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.”
November 27, 2024 at 1:13 pm
Still sucking up library WiFi.
In reference to the last piece, The Beast Awaits, a novel I often refer to is written and already made the rounds to agents with a 100% rate of rejection, so far.
I had one publisher show interest in publishing the novel but, upon doing my homework, found they did not have a good reputation, so I declined.
You have to watch your ass, no one else will.
May 5, 2014 at 6:05 pm
In my novel, The Beast Awaits, I try to convey the atmosphere of impending doom which exits for populations thousands of mile away from the initial incident. As with everything I write it needs editing. I find that even to be true with work I have published. The process never stops. I recently had an experience which brought to mind the atmosphere I tried to create. I must go back and see if I can now find better words.
The incident I am referring to is the recent rash of tornadoes our country has experienced. I’ve always been a weather junkie and during the tornado outbreak I tuned to the Weather Channel. The meteorologists were following the storms in real-time, analyzing the radar and issuing warnings. A strange feeling crept over me as they recorded evidence of debris circulating in the air picked up by the tornado. These debris clouds were people’s lives being changed forever, perhaps the people themselves being destroyed, all as it actually happened.
Occasionally they would have people on the ground right after the storm passed and, together with the residents, survey the damage left behind. I sat in the comfort of my family room watching up to the minute changes in people’s lives.
In The Beast Awaits, I deal with events such as this and the emotions they create, the ‘I’m glad it’s not me’ feeling and try to convey the atmosphere that ‘your turn is coming soon’.
Car accidents also come to mind, how everyone slows down to survey the damage, mostly I’m sure glad with the ‘glad it’s not me’ feeling. In The Beast Awaits that emotion is short-lived, for just down the road will be your turn.
May 3, 2014 at 7:34 pm
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