Posts tagged ‘short story’
CHRISTMAS HORROR STORY
W** was known for his stories of murder and mayhem. Tales of ghosts and monsters were his claim to meager fame. A member of a writers’ group, he enjoyed sharing his twisted plots with the group and the support they provided. But how could they know, imagine, they were not all stories. W** carried demons of his own. Even his wife did not know the visions, the “truths” that journeyed through his muddled brain.
It was during the November 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 when W** 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, greeted his fellow writers and took his seat next to S**.
The room was large 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. 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, because 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 member remaining was W**. 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, and his ears perked up. 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
NIGHTS WITH JEAN SHEPERD AND CRIPPLED JOE
NIGHTS WITH JEAN SHEPERD
AND CRIPPLED JOE
It was a time before cell phones, before computers and instant messages. It was a time before people felt obligated to be at the beck and call of anyone who has anything to communicate no matter how insignificant the information might be. To many today, the ability to communicate – to use technology – is more important then the content of what they have to say.
The past was a time of relative freedom, when you hen people did not feel uncomfortable to be out of the loop, for to a great extent the loop did not yet exist. We were individuals, not part of a grid. It was a time when people were allowed to live their lives without the constant intrusions that today we consider to be normal – no telemarketers, no SPAM. You could answer the phone at dinnertime and be fairly sure it was someone you wanted to talk to instead of someone trying to sell you something.
Growing up, my family did not have a phone. We lived in a four-family house and only one family had a phone, a family on the second floor of our two-story house, and you only asked to use it if there was a real emergency. I’m talking seizure or some other life-threatening event. About the time I entered my teenage years we did get a phone, but in those days it was on a party line, and, with our plan, you were limited to thirty calls a month, then you paid extra for every call over thirty. Imagine those limitations today in a family of six that included two girls.
But don’t get me wrong, when I was young the exchange of information was important – there was just so much less of it. Or maybe it is that today, what we call information is not information at all, only considered information by those who generate it.
I watched my share of TV while growing up, maybe more than my kids do now, but I would never admit that to them. I listened to the radio, there always seemed to be a radio on in the house. That is why now, when I hear just the first few bars of a song from the late 50’s or 60’s I can usually share the song’s title and the artist singing with my children although they could care less about this information. I would listen to talk shows. Back in the 60’s, radio seemed to be more genuine, didn’t seem so full of itself, or maybe I was too young to be observant of what I was hearing. These days I still listen to quite a bit of radio, usually National Public Radio when I’m not listening to an oldies station.
I listened to Jean Sheperd broadcasting on WOR weekday nights from 10:45 to 11. What a fantastic storyteller. When he died at the age of seventy-eight, his obituary read, “A Twain of the radio.” He would start each show and off he would go on a forty-five-minute monologue about what it was like when he was growing up in Indiana or his observations of what life was like around him, and you never knew where he would end up by the end of his show. He was genuine, one of life’s observers, and listening to him relate his memories and thoughts was a true treasure. He would conjure up stories of his childhood, remembering things that happened to us all but taking a slightly different slant in his observations and in doing this create those wonderful views of his youth. Jean Sheperd wrote A Christmas Story which is now a Christmas tradition.
I would listen to Jean Sheperd during the final hour of my shift working in a newsstand at the corner of Broad and Market streets, the heart of Newark. I would be counting the papers and magazines and getting the place ready for my relief. I worked at this newsstand for most of my high school and college years and came to know quite a collection of characters. Some were old men haunting the nights on Newark’s streets. Talking to one another, carrying newspapers days old and talking to me because I was a regular of Newark’s night too. One individual, who could have been a character in a novel, was the man who would relieve me, a man with the most impolitically correct name I have ever had the honor to hear – his name was Crippled Joe.
Now Crippled Joe must have been in his 50’s and walked with the use of a cane. His deformity was one leg that had an almost ninety-degree bend in the top before it entered the hip. Crippled Joe had worked for my boss, the owner of the newsstand, for years and years, working the 11 PM to 6 AM shift and he was my relief of the Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays that I worked. And every night all papers and magazines would have to be counted, and the money counted and locked up for Crippled Joe would try to steal whatever wasn’t accounted for, and my boss knew this and that was the relationship they had, Crippled Joe could be trusted as long as he was not given an opportunity not to be trusted.
Joe also had a little side business going. He used to run a numbers racket at the newsstand. Everyone knew about it, my boss, the other workers – everyone, yet every night Joe would complete these secret transactions, and I suppose he really thought they were secret. Men would come up while I was changing over with Joe, whisper something in his ear and handed him some bills but would never take a newspaper or magazine. Being just fifteen or sixteen when I started to work, and quite naive, I soon figured out what was going on and used to think it funny that, after all the years I worked there, every night he would still try to hide these transactions.
I worked year-round while in high school and summers while in college. The newsstand was a good-sized booth with the front open to about waist level. We sold all the Newark and New York City papers. Back then Newark had two daily papers and New York at least five. We sold comics and magazines and some kind of dream cards that told you which numbers you should play according to the dreams you were having. Working at the newsstand during the winter was a real challenge. The wind would whip around into the booth, and all the papers had to be held down with heavy metal weights. The change was kept in a metal change holder, a series of metal cups nailed in front of where you stood in the booth. When it was cold, I mean really cold, the change would freeze to your bare fingertips. You kept gloves on when no one was buying anything, but when the time to make a sale came, off came the gloves and those warm fingers would freeze right to the coins. Snowstorms were a challenge also. I had what some might determine to be a twisted sense of duty. During one particular storm, the snow was drifting against the door inside the booth. We had electric heaters but unless you were right on top of them you froze. I kept the stand open even though no one in his or her right mind was out on a night like this. Finally, I got the word to close down. It was the first time I ever saw the newsstand closed.
During the summers of my high school and early college years I worked days and ran the newsstand for my boss who would drop by once a week to pick up the deposit slips and see how things were going. It was about this time that my well-established hormones began to really kick in and along with fantasies about some of my customers. I can recall one short-haired blond girl, who must have been a secretary, and every day would pick up a paper – perhaps for her boss. I was in college at this time and she was about my age, probably working right out of high school. By the time I would sell her a paper I was dirty with newsprint from the early morning rush hour. I would see her every day, and she would never say a word. Thinking back, it was probably good that she hadn’t for I probably would have answered with some garbled message. So, I would have my fantasies of meeting for a soda after work, maybe a movie but all I did was keep folding her papers and taking her money.
There was another girl I remember but she haunted the nights. I first noticed her while I was still in high school. She was about my age, maybe seventeen, not pretty but not unattractive either. She was very slim with long red hair and would hang out on the corner where I worked. She usually had other kids with her, but she was the oldest. I never knew if the other kids were siblings or just friends. She was not well dressed and just looking at her, you could tell she had very little money. I just wondered what she was doing night after night on that corner. Even now, when I think of her, I can hear Frankie Vallie singing ‘Rag Doll’. I wonder what became of the ‘rag doll’ as I wonder about other people that crossed my path during those nighst and days I spent selling papers.
On Mondays and Wednesdays my shifts were from 6-11PM, but on Fridays I went to work straight from school starting at 3PM and working until 11. I got quite a few stares and have to do some explaining after gym as I was putting on my long johns in preparation for a winter’s night work.
Fridays, I would get home about 11:30 have some dinner and go to bed. My bed by now was a single pull-out bed in the parlor next to the kerosene stove which, during the winter, you could almost sit on and have no fear of injury. The stove was useless. But my radio listening for the day was not yet over, or just beginning, depending on which way you wanted to approach the time of day, for another of my favorite radio shows was about to begin – Long John Nebal whose talk show on WOR radio ran from midnight to about five in the morning. The topics would vary but the subject that stirred my interest was flying saucers. He would sometimes have on his show the editor of Saucer News. Saucer News was a local magazine type publication although calling it a magazine was quite a stretch, and of course I immediately sent away for a subscription. It was just a few pages long and would be filled with pictures of flying saucers along with local sightings and editorial comments. The funny thing was that most of the editorial comments were about the editor’s ongoing divorce. For some reason I’ve always been drawn to slightly wacko subjects, here’s where my kids could provide an editorial.
Anyway, I would listen to these shows as late into the night as I could. Now I wouldn’t use my newsstand radio for that would be a waste of batteries, I used my crystal radio. Let me explain what this is, although my theoretical knowledge may be a little rough. The radio contained a crystal and onto it pressed a thin piece of wire called a cat’s whisker. The pressure generated electricity and it was also the way you tuned in a station, by moving the cat’s whisker around the crystal. My radio was in the shape of a rocket and about six inches long, a black and red beauty. Coming out the rocket were three wires. One wire ended in and alligator clip for the ground, one wire was an earpiece, and the last wire was the antenna. The antenna was rather long, somewhere between twenty and thirty feet and I would stretch it through the whole house before climbing into bed. I tend to toss and turn in my sleep so I would always wake up all wrapped up in the earphone and antenna wire, but no electricity was wasted although every night I listened to my crystal radio I risked death by strangulation.
Looking back, they were rough days, hard days but good days. I was easily entertained. I worked hard, and ever so slowly I matured.
FICTION SEEKING TRUTH: A SHORT STORY CONTAINING A TOUCH OF REALITY
Accepted for publication by Bewildering Stories in July 2008.
For those fans of horror, you may recognize multiple incidents described in this story which are not fiction.
FICTION SEEKING TRUTH
Stewart Kingman was a very successful writer of horror stories. What made his fiction popular was that the stories contained a glimmer of truth. He always included an element of nonfiction in his fiction, just enough to add a macabre reality. His mind would wrap around events and give bizarre possibilities to a mundane world.
Kingman would tell his wife Talia, “I feel there is some truth behind all the stories I write. Perhaps some of the unworldly situations I create could be true. Or maybe all this horror shit is just getting to me. 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 actually 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. Why does all this shit get published, and some of it is real shit. I think I’m going to take a lesson from my old friend Houdini and look for the truth behind the horror.”
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 knows, 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.
Along with this work, he was doing something new. He had begun getting involved with his fan mail. He had a publicist with a staff of five who handled the vast quantity of mail he received. Letters arrived requesting a copy of his picture and relating how Stewart Kingman was their favorite author.
He decided to take a closer look at his fan mail himself to see if anyone mentioned a true occurrence, something that defied known reality.
Kingman rapidly discovered why he did not get involved with his fan mail. He received letters from fans who were mating with monsters, having their minds controlled by alien forces or by your run-of-the-mill witch, which might also led to mating. He corresponded with them all, seeking out the faintest glimmer of fact the wacko stories might contain, but there was none.
The letter Kingman was searching for arrived late that spring.
Dear Mr. Kingman,
I can’t say I’ve read all your books, but the ones I’ve read I’ve enjoyed.
I was wondering if you ever thought of writing a story about someone who had something happen to him and wound up being able to control the future.
Yours truly,
Frank Talbot
Kingman wrote to Talbot requesting more detail. A few weeks later another letter arrived from Talbot, a longer letter containing much more detail.
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 an 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 me the rest of the details. 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 its 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 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. Just before the set came on I was thinking about my kid brother who’s in the army stationed in Iraq and how great it would be to see him. 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.
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. My mind wanders as I’m sitting in front of the TV when Mr. Death Warmed Over comes on the air and makes an announcement. 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 read the letter over and over. The guy sounded like the genuine article. He gave Talbot a call and arranged to pay him a visit. The drive from Kingman’s home in Maine to Talbot’s in Massachusetts would not take long and might be a nice getaway. Kingman loved long drives and who knew, some of this might actually be true.
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 on the door when it 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 must have invented the accident in my subconscious, something that would cause you no harm but get your attention. I caught Mr. Death’s broadcast just before you pulled into my driveway.”
“You definitely got my attention,” 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 facts behind the fiction, Kingman began writing the book.
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 still hated the driver that struck him but suppressed it as he tried to overcome the pain and hoped he would 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. 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
THE ANNIVERSARY, A GHOST STORY
The Anniversary was accepted by Bewildering Stories for publication in 2007.
This is a ghost story with a happy and somewhat unexpected ending.
THE ANNIVERSARY
Julie Barber carefully made her way down the winding tree-lined dirt road to visit her next patient. The sun filtering through the ancient leafless maples helped to relax her and to mentally prepare her for the visit. She was a visiting nurse seeing oncology and hospice patients and she was now on her way to see Emily Taylor. She had been seeing Emily for three months, with ‘failure to thrive’ as the diagnosis, but Julie also knew that a healthy amount of dementia was mixed into the ninety-six-year-old patient’s milieu of symptoms.
As a young woman, Emily had been petite. As an old woman, she was beyond frail. The black hair of her youth now formed a snow-white frame around her withered face.
It was a crisp January afternoon with the sky a brilliant blue. “God, I wish Emily could enjoy this day,” Julie said. Emily was so sweet and she had a special place in Julie’s heart. She loved all the elderly patients she saw, enjoyed listening to their history and felt pride in knowing she made a difference in their final days.
As she drove, she viewed the peaceful winter landscape. The meadows were brown with dormant grass and a nearby field stood barren waiting for the spring planting. Some would find little beauty in winter’s harsh scene, but Julie found each season had its own special qualities.
She parked on the circular gravel drive and walked up to the modest farmhouse that Emily Taylor had called home for many years. Not another house was in sight, and the view went on for miles revealing the central Pennsylvania countryside. The homestead, surrounded by solitude, set Julie thinking, She has been alone for so long, the poor woman’s life reflects the scene that inhabits this place.
She walked up to the front of the house and used the brass knocker on the ancient wooden door to announce her arrival. The door opened and there stood Ruth, one of the twenty-four-hour caregivers who stayed with Emily.
“How’s my patient?” asked Julie.
“Oh, you know, Julie. Ralph and the kids are set to show up anytime now. Emily is so excited.”
Julie thought, Poor thing, if this fantasy keeps her going; where’s the harm?
Julie entered the front door to a small living room furnished with plain, well-worn pieces. The house was well over a hundred years old. A sturdy dwelling, it was a small two-story structure and had the feeling of ‘no show, just practicality’ rarely found in today’s houses. Upstairs were two bedrooms, one of which her patient hadn’t left for months. The first floor held a small cozy kitchen with a bathroom off to one side, the only part of the structure that was not original. Julie trudged up the well-worn stairs to care for her patient.
As soon as he entered the bedroom, Emily smiled and said, “How are you, my dear? You know Ralph and the girls will be here soon. I can’t wait to see how much the girls have grown, although they never seem to change. And Ralph, he’s always as handsome as ever. How’s your husband?”
Julie responded, “Emily, don’t you remember? I don’t have a husband.”
Emily said, “Then we should find you one. Husbands and children are why we were put on this Earth. That’s what life is all about. You are young and pretty, my girl. We must find you a husband.”
They talked for a while more, and then Julie began to care for her patient. She took Emily’s vitals and tended to the bedsores she had developed. As Julie packed her nursing bag, she said to Emily, “I’ll see you next week. I’ll be here Tuesday”. She didn’t mention the date. The fact that it would be January 28th might disturb the old lady. But, more likely, it would have no meaning at all.
Julie walked to the bedroom door and said, “You take care, Emily.” Emily answered, “I have company coming next week. My family will be here for a visit.”
Ruth was outside the door and heard everything. “Poor thing,” she said, “all alone in the world. With her family gone all these years, I don’t know what makes her hold on like she does. She’s outlived all her close relatives. No one visits her – there’s no one left.”
“I know,” said Julie. “The only pleasure she gets is in her fantasies. And if they give her joy, who are we to disturb them?”
Julie left the farmhouse and retraced her route down the rutted dirt road to visit her next patient.
* * *
Shortly after beginning to care for Emily Taylor, Julie approached Diane, the social worker assigned to her case. In Emily’s bedroom, Julie could not help but notice a host of family pictures. There were pictures of Emily as a young bride embracing a young dark-haired man, her husband, Ralph. Other family photos showed Emily and Ralph with a baby, then more pictures with a toddler and another baby. There were photos tracing the two girls maturing, and Emily and Ralph growing older. The most recent pictured Ralph and Emily in their forties, with two girls about to reach their teenage years. Julie enjoyed learning the history of her patients so she could better communicate with them. What she learned of Emily’s past saddened her deeply.
“Diane, would you mind if I asked you some questions about Emily Taylor? She’s such a sweet old woman and I know she has no living close relatives. I was wondering what happened to her family in the photos.”
Diane replied, “I see you’ve noticed all the photos in her bedroom. Who could help but notice them? The little old lady’s future of life with her family was robbed from her many years ago. Her husband and two daughters were killed. Since then, she has lived part of her life in a world of fantasy where her husband comes to visit and her children never grow old.”
“It was in the mid-fifties when the Taylor family could afford their first new car. It was a black and white Chevy. It was January 28th, 1954, when Ralph went to pick up his new vehicle…
The door slammed and Ralph walked into the small, warm kitchen. The smell of a roast filled the air. Emily was in an apron stirring a pot on top of the coal stove.
“Emmy,” said Ralph, joy filled his voice, “let’s go for a ride.”
“Ralph, I’m cooking dinner. Anyway, the roads are full of ice from the last storm.”
“I know Emmy, but I made it home just fine. Our car will be new only once. Where are the girls?”
“They’re upstairs doing their homework. For God’s sakes, the car doesn’t even have a heater.”
“No problem,” answered Ralph, “we’ll grab a few army blankets. They’ll keep you and the girls warm just fine.”
“You just can’t stay away from that car.” Emily said.
Ralph approached Emily and said, “That’s not all I can’t stay away from.” He hugged his wife and his hands roamed the curves of her body.
“Stop it, Ralph, the children.”
“Emmy, I guess you’ll have to wait for your ride. I’ll take the girls and be back way before dinner.”
He shouted upstairs, “Who wants to go for a ride in our brand-new car?”
The two young girls came bounding down the stairs, shouting in unison, “Me Daddy, me…”
Diane said, “There was a local farmer that was known to have a drinking problem. He was more wasted than usual when he got behind the wheel of his pickup that day.
“The two girls were in the back seat of the Chevy huddled in blankets. Of course, it was well before the time of seatbelts or airbags. The story goes that Ralph was rounding a curve when he saw the drunken farmer coming at him. There was no time for him to react. The farmer was in Ralph’s lane and hit him head-on. Everyone was killed.
“Emily was all right for awhile, as all right as anyone could be, then she lost it. She kept on talking about Ralph and the girls and how they came to visit. Gradually, all the close family she had died. She lives on that beautiful countryside; she lives in the past talking about her husband and daughters as if they were still alive.”
* * *
Tuesday arrived and it was time to visit Emily once again. Julie preferred to see Emily in the early afternoon, but she had an emergency and had to postpone Emily’s visit until the end of the day. As she drove the country road near dusk, she was aware of an unpleasant change. The desolation of the countryside was pronounced in a haunting way. The tree-lined road leading to her patient’s farmhouse now seemed bordered by lurking giants instead of the stately maples she had grown to love. The gray and colorless scene was nothing like the landscape of days past.
Julie knocked on the farmhouse door. Ruth answered immediately.
“Julie, Emily doesn’t look so good. Hurry!”
As soon as she entered the bedroom, Julie could see that Emily was dying. Her breathing was shallow and her complexion gray. Julie took her vitals and shook her head. Emily’s eyes were closed.
Julie said, “Emily, can you hear me?”
In a soft, weary voice, Emily replied, “Julie, I’m so tired. Could you comb my hair? Ralph and the girls will be here soon.”
With tears in her eyes, Julie complied. After finishing, she said, “You look beautiful, Emily. Ralph and the girls will think you’re so lovely.”
As she was leaving the farmhouse, Julie said to Ruth, “I doubt she will last the night.”
Ruth and Julie said their goodbyes and Julie began walking to her car. As she slid into the driver’s seat, she noticed a faint glow amid the fading light of the darkened countryside. The light held close to the road and followed its twists and turns. The closer it came to the farmhouse, the brighter it became. As the light entered the driveway it gained definition. Soon it morphed into a very old car. Julie froze, not knowing what to expect next.
The driver’s door of the specter opened and out stepped the glowing figure of a man. Julie recognized him immediately. It was Ralph. The back doors opened and outran two young girls.
Julie was cemented in place, afraid to move, afraid to think. Then the hairs on the back of her neck stood as she heard the shimmering figures of the girls call, “Mom, come on Mom. It’s time to go for a ride.”
Movement near the front door caught Julie’s eye. A glowing figure emerged from the farmhouse. Julie immediately recognized the young Emily Taylor as she appeared in the final family photo.
The youthful Emily walked towards her daughters. She held them close and kissed them. The girls responded with giggles and shouts of joy. Then Emily went to her husband. There was a long embrace and Julie thought she could hear Emily weeping.
The four apparitions climbed into the old car and disappeared down the country road with the glowing specter of the Chevy fading into the night.
The End
UNHOLY GROUND, A HORROR SHORT STORY, CHAPTER IX
UNHOLY GROUND
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 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
UNHOLY GROUND, A HORROR SHORT STORY, CHAPTER VIII
UNHOLY GROUND
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.
UNHOLY GROUND, A HORROR SHORT STORY, CHAPTER VI
UNHOLY GROUND
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 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 on. 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.
UNHOLY GROUND, A HORROR SHORT STORY, CHAPTER V
UNHOLY 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 to 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 to 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, no one 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.
UNHOLY GROUND, A HORROR SHORT STORY, CHAPTER IV
UNHOLY GROUND
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 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, revealed 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, emerging 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.
UNHOLY GROUND, A HORROR SHORT STORY, CHAPTER III
UNHOLY GROUND, CHAPTER III
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 talking 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.
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