and spoke. “You have violated the ground of the Ancients. For this you shall spend eternity guarding the entrance to our domain.”
Suddenly, a host of ethereal figures emerged from the cellar. They flew to the heights of the rafters and descended upon the family. One by one the spirits penetrated each member. As the spirit emerged, the victim fell; their bodies grew indistinct and then disappeared as the phantom they now were shown with intense light. Zeke was the last to fall victim to the spirits. His last earthly thoughts were the warnings and signs he refused to heed.
The Young family flew among the rafters, then into the cellar to begin their eternal vigil.
* * *
John Taylor woke during the night to make his water. His eyes were drawn in the direction of Zeke’s place. A small hill stood between the two properties and beyond the hill a red glow filled the sky. John was sure that Zeke’s barn was ablaze. But as he watched, the glow diminished, and then disappeared. No need to go to the Young place tonight, he thought. Tomorrow he would visit Zeke to ask him about the light and make sure there was no problem.
* * *
The sentries posted by the Indians living in the area observed the red glow in the distance and woke the elder of the tribe. He came out of his lodge and looked to where the sentries pointed. His weary eyes saw the distant glow. Shaking his head, he said, “The Ancients are awake and walk the Earth. They have claimed new victims to protect their sacred ground. We must hold council and speak of this matter.”
* * *
The following morning John Taylor paid a call to Zeke Young’s place. As he approached the barn, he was relieved to see that it stood undamaged. He was sure he would find some member of the family within and knocked on the closed door.
There was no reply.
John slowly opened the door, hoping to find no sign of tragedy. The barn was empty save for a heavy sulfurous odor. John left the barn and called out Zeke’s name, still no response. He walked Zeke’s fields and was unable to find him or any member of his family. The four had vanished without a trace. The roan, still tied to a tree, was dead with her eyes wide open, a mask of fear and agony.
* * *
Two sentries from the tribe were sent to observe the white man’s barn built on unholy ground. The usually brave warriors were terrified. They knew this was land possessed by demons. On the second night of their vigil, they saw four images, glowing with an unholy light, emerge from the structure. Then, before the sentries’ startled eyes, the two adult figures took flight and came towards the cowering Indians who fled for their lives.
No further braves were dispatched to this blasphemous ground.
* * *
John Taylor’s son, Simon, age eight, heard his father tell his mother of the mysterious disappearance of the Young family. “They are simply gone. They left behind everything. All their tools, clothes – everything is still in the barn.”
Simon had spent some time in the Young’s barn playing with Jake. He remembered a ball that Jake had. I wonder if that ball is still there, Simon thought. His excitement over finding the ball overshadowed any bad feelings he had for the disappearance of his friend. He decided that that night he would sneak out of his room and visit the barn.
It was two in the morning when Simon climbed through his window and headed for the Young homestead. The full moon made finding his way easy. As he came within sight of the barn Simon realized that his father had been mistaken. There, before the barn, stood Zeke Young. Zeke studied his property, and then suddenly focused on the spot where Simon stood. Simon noticed that Zeke appeared to glow, brighter than the moonlit countryside. Then Zeke jumped into the air and began to fly directly at Simon. The boy screamed and ran for all he was worth, stumbling over bramble and bushes, daring not to look back. After running a good distance, he finally found the courage to look in the direction of the barn. There, hovering above the building was the glowing specter. Simon never set foot on that property again.
Chris Walters
Zeke Young’s barn stood as a sentinel in the dense forest for two hundred years, pristine, untouched by time or the elements. Over the years there had been disappearances of those who thought the haunted barn a legend and chose to investigate. It had been one hundred years since the demons occupying the unholy ground claimed their last victim. The stories of the property became myths, part of the legend of the area, one that none of the locals dared test.
Development had yet to march through these rolling hills of Pennsylvania, leaving the countryside spotted with farms and stands of virgin forest. The surrounding communities shared the legend of the barn from generation to generation. There was talk of mysterious light and phantoms flying through the sky. Each generation produced boys seeking to test the legend and dare each other to visit the barn. Those that made the pilgrimage experienced a strange presence as they approached the structure. And no matter how brave and daring they felt before they reached the site, none would walk up to the barn, and they never ventured there after dark. The barn was left alone for years, that is, until Chris Walters moved into a neighboring farm community with his family.
* * *
Chris Walters, fourteen, was a recent arrival to the rural town of Pinebrook. His dad, Bob, and mom, Rachel, were originally from the area. Shortly after they were married, they decided to move to Philadelphia and start a new life. They created a new life; his name was Chris. In the meantime, their dreams of a life in the city were in shambles. They both had high school degrees but found their education lacking and the city unforgiving. Bob stumbled from one job to another. And being the most recent hire, whenever there was a layoff, he was the first to go.
Rachel found work as a secretary, until Chris came along, then the cost of daycare was more than she earned, so she quit her job and became a stay-at-home mom.
Then Bob’s father died unexpectedly.
After Bob received the news, he sat with Rachel in their tiny kitchen and discussed their future. “You know, Rach,” Bob said as he put down his coffee cup, “we’re not living the life I thought we would. I’ve got to be honest. We’re not making it here.”
Rachel responded, “You are your dad’s only living relative. His farm will go to you. With the money we should get for it, we could build that better life.”
“Rachel, the money won’t last long. Then we’d be back to where we are now. I don’t want to sell the farm. I want to work it. The land is good, and I helped my dad enough years that I could manage it and make it pay.”
There were many more discussions about their future, and gradually Rachel weakened. In reality, she was not all that fond of Philadelphia. And Bob was right. The money would not mean much of a change to their long-term future in the city. The more they talked, the more she discovered how much she missed her family and friends. One night, as they lay next to each other, Rachel said, “It’s hard to admit defeat, but maybe we should move back to Pinebrook. I think the move would do us good and it would be good for Chris too. He’s been spending time with some bad company lately and I don’t like the direction he’s heading.”
Bob smiled at his wife, and then caressed her. “We’ll tell Chris in the morning,” Bob said.
They made love as a full moon illuminated the bedroom.
* * *
“Bullshit,” Chris screamed when his parents told him of their plan to move to the country. “Philadelphia is my home. I don’t want to live with a bunch of hayseeds that get their kicks watching corn grow or whatever the hell they grow out there.”
Chris was tall and lean with a shock of red hair and a face full of freckles. He resembled his dad and had his dad’s forward manner. Bob was irritated at how much his son was like him, especially in ways he wanted to change in himself.
“Now listen here,” Bob said. “The decision is made, so you might as well accept it. And watch your language. The attitude you’ve taken lately is one of the reasons we made this decision.
“And furthermore, I’d rather see you keep company with hayseeds than those hoodlums you call your friends. I did not enjoy picking you up at the police station after you and your friends were caught spraying graffiti on that old warehouse.”
Chris said sarcastically, “We were just being artistic.”
“Well son, your form of art is considered vandalism. No two ways about it. We’re moving to Pinebrook to make a new start.”
Chris grumbled up to, during and after the move was completed. His attitude improved when he met Junior Dawson. Junior had a talent for getting into trouble and nothing scared him. Well, almost nothing.
* * *
In his fifteen years, Junior Dawson had never strayed far from Pinebrook. For vacations, his family would seek out campgrounds in nearby Pennsylvania state parks. He seldom visited a big city. When Chris moved to Pinebrook, he brought Junior a window to a world he barely knew.
Junior liked Chris’ swagger, his whole attitude. No one in Pinebrook had an attitude, that is if you didn’t count old-man Alexander, who was perpetually pissed off. In Pinebrook there was no reason to have an attitude. People just lived their lives and accepted what came their way.
The two boys were neighbors, but with the size of the farms, their houses were not within sight of one another. Although they were in different classes at school, they became fast friends. One lazy Saturday afternoon, Chris asked Junior, “What do you do for kicks around this place?”
“Oh, we hike and fish. And when it gets warm, we swim in the lake.”
“Shit, John-Boy, I’m talking fun, not Boy Scout camp.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Junior replied. “There’s not much to do around here.”
“No shit,” answered Chris.
“Listen, when I lived in the city, me and some of my pals used to get cans of spray paint and decorate the walls of some vacant and not so vacant buildings. Then you could walk by anytime you wanted and look at your artwork.”
Junior said, “I know what graffiti is but what are you going to paint around her’, the trees? All the farms are busy places. You can’t even sneak up on them at night for all the dogs. There aren’t any vacant buildings except… ‘
“Except what?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit! Except what?”
“Well, there’s this old barn. Sits all by itself in the middle of the woods about a mile or so from here. People around here don’t talk about it much. It’s a strange place. I’ve been to it once and don’t want to go back there again.”
“Man, it sounds perfect. What could be so strange about an old barn in the middle of nowhere? I bet it’s just screaming for a paint job.”
“No, it’s not, Chris. Believe me, it’s not. No one knows how old the barn is, but it looks like it was built yesterday. And although no one tends to it, the forest just grows up to about twenty feet from the barn and stops.”
“Oh, that sounds scary,” Chris said with all the sarcasm he could muster.
Junior said, “I’ve been there once, with a couple of friends during the day. The place gave me the creeps; a strange feeling like someone was watching me. Like someone was about to yell at me. We all high-tailed it outa there. We all felt the same thing and it didn’t feel good.”
“Now you’re really getting me scared, Junior. There’s an old, abandoned barn in the middle of the woods that everyone around here is afraid to visit. Shit, it sounds perfect. We can paint to our heart’s content, and no one will ever disturb our work. Maybe we could make it into a kind of clubhouse, a kind of drinking and smoking clubhouse.
“I don’t think it’s such a good idea, Chris,” Junior said.
“I do. Let’s go.”
After more arguing, Junior finally gave in. The boys headed down the dirt road that separated their properties. Fields of wheat and corn bordered the road, with an occasional stand of trees. The air was full of the smell of a country afternoon and insects, which the boys would swat away. Once past their farms, Junior slowed and began looking for a trail that would lead off to the right. He finally found what he was looking for.
“Here’s the trail to the barn.”
“You call that a trail.”
“I told you no one comes out here. We shouldn’t be here either.”
“Don’t pussy-out on me now, Junior. Take me to your scary barn.”
Following the path was not easy.
“I can’t believe how dense this forest is.” said Chris.
“You want to turn back?”
Chris shoved Junior in the back and said, “Keep going.”
They walked for half an hour, crossing streams and glancing up at the giant canopy of trees blocking the sky. If anything, the trees became denser as they walked making the going extremely difficult.
“Oh, Junior, this place is so scary even the bugs won’t come here,” Chris said.
This only added to Junior’s fears because the bugs really were gone.
Suddenly, up ahead there appeared a clearing. In the middle of the clearing stood a barn, painted white. The doors and shutters surrounding the window of the loft were painted black and closed.
“You are sure this barn is old, Junior? It looks brand new.”
“I told you this was a strange place. And I’m sure it’s old. My grandpa said his grandpa told him about it.”
Chris immediately observed how clear the area was around the building, and asked, “Who keeps the area around the barn free of trees?”
“No one,” answered Junior. “I told you. It just stays clear on its own.”
The boys stood at the edge of the trees.
“Can you feel it, Chris? Like we’re being watched. Like we’re not alone.”
Looking off, Chris pointed to a figure emerging from behind the barn and said, “We’re not alone.”
Old-man Alexander
“Get the hell out of here,” came a shout.
“Shit,” said Junior. “It’s old-man Alexander.”
“What the hell is he doing here? I thought this place was sooo scary.”
“I don’t know,” said Junior. “Let’s get out of here.”
Chris replied, “This is turning into a regular convention. I want to know what he’s doing out here.”
The old man stumbled toward the boys dressed in his standard uniform. Years ago, the sweatshirt he wore had been gray; now it was a mottled camouflage of grime. His worn stained bib overalls completed the outfit. As he approached, he took sips from a large bottle. The boys could see that his eyes were glazed, and they could smell the alcohol on his breath as he weaved toward them.
“I said what the hell are you doing here?”
“What the hell are you doing here?” asked Chris.
This stopped the old man; his withered face formed a grizzled smile. Swaying, he said, “I like places where no one else is. I likes my privacy, my drinking privacy.”
* * *
As a teenager, Kermit Alexander had few friends. He was a loner, kept to himself and was already making his way down the road to alcoholism. He was sometimes teased, “Go out to that old barn in the woods. No one will bother you there.”
That’s what he decided to do. He had heard strange stories about the barn. None of which he believed. Kermit decided to trek out there and check things out for himself.
He had trouble finding the structure. He eventually stumbled into a clearing and there it stood, looking like it had just been built. As soon as he entered the clearing, he felt strange, frightened. He couldn’t figure out why. Kermit’s fear became so intense he ran back into the trees. “Shit,” he said to himself, “What the hell is wrong with me?”
Kermit had recently developed a taste for wine. “Next time, I’ll fortify myself on the way through the woods.”
From then on, during his journeys to the barn, his fear was replaced by numbness, a numbness he would maintain for the rest of his life.
* * *
Aren’t you afraid to be out here alone?” asked Junior. “Doesn’t this place give you the creeps?”
“Nope,” said Alexander. He held up his bottle and said, “I bring along my courage.” The old man mellowed as he began to talk about his past to the boys.
“Started coming out here when I was about you boys’ age. Matter of fact started drinking about that time too. First couple of times I come out here I was sort of scared; don’t honestly know why. Then I started priming the pump as I walked through the woods. By the time I reached the clearing, I wasn’t scared of nothin’. ‘Cept one time had a little too much courage. Fell asleep. Voices woke me up.”
“What voices?” asked the boys in unison.
“Don’t rightly know. It was near dusk. The voices were coming from the barn, strange voices. They were calling me. Got my ass out of there fast. Never stayed late again.”
Chris asked, “Sure you weren’t hearing things, old man?”
“Don’t shit with me, punk. I know the stories about this place. Damn barn sits on unholy ground, Injun ground. No one comes out here at night no matter how much courage they had.”
“Let’s go home,” said Junior. “I’ve still got chores to do.”
The boys turned and left. Behind them, they could hear old-man Alexander laughing.
Once they were deep into the forest, Junior remarked, “I told you that was a scary place.”
“Right,” Chris said sarcastically. He was pissed that the old man was laughing as they left. It only made him more determined to revisit the barn. Chris could not get those pristine white walls out of his mind. Those walls were just screaming to him to be decorated. And now that he knew they were protected during the day, so daytime visits were out. He also knew that no one would be there at night.
“What do you say we visit the barn at night?” Chris asked Junior.
“Are you crazy? I’m not going there at night!”
“You’re going to let the stories of an old drunk scare you? Didn’t you hear how he was laughing? He was laughing because he thinks he frightened us away. Let’s check out the barn at night and see what’s really going on inside.”
Junior replied, “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“I do,” said Chris. “I’ll meet you on the dirt road tonight. Bring a flashlight.”
Junior shook his head and turned for home knowing he could not let his friend down.
The Barn
Moonlight illuminated the night. A full moon hovered over the rolling Pennsylvania hills as Chris and Junior snuck out of their houses to carry out Chris’ artistic callings. As Chris made his way down the road, he could see Junior up ahead. Finding the barn by daylight was difficult enough, at night, if Chris was alone, it would be impossible.
“How’s it going, Junior? Ready to do a little painting?”
“I’m telling you, Chris, this is not a good idea.”
Junior could see the determination in his friend’s eyes. Armed with five cans of spray paint and flashlights, they made their way down the dirt road toward the barn.
Initially, the boys let the moonlight guide them. Crickets filled the night with their song, joined by the occasional frog. When they were farther along, they illuminated the forest to their right with their flashlights. Chris knew it would be difficult to find where the path branched off the road. Junior told him, “There are two tall maple trees, one on either side of the path. Keep a lookout for those trees.”
The walk seemed longer than the last time to Chris. Maybe it was the night or maybe it was doing something that Junior and old-man Alexander warned him against.
Junior found the two maples. Now their flashlights have become a necessity. The dense forest blocked the moonlight just as it did the sun. The nighttime forest had an intensified air of mystery, more sinister than during the day. The soft rustlings on either side of the path only served to increase the sense of dread. More than once, Chris considered turning back. But he could not, would not give in to the seeds of fear planted by the locals. As he walked next to Junior, he sensed a tension in the forest, something he had not felt during his daytime visit. He also knew Junior was terrified. At one point his friend was actually whimpering. Then the boys thought they heard distant voices.
“You hear that, Chris? Let’s turn back.”
Chris shoved him in the back. “Keep going,” he said.
Up ahead, Chris saw a moonlit area through the trees. He knew he was approaching the clearing and the barn. The boys stepped out of the forest.
Chris walked up to the barn. Junior hung behind shaking with fear. From his backpack, Chris produced the cans of spray paint and began to deface one side of the wooden structure. He laughed as he painted his name in outlandish letters and added a multitude of designs. The painting went on until the cans ran dry.
He turned to Junior. “Now that is what I call art.”
Junior’s response was, “Let’s get the hell out of here!”
* * *
For the next week all Chris could think about was how great it felt to spread his graffiti over the white walls of the barn. With the image of the three remaining virgin walls in his mind, he decided to purchase more paint and complete the project. He approached Junior and asked, “What do you say we decorate the barn a little more? I’ll let you share bragging rights when we go back to school. I’ll meet you tonight.” Chris turned, not giving Junior a chance to reply.
The boys met on the road. This time the moon was only a sliver and they had to use their flashlights much earlier.
“This will be awesome,” Chris told Junior. He could see his friend shaking with fear while he experienced an adrenaline rush.
The boys made it to the clearing and the barn. Junior elected to remain amongst the trees while Chris approached the barn. “Shit, what the hell?” Chris said. He looked in disbelief. There wasn’t a sign of the painting he had done. The wall of the barn glowed a pristine white.
Then he heard voices coming from within. He could see blood-red light through the joints in the wall. He wanted to confront whoever spoiled his artwork. Something was taking place in the lower confines of the building. Suddenly, the place just didn’t feel right. Chris’ courage dissolved in a need for flight. That’s when his eye caught a figure standing before him where none had been a moment ago.
It was a boy dressed in an odd costume – old fashioned. Even more peculiar was that the boy glowed from within.
“My name is Thomas Young. My family and I have been waiting for a visitor, someone to help us protect this ground”
Junior shouted, “Chris, run!” But Chris was frozen to the spot.
The boy continued, “I welcome you to the land of the Ancients. You have angered them, and it is with them that you will dwell forever.”
The glowing youth stepped closer. Soon the boys stood face to face. As Chris stood stark still, the boy took another step and went through Chris. He suddenly felt cold; falling to the ground he underwent the conversion to a sentry of the Ancients.
“You are one of us now. You will dwell in this barn and guard the land. To leave this clearing is to enter oblivion.” Thomas turned and walked through the barn wall.
Chris stood alone in the moonlight, unable to comprehend what had happened. He looked toward the welcoming forest, and in an instant, felt the loss of his life and his future, feared the existence that awaited him.
Junior ran back into the forest, never to enter the territory of the Ancients again.
* * *
Junior never told anyone about the incident at the barn, even when the police questioned him about his friend’s disappearance. Never said a word until one day his grandson asked, “Gramps, do you know about the haunted barn?”
THE END
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
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