Posts tagged ‘horror’
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.
THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK, PART V
The Legend
of
French Creek
Two weeks later, we were packing for our camping trip. Our dog, Millie, appeared to be as excited as we were, seeing her food and toys packed up and taken out to the van.
We set out on the afternoon of Halloween full of anticipation in leaving our daily lives and spending a weekend in the wilderness with our pup. After finding our campsite, we quickly set up camp and Millie, attached to a long lead, sniffed the forest floor. That night, seated by a roaring campfire with Joan, my imagination ran wild. I pictured Druids descending on our campsite, with us captured for their human sacrifices. Of course, nothing happened. The entire night passed, uneventful. My imagination can be a weird place.
The next morning, we planned our first hike with Millie. The Orange Trail passed behind our tent. It was an easy trail, ideal for Millie, my wife and me. After packing lunch, we set out in late morning with Millie taking the lead, full of excitement. We walked the trail for a little more than two miles when it meandered toward the perimeter of the park. After another half mile, Millie’s excitement on this adventure changed dramatically. Our pup began to growl and pull away from the direction we were going, not wanting to continue. We pulled her along and her growl became a whimper of fear, something we’d never seen her exhibit. Another fifty feet and there it was. I was sure it was the site of the minister’s house described by the old man in the store.
As Millie pulled back on her leash, we approached the destroyed structure. There was a concrete slab about thirty by twenty feet off the trail with charred posts sticking out from points in the foundation. A rusted bedspring was the only sign of furniture. A few decaying pipes punctured the concrete slab. What was unusual was the lack of vegetation surrounding the slab. No trees had invaded the immediate area. Only weeds and forest litter marred the land.
We stood there, with Millie pulling away. Joan said, “What a curious place out here in the middle of nowhere. And why is Millie acting so strange?”
I had yet to relate to Joan the story the old man told me. As we continued on our hike, I told her about the old man’s story. We both noticed that the farther we walked along the trail, the more Millie returned to her pleasant disposition.
I knew I had to return to these ruins on the summer solstice to investigate.
THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK, PART IV
The Legend
of
French Creek
“It was in the early 1920’s when a new preacher came to town. During the late summer the townsfolk said they would build him a house. He walked not far from the church and saw a level area with little growth. Apparently, the damn fool picked the site where the pagans’ cabin once stood.
“The house was built before winter set in and the congregation spent the remainder of the winter and the next spring worshipping, led by the new minister.
“Then the night of the summer solstice arrived. No one knows what happened, but the minister’s house burnt down that night with him in it. The church caught fire and burned to the ground too.
“Eventually, during the depression, the town died, and the area returned to wilderness. Here’s where the legend takes over, my young friend. All the buildings were overgrown by the forest except for the minister’s. The concrete slab that served as its foundation is still there, along with some burnt up debris. The forest won’t touch that rubble, so the legend says, because the pagans still dwell there underground. I don’t know exactly where it is, but it’s somewhere on the perimeter of French Creek State Park. Folks say it’s still there, easy to find along one of the popular trails, but I never bothered lookin’. Some say they get a strange feeling when they hike past the rubble on the day of the summer solstice. No one goes there that night. Campers all stay snug and warm by their fires or in their tents, and town folks safe in their homes.”
“That’s a great story,” I told the old man. “Maybe I could use some of it in a story. But first, I’ll try to find the ruin you mentioned.”
“Don’t know if you should, mister. All legends have a bit of truth. I wouldn’t want to cause you any harm.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”
I shook his hand and left the small store, my mind full of ideas. I kept in mind the details he gave me about the location of the minister’s house. With our impending camping trip to French Creek State Park, I thought the coincidence was perfect for me to do some research. If I could locate the site I could use the surroundings to give my story a realistic bent.
THE LEGEND OF FRENCH CREEK, PART III
The Legend
of
French Creek
I pulled a small pad and a pen from my shirt pocket. “Mind if I take some notes?”
“Hell no. Most around here know the story – it’s no secret.”
He began his tale.
“Grandpa first told me this story when I was young. Wanted to scare the hell out of me, I suppose. Used to enjoy doing that a lot. Starts back in the late 1700’s when some people moved in that weren’t welcomed in this neck of the woods. They came from England. Some kind of pagan cult called Drubids.”
“Do you mean Druids?” I asked.
“Ya, something like that. Anyway, they wanted to be left alone so they built a house way out in the woods. There was men and women, but no children. Young, they was. Maybe eight or ten of them.
“Seems the locals, being of the religious type, didn’t take too kindly to these pagans. Then the trouble started. Farm animals turned up missing, some cows and sheep. The locals suspected treachery by the pagans, but they kept their peace. Then, within two weeks’ time, three children went missing. A group of townsfolk paid a visit to the pagans. The heathens said they knew nothing of the animals or children disappearing. But the locals thought they were acting suspicious.
“This all happened in the spring. Then came the massacre.
It was the night of the summer solstice. The nearest residents to the pagans reported a red glow in the forest that night. Some of the local men, well-armed, went to investigate. They approached the pagan camp and saw the men and women dancing naked around a fire. There was a pile of cut-up carcasses, no one could tell what they were being thrown into the fire.
“One of the men, nervous I suppose, shot into the air and the pagans made for the cabin. The story goes that the men surrounded the cabin, and then someone threw a blazing brand onto the roof. The cabin caught fire. Screams could be heard coming from the house. Some of the pagans tried to escape through the door and windows, but they were shot and fell back into the inferno. While they waited on of the men poked around in the fire. Found bones, small human bones so the story goes. The men of the town remained until the house collapsed. By morning, it was just a smoking ruin. They left and said little of what they had done to anyone outside the community. Some of the curious would visit the site of the pagan compound, but that ended after a while. And as time passed, the story faded but was not totally forgotten.
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