Posts tagged ‘horror’
THE LAST MAN: A STUDY OF THE IMAGINATION
THE LAST MAN: A STUDY OF THE IMAGINATION
The less said, the more room for interpretation.
I think this is the benefit of a short piece of fiction. A short piece telling a compelling story allows the reader to fill in the blanks. And depending on the reader’s imagination their could be nothing needed to add, or the opportunity to let the imagination run wild and create a memorable story. In fact, creating a story of greater appreciation which the writer did not consider I feel the following short piece goes a great deal towards serving that purpose.
Here are some details, depending on your imagination, that could provide greater enjoyment of this shorter short story.
What event lead to the circumstances of this story?
What would opening the door reveal?
Who is the man in the story and how did he find himself in this situation?
I hope these thoughts and questions have stimulated your interest in reading this short story.
I heard this story sometime ago and do not know who to credit for its creation.
He was the last man on Earth.
There was a knock at the door.
Note: In this day and age man would be replaced by person.7
UNWELCOMED GUESTS: A GHOST STORY
Unwelcomed Guests was accepted for publication by Necrology Shorts in February 2010.
UNWELCOMED GUESTS
Will Trizma was a writer of ghost stories and mined the local countryside for legends and their settings. The area abounded in both. His wife, Joan, acted as his editor and sounding board for his ideas. At times, the only comment she would make is, “You’re sick.”
Not only did he write ghost stories, but he also dreamt of them. One night he conjured a most vivid story; a story from the future. But unlike most of his dreams, he could not remember this tale. The only recollection he had was that it was horrifying.
* * *
It was the evening of August 15, 1949. The time was slightly before ten as a train made its way toward West Chester. There were fifteen souls aboard, counting the crew and passengers on this quiet summer night. The steam locomotive was pushing a caboose and two passenger cars. The weather had been stormy for days and up ahead the foundation of the bridge spanning Ship Road had been undermined by runoff. Jim Purvis, making his last run in a fully loaded fuel truck, slowly crossed the bridge. As he reached the span’s center, it collapsed leaving the truck astraddle the tracks. Jim could not believe he was still alive considering the load he was carrying. Although injured, he managed to climb out of the ravine and go seeking help.
As the train slowly made its way into a depressed section of track, the conductor, Ben Elliot, sat on the caboose’s platform and began filling his pipe thinking about sharing a late dinner with his wife. He looked down to light the pipe, and once achieving a satisfactory burn, he puffed contently and then looked up. The sight before him made his scream, “Holy sh…! He never finished the expletive.
The caboose rammed the truck, followed by the cars. The locomotive cut through the wreck until it reached the truck exploding the gas tank and turning the wreck into a funeral pyre.
* * *
Writing is a lonely profession, and years ago Will sought out a local writer’s group for support and editorial advice. During a Christmas dinner attended by all the writers, Will and Joan suggested a summer party and volunteered to hold it at their house. As the day of the party approached, one spouse or two became sick and others were called away unexpectedly on business.
Will and his wife greeted their guests, their thirteen guests.
Their dog, Millie, a lab mix was her usual excited self with the arrival of every new visitor. Once everyone was there, she settled down and dozed in the sun.
The conversation was lively with all the creative minds present, and as dusk approached, Will was called upon to tell a ghost story. “Not dark enough yet,” he answered.
Dessert was served, and when there was no longer a hint of sunlight, and with the patio bathed in twilight, Will deemed the time right for his tale and went into the house. He returned with candles, one for each table, after extinguishing all the inside lights. “Now we have the right atmosphere,” he said. Will began his story and even Millie appeared interested, her eyes reflecting the candlelight.
The weather had been rainy the last few days, and at ten as he began to read, Will noticed a mist had begun coming out of the gull bordering one side of his property. A few guests had asked him earlier about the gully and he answered that it had once harbored a railroad track.
The mist became denser and soon overtook the yard along with the guests. One by one they all fell asleep, including Millie. As the wall of fog enveloped all present, fifteen human shapes began to form. The specters slowly made their way to the dozing, and one by one, entered their bodies.
The next morning, they awoke from their deep sleep and knowingly smiled at one another. Ben Elliot looked around, and Will’s eyes filled with tears. “We’ve waited sixty years for this moment.”
Millie awoke and growled. She knew there was something terribly wrong with her master.
THE END
PREDICTIONS OF THE PAST AND FUTURE
MY PREDICTION OF THE PAST AND FUTURE IN A SHORT STORY
In the past I have referred to a short story published on my blog, The Superior Species, as a story in which I predicted the past. I have recently stumbled upon another example of that prediction.
I had mentioned that the Neanderthals are now known to have made jewelry, buried their dead and may have been able to speak. I recently finished reading a fantastic book, Embers of the Hands by Eleanor Barraclough, discussing the life of the Vikings. In describing different aspects of their life, she delves into the musical instruments they used. One of the instruments she dealt with is the flute. During that discussion she mentioned the oldest flute discovered, made of bone, to be perhaps 50,000 years old. She contributes its manufacture to perhaps the Neanderthals. This would indicate that they had knowledge and appreciation of music. Add more evidence of my predicting the intelligence of the Neanderthals.
It also appears that I may have predicted the future in this story as well. In a recent article in The New Yorker concerning the cloning of the dire-wolf pups it is mentioned that there may be a plan to clone a Neanderthal. Cloning a Neanderthal is the central theme of my short story The Superior Species.
Personally, I hope that is all I have predicted in my stories. To have any of the events in my horror or science fiction stories come to fruition would cause society major problems. Our current society has enough problems without my contributing more.
My next post will discuss my short story, The Universe in Balance. As I said above, if this story contains a prediction, we’re in real trouble
MY LATEST PUBLISHED STORY
MY STORY, PETS, PUBLISHED IN THE CORNER BAR
As I mentioned in my post on April 7th, The Corner Bar had accepted my short story, Pets, for publication. It has now appeared and here is a link to the sto
“PETS” by WALT TRIZNA
Copyright 2025 Walt Trizna
Ronald Corey was a mean son of a bitch. His foul nature increased over years of personal disappointment. His life was now going nowhere. His anger was relentless since his wife had walked out the door. Just about everything that breathed hated him and he returned the favor. Turns out, there would also be some beings which didn’t breathe would share that hate. Tall, overweight, a monster of a man in size and personality, he had a rim of graying brown hair bordering his bald head. At 49, Corey was ten years older than his departed wife. He was educated, with an associate degree in engineering but held firmly to his blue-collar upbringing. Unfortunately, he did not hold firmly to employment. His favorite response to management ‘Go fuck yourself,’ resulted in rapid and direct membership to the ranks of the unemployed. His wife, June, was a complete opposite of Corey. Highly educated, holding multiple degrees, she was petite with dark hair and eyes so blue they merited a double take by the observer. Their temperament was also at opposite poles. How they became attracted to each other, never mind married, was a mystery to all who knew them, and eventually became a mystery to June too. June was aware that Corey drank and came to consider it to be just part of his makeup. When not drinking he was different, loving and kind. But once they married his drinking increased, being loving and kind flew out the window. Then came the start of physical abuse. June finally saw the handwriting on the wall, and what she could not see was knocked into her. Corey desperately wanted her to produce a son, but after one year of marriage, June came to realize that bringing a child into the world with Corey as the father would be a disaster. How would he treat a child when he treated her so terribly? Her imagination reeled and her mind produced images that left her disgusted. While he tried to become a father, June adhered to birth control. Corey would yell, “I don’t understand it. The rest of my family is popping kids left and right. What is wrong with you?” June replied, “Maybe it’s not me. Maybe it’s you. Go get checked.” She knew Corey had a deep-seated fear of doctors, his entire family did. “Why don’t you get checked?” he shouted back. “Fine,” June said. “We’ll go together,” and that was the end of that. Finally, after five years of enduring the hell of their marriage, June had had enough. Sporting a black eye, she began packing. Corey threw his glass of cheap scotch at their closed bedroom door and felt nothing, no loss – no regrets. Experiencing emotions, other than anger, had long ago departed his being. As she turned to leave tears moistened her eyes. Seeing this, Corey was sure she did not have the guts to go. He waited for her determination to wither, was surprised when she 10 Corner Bar Magazine said, “I can’t take the pets. You’ll have to take care of them until I find a place for them.” The pets were now his responsibility, and he despised them – always had. The dog, Molly, a medium size brown and white mixed breed, was an SPCA rescue. Sally and Sam, the result of friends of friends whose cats produced litters, were two grey tabbies who looked identical, although three years of age separated them. After June was gone his drinking increased and the more he drank the more his rage grew needing an outlet, and that outlet became the animals. If one should chance his way, it would receive a kick or powerful slap sending the poor animal sprawling and running for safety. After Corey had enough of their neediness, he looked at the animals and said, “Now to get rid of you little bastards.” But a short-lived moment of sanity filtered into his brain. The entire neighborhood knew about the pets and would become suspicious if they all suddenly disappeared. “Christ, people are going to jail for shit like that,” he said to himself. You see, he did not even consider putting them up for adoption. He only considered death or abandonment. But then he realized the plan to just drive them to some field and leave them was also out. Damn, he couldn’t remember if Molly had one of those new fucking chips im planted. “Damn animals are turning into computers now,” he mumbled. From then on the animals lived in fear of Corey. In time after constant abuse, fear gradually turned into anger, an anger they communicated to one another as only animals can. Poor Molly spent most of her day huddling in her open crate, seeking the false sense of security it provided. If she left the cage, in Corey’s presence, she would suffer a kick sending the dog running back for shelter. The abuse was relentless and soon resulted in a permanent limp, and also something else, a hate which crossed a subtle boundary. There was another bone of contention, the cats’ litter box. The cats, constantly hiding, ventured out only to eat and use the litter box. The abuse they received when hunger or nature called was relentless, journeying to the levels of Molly’s rage. The source of the cats’ abuse was that Corey felt degraded every time he had to scoop up the cat’s waste, as if he was some kind of servant. One day he thought, I’ll show the little bastards and stopped cleaning it. Soon the box was nothing but a huge mass of lumps of congealed urine-soaked litter and cat turds. When the cats began relieving themselves in the vicinity of the box, Corey cursed them to hell and was forced once again to keep it clean. “Fucking cats,” he would mumble every time he had to clean up after them. With his wife gone, Corey stayed drunk most of the time. During this ‘relaxed state,’ in the far reaches of his muddled brain was the realization that he needed to find a job soon. Alone with the pets, that’s how Corey lived, but then his twisted reasoning would replace logic, and he would mumble, “Find a job for what? To feed the damned animals.” Due to the stress of their lives, the behavior of the animals changed from the normal response to a lone master, following that person from room to room to occupy the same space. This was not how life for the pets in the Corey household went. Here they avoided their master and stayed hidden, and Corey liked it that way. And when Corey finally passed out from a day of drinking, they would form a tight group glaring in his di rection and attend to their needs. One day, after one particularly violent attack on the animals, from the corner of his eye he detected movement. In his drunken stupor, he could not tell if he was seeing things or not, the movement was accompanied by a soft rustling sound, as if the softest of materials was being dragged across the floor. Was he now hearing things? Sure, he would find an animal lurking, but all that he saw were piles of pet hair constantly increasing in size and quantity, another by-product of the animals Corey loathed. That was a major problem, the hair. Shortly after June left, Corey noticed small balls of hair accumulating at the edges of the rooms and eventually they appeared over most of the floor. The rest of the house fared just as bad with the sink filled with dishes, a heavy coating of dust on every surface and the refrigerator full of rotting food, but the hair was the filth that maddened Corey the most. June had kept the floors swept and, of course, Corey never appreciated the effort. Now the hair accumulated, it seemed, with a vengeance. If he only knew. Corey swept up the hair every few weeks, filling plastic bags full of the fluff. He would be in an especially bad ‘pet mood’ after completing this chore. One day, after a particularly long time between sweeping up the hair, he had two bags full of waste. He was about to take them out to the trash when his usual anger turned to shock. Piercing the depths of both bags, he saw two glowing points of red resembling glowing cigarettes seen in the night or the last embers of a dying fire. He shook his head, looked away, and when he looked back the glowing points of light were gone. “What the fuck?” he muttered and soon forgot the incident. Corey stretched the hair cleaning, and at the same time, the hair seemed to accumulate at a faster rate, appearing as small tumbleweeds, ready to move with the slightest breeze. After the next cleaning, he had three bags of hair. Corey stooped to pick them up when he stopped. He shook his head to clear his brain because he could not believe his eyes. In each bag, in addition to the two small glowing spheres, there appeared a crimson crescent shaped like a smiling mouth. Corey stepped back and then stumbled forward for another look. The specter in the bags was gone. Weeks later, cleaning yielded four bags of hair. Once the job was completed, Corey cautiously approached the bags and vaguely remembered the previous specter. It was then he beheld a sight filling him with terror. Along with the now glowing eyes, the smiling crescent reappeared slightly parted and filled with a vicious set of pointed teeth. The balls of hair began to move within the bags, which was impossible. Soon the bags tipped, spilling their contents on the floor. Ever so slowly, to Corey’s horror, the spheres of hair began to move toward him. Within the fluffy balls there appeared to be a solid presence, a substance where none should exist, as if something unworldly had taken on a physical aspect. Corey backed into the corner of the living room, stumbling over accumulated trash. While their master faced this unknown terror, the pets appeared, Molly, limping from her protective crate, Sally and Sam from beneath beds. Corey’s eyes flicked from the animals, sit ting in a group gazing at him to the slowly creeping maleficent spheres. The closer these hateful entities moved toward Corey, the more at ease the animals seemed to become, as if a great weight were being lifted from their lives. It was then that neighbors heard ungodly screams coming from Corey’s home and called 911. The responding police had to break down the door to gain entrance and were met by a grisly sight that they would never forget, haunting them for the rest of their days. Corey lay – they assumed it was Corey – in the middle of the living room. Where his face had once been was nothing more than a blood-soaked mound of flesh. The rest of his body was horribly mutilated. Once they overcame their initial shock, the cops noticed Molly and the two cats sitting close to the body intently observing it. One officer said to the other, “I wonder if they tried to stop what ever happened.” His partner responded, “Do you think the animals could possibly have do this?” “No way. Look how they are keeping watch over their dead master. They must have loved the guy,” said the other officer.
v 13 Copyright 2025 Walt Trizna Corner Bar Magazine
Here is a link to The Corner Bar
ANOTHER STORY ACCEPTED
ANOTHER STORY ACCEPTED
I recently learned that The Corner Bar has accepted one of my stories to be published in their next issue. I will provide a link when the issue appears. This is my 25th short story to be published.
And publishers out there looking to publish a book of short stories?
ELMO’S INVENTION, CHAPTER 12
ELMO’S INVENTION
CHAPTER 12
THE TINKERER GOES INTO THE FUTURE
Kingsley talked to Elmo on the phone and agreed to come over and view the time machine the next day. The excitement in Elmo’s voice was obvious. “It works! It works!” Elmo repeatedly shouted. Kinsley didn’t have to ask what works.
The following night at 6:00PM sharp Kingsley showed up at the kitchen door, punctual as usual. Mildred had a steaming mug of Earl Grey ready for him.
“Hello, Kingsley. Elmo is so excited to talk to you about his time machine. I’ll be honest with you Kingsley; I think it really does work but what kind of disruption it will cause in our lives I can only imagine. I just want a nice quiet life here in New Mexico.”
Kinsley said, “I’ll do my best to keep the existence of the machine quiet until Elmo and I have thought through the ramifications it might pose.”
Elmo appeared at the top of the cellar stairs and said, “Kingsley come quick. I want to demonstrate my time machine.” Elmo rushed down the stairs so fast that Kingsley was afraid he might miss a step and fall.
“All right, Elmo, I’m coming.” Kingsley looked back at Mildred and she just stood there shaking her head.
Elmo led Kingsley down to the iron lung. “Kingsley, I found a loose wire and after consulting my wiring diagrams, I reattached it. And what do you know; it now works as a time machine.”
“How can you be sure, Elmo?”
“Why, I tested it and journeyed into the future. Now I’d like you to see the future.”
This caught Kingsley by surprise. “I don’t know, Elmo. What happens if it’s only a one-way trip?”
“That won’t happen. I came back. And even if it did, I’m only sending you to tomorrow morning. Trust me, Kingsley.”
That declaration was a huge jump of faith in Kingsley’s mind. Will this device work every time. And what happens if a traveler is caught in the ‘in – between? He respected Elmo’s enthusiasm and love for science but had trouble erasing all doubts of success. But after thinking of the prospect of traveling into the future, Kingsley said, “Okay, Elmo, send me to tomorrow morning, but make sure you bring me back.”
Elmo smiled and said, “Don’t worry. It’s foolproof.”
Kingsley stared at Elmo.
Elmo opened the lid to the iron lung and had Kingsley climb in. Before he closed the lid he said, “First the chamber will fill with a dense mist. That’s normal. When the mist clears. I’d like you to go upstairs, open the kitchen door and pick up the paper. Bring the paper along with you when you get back into the chamber. The return process will begin automatically when you close the lid of the iron lung. You’ll be gone for a total of fifteen minutes.” Elmo closed the chamber and initiated the process. Soon Kingsley was lost in a cloud of mist.
Within the chamber Kingsley could see only the dense white fog which soon dissipated. He climbed out of the chamber and found that Elmo was no longer there. Kingsley climbed the cellar stairs. Just a hint a daylight beginning to lighten the kitchen window. Mildred stood before the stove, spatula in hand, cooking breakfast. Elmo sat at the table and was the first to see Kingsley. Then Mildred saw him. Shocked at Kingsley’s suddenly appearing so early in the morning and greatly confused for she had not seen him enter the house, she asked, “What are you doing here?”
Kingsley sheepishly said, “Getting the paper.” Which made no sense to Mildred. All this time Elmo sat at the kitchen table and had a huge grin on his face. Began quietly laughing. Elmo remembered yesterday.
Kingsley retrieved the paper, smiled, and returned to the cellar leaving a bewildered Mildred and hysterical Elmo. Once in the cellar, he opened the lid of the chamber, climbed in and settled down ready to go back to today or rather yesterday. The return process was initiated, and he was lost in a cloud of mist.
When the mist cleared he opened the lid of the iron lung and there stood Elmo. He helped Kingsley out of the chamber and Elmo was excited to see him holding the newspaper which Elmo opened with great anticipation. There it was. Tomorrow’s date. He slapped Kingsley on the back and said, “Now you’re a time traveler.
This experience presented Kingsley with an eerie feeling of possessing knowledge he should not have. He was once again dwelling in today with knowledge of tomorrow.
Kingsley was lost in wonder at what Elmo had accomplished. He built a machine that, until now, only existed in the realm of science fiction. He said, “Elmo, I’d like to keep this paper. There’s some thinking I must do about your startling device.”
“Sure, keep it”, Elmo said.
Kingsley suggested, “Let’s get together in a day or two and discuss the potential impact your machine may have on everyday life. Think things out. I’m sure you and Mildred do not want any more protests.”
“Sure Kingsley, sure. I’ll see you in a couple days.”
The next morning Elmo absently minded went out the kitchen door to get the paper as Mildred said, “Elmo, you won’t believe it but Kingsley already picked up our paper and went into the cellar. Wait a minute, you should believe it because you were here. I’m so confused.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” said Elmo and smiled broadly, amused by Midred’s confusion. Which under the circumstances was normal. For there had never been circumstances like this before.
THE RELUCTANT ZOMBIE: A SHORT STORY
The Reluctant Zombie is a humorous short story involving a college professor visiting Haiti where he succeeds in getting himself turned into a zombie.
It has been previously published by Blood, Blade & Thruster in their Winter 2006/2007 issue.
THE RELUCTANT ZOMBIE
As Norman stumbled through the dank Haitian swamp, he groaned, “Willard, it seems so unnatural walking around with my arms outstretched, but I can’t put them down. I have an image to uphold.”
Willard, who was also stumbling along shook his head and sighed, “Of course its unnatural, you’re a zombie, damn it – 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 always dressed well. Now he was walking around covered in grim and dressed in rags.
Willard said, “If you didn’t want to be a zombie, you shouldn’t have runover the old voodoo woman’s chickens with your jeep. Was she 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 also dressed in rags. His age was 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’s never a good sign. That doll is now 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, respected and well-publicized 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 to be. 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’m here to instruct zombies how to attack people and teach them what are the best parts to eat.”
Norman made a face at this remark.
“Now what’s the matter?” asked Willard.
Norman sighed, “I’m a vegetarian, but I do eat dairy.”
Willard said with discuss, “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 be a break.”
As the two zombies were arguing, Willard happened to glance over at the 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 know you be a troublemaker, with your fancy jeep, running over people’s property.”
Norman mumbled, “Sorry about the chickens.”
“You sorry alright. 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 groaned and roared.
Norman looked desperately for an escape. On either side of him zombies with ash-grey 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
THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK, PART VIII
The Legend
of
French Creek
Once camp was set up, we decided to take a hike and see a few of the waterfalls for which the park is famous. The air was cool for June, and I anticipated a stress-relieving walk. As I packed some snacks into my backpack, my hand brushed against an outside pocket of the pack I seldom used. There was something small and hard inside. I unzipped the pocket and reached in, withdrawing something that set me shaking. It was a Druid talisman. I knew from my research exactly what it was and its blasphemous purpose. The crude fetish was in the form of a naked woman with prominent breasts and an obvious cleft between her stunted legs. I had seen a drawing of a statue exactly like this in a book of ancient Druid curses and spells. Its specific purpose was to summon Druid spirits to its possessor on the night of the summer solstice. After a year, was I still to be haunted by these demonic specters? I had to dispose of this totem, and soon.
“I think I’ll take a canoe ride before dinner,” I told Joan after quickly forming a plan.
I pushed the canoe out, jumped in, and paddled toward the center of the lake. When I was far from shore, I reached into my pocket, retrieved the crude statue, and hurled it into the water. I was now free of the talisman and free of its purpose, or so I hoped.
Tonight, will be a very long night.
THE END
HAVE A GREAT THANKSGIVING HOLIDAY
THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK, PART VII
The Legend
of
French Creek
The blackness of the forest became full of a milk-white vapor, although above, the sky was full of stars. There was no wind, yet the mist came rapidly from different directions and formed a shell of white around the concrete slab. Soon the vapor took the form of a house, becoming a solid structure. Windows, now present, glowed bright red and I could see figures dancing within. The door of the house opened and there appeared a group of naked men and women horribly burned, their bodies smoking. I wanted to look away but could not. Their obscene presence came toward me. They lunged at me. Their hideous laughter screamed in my ears. Now the horrors surrounded me. My mind could not take any more. I lost consciousness and dreamed of daemons and devils surrounding me in an attempt to capture my soul.
I awoke the next morning with a feeling of dread, not wanting to open my eyes. The ruin was the same as it appeared the night before, although the debris on the forest floor leading to my campsite appeared disturbed. I looked down, and to my horror, my sleeping bag bore handprints burnt into the fabric.
I packed up my gear and headed down the trail to meet my wife and return to the comfort of my home, never wanting to return to French Creek Park again.
* * *
I tried to make the horror of that night clear of my mind, but it wouldn’t happen. I felt I had brought something back from that gruesome night and could not escape its presence. Damned if I could figure out what it was. So, I switched gears and embraced the event. After some research on the Druids, I worked my experience and new-found background into a few stories that I managed to sell.
Nearly a year had passed since that dreadful night, when Joan announced, “I think we need to get away. How about a short four-day vacation?”
“Sounds great, but it better be cheap,” I said. “You know money is tight.”
“Camping is not expensive,” she answered. I’ve reserved a site from June 19 to June 22.” She saw my face grow deathly pale, and then quickly added, “A site at Rickett’s Glen.”
“I thought you were talking about French Creek. I’m never going back there again.”
I tried to make the horror of that night clear of my mind, but it wouldn’t happen. I felt I had brought something back from that gruesome night and could not escape its presence. Damned if I could figure out what it was. So, I switched gears and embraced the event. After some research on the Druids, I worked my experience and new-found background into a few stories that I managed to sell.
Nearly a year had passed since that dreadful night, when Joan announced, “I think we need to get away. How about a short four-day vacation?”
“Sounds great, but it better be cheap,” I said. “You know money is tight.”
“Camping is not expensive,” she answered. I’ve reserved a site from June 19 to June 22.” She saw my face grow deathly pale, and then quickly added, “A site at Ricketts Glen.”
“I thought you were talking about French Creek. I’m never going back there again.”
THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK, PART VI
The Legend
of
French Creek
I formulated a plan. I would have Joan drop me off the evening of the summer solstice, which would be a Tuesday night. Joan was hesitant but gave in after I told her it would help me with a story I was working on. She knew I was going through a dry period. An hour before dusk, I would set out on the Orange Trail with a pack containing a sleeping bag and whatever I might need for the night. Appearing to be just another hiker, I would make camp near the ruins and see for myself if there was anything to The Legend of French Creek.
The night of the summer solstice was rapidly approaching, and my feelings ranged from that of stupidity with this pursuit to fear of spending the night alone deep in the woods.
The morning of June 21st I found myself packing my gear. I would not build a fire, so I included a can of beans, bread and a can of SPAM©. My wife entered the bedroom and wrinkled her nose as she saw the SPAM© going into my backpack. She does not appreciate this brick of pork-flavored heaven as much as I do.
“So, you’re really going through with this crazy plan,” she said. Joan had been trying to humor me but at the same time talks me out of going for some time now. Her arguments only strengthened my determination to see it through, but also added to my occasional thoughts of what a stupid idea this was.
At seven o’clock that night we set out on the forty-five-minute drive to the park. Along the way, Joan would continually ask, “Are you sure you want to do this?”
I responded, “Yes,” although it was not as firm a ‘yes’ as I intended.
We entered the park and stopped along the circular road near our former campsite. I got out, shouldered my backpack, and said, “I guess I’m ready.”
Joan replied, “I know you won’t reconsider. Please be careful. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at noon.” We kissed, and she drove off. My writer’s mind was already on hyper drive. And this was the last time he saw my wife, I thought.
I walked the Orange Trail toward the ruin. The smell of campfire smoke filled the air. Alone on the trail, with thoughts full of horror and mayhem, I pressed on. As I approached the site of the burned structure, the sun was a giant orange ball peeking through trees racing toward the horizon. An open space across the trail from my quarry caught my attention. It was there I would make my camp.
The forest was darkening now and becoming chilly. I climbed into my sleeping bag and leaned against a boulder to begin my vigil. Cutting the SPAM© into slices, I made two sandwiches and opened the beans. Saving some SPAM© for my morning meal, I consumed my dinner.
The forest was dark now, but I dare not light a light. I concentrated on the ruin taking note of the sounds and the feelings of dread I encouraged my mind to pursue. I tried to remain awake, but the warmth of my sleeping bag and a full stomach made me drowsy, and I soon fell asleep.
What happened next I wanted to credit to a dream, but I know it was real.
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