The wind through the trees

We are your overlords

2011-08-11T23:56:00.000-07:00

Something I'd like to hear from those of you who have read what I've posted; is there anything in particular you'd like to see expanded or revisited? Dusk and The Shadow Down the Street are two novels I am working on, while the other stories have been passing interests in a particular theme or element.

I'm working on a couple short stories right now, all of which - and this will be true for most, if not all, of my other work - will be centered around science fiction with elements of horror. These range from childrens stories, to what hopefully will spark your imagination and creep you out just a bit. I've got a dozen more chapters of Dusk ready to be posted, while the Shadow Down the Street is under constant revision - after this post, I'm updating the blurb 'Autumn' with its most recent incarnation - take a look if it interests you.

What I'm really asking is what kind of content would interest you? Should I keep posting my stories, or work on some sort of prompt driven content, i.e you create a prompt, and I make that into a story. Make sense? Just some ideas i've had floating around today.

Let me hear what you'd like to see more of! Dusk? The Shadow Down the Street ? Or something new?

Passing Through: Short Story

2011-08-04T16:30:00.003-07:00

The gas light was on, they had no idea where they were, and it would be dark soon. "You told me you knew how to read a map," Mark said under his breath.

"No, what I said was I'm pretty sure I can figure out how to connect one squiggly line to another squiggly line. Reading a map it turns out is surprisingly hard. But I don't even think we're lost. That town just isn't on the map." Jeff, the passenger, gestured towards the town that had just come into view. Small Victorian houses were off in the distance like fingers to some unseen hand. The day had been overcast, but glimpses of the sun could be seen just on the horizon. "Well, wherever this is, let's hope they've got a gas station." Mark said, and rolled up his window.

Mark drove a beat up Volkswagen beetle, something of a project that he and his father had worked on together. Even after all of their hard work, it was a piece of crap, but he loved it anyways. As it sputtered toward the town, the passenger began to fold the map of New England. He had wavy blond hair, and thick framed glasses. He looked at the homes and small buildings huddled against the tree line and furrowed his brow.

"I told you there was going to be a party at the Sigma house, but instead, you decided to pay your uncle a visit. I think it goes without saying, but you owe me one." Many of the buildings looked derelict. They were simple square buildings, and most were either gray or off white; the color of too much sun, and too little paint. A few of the houses had boarded up windows, while others were like vacant eyes, staring at the car as it approached.

"I appreciate you coming with me, but you would have just stayed in all weekend anyways. You had nothing better to do." Mark retorted. Neither of them said anything because they both knew it was true. Best friends can get away with that kind of thing. "Jesus, the recession hit this place hard." Mark said in disbelief.

"You mean the great depression, right?"

They laughed.

The faded yellow beetle pulled to what must have been the town square, and stopped near where a monument once stood. Mark opened the drivers door and surveyed the area. He wore a faded Red Sox cap, and had brown eyes. His usually friendly face was lined with weariness. This was the last place he wanted to be. It was a shell. It was as if time had moved on and forgotten about this wherever they were. Mark turned around, grabbed the collar of his sweater and clasped it close to him. Wind licked at his sweatshirt and carried the burnt smells of autumn across the air from some long forgotten fire.

"There's gotta be someone home., right?" Mark asked, working his hands against his arms trying to fight off the biting cold.

"Maybe, but do we really want to be around when they answer?" Jeff laughed and shook his head.

Jeff glanced from building to building, looking for something that was open, a store or a supermarket, anything. Down one of the wide streets, just over Marks' shoulder, he saw sliver of yellow light behind a thick gray curtain. "Hey - bingo. I think there's someone there."

Mark turned around, his eyes settling on a small one story home. It was a simple cottage, one floor, with a large bay window which overlooked a juniper bush. The juniper looked like it was just hanging onto life. The bush sat nestled against two brown stone buildings; one looked like a furniture store, but all it held was dusty floors and imprints of its past. A fire had clearly claimed it at one point, though it left its neighbor apparently unscathed.

"Maybe we can use their phone for a second, use 411, or give your uncle a call for directions out of..." Jeff paused "...wherever this is," he finished, unsettled. His skin broke out in goosebumps.

"Well, let's go then." Mark said uncomfortably, but pushed on toward the cottage. Jeff thought, for a moment, that he could smell cotton candy on the wind; some distant fair that had not yet realized that summer had long since died still had its carousel twirling endlessly to a looping organ. "I think that's route two right there. We could just take that until we hit Burlington, we might be a day late – but it's better than..." Jeff didn't need to finish, and neither of them had any intention of staying much longer, let alone the night.

"It'll just take a couple seconds to ask for directions at most. If that's route two, then great, but if it's not, then we're fucked." Mark said earnestly.

"Alright, we'll, if they invite us in for dinner, we bolt - I don't like this place. I feel like we're tracking mud through someone's carpet, man. " Jeff a chuckled nervously; his words while not eloquent, rang true, and were accentuated with the sound of whispers on the wind.

As they approached the house, walking its short unkempt path, ash yellow leaves fluttered by Jeff's right arm. "Goddamn it's cold," he thought to himself, and began to rub his arms with his hands. His inner voice had been trembling, but not with cold but with fear. Jeff Hill was scared, near shitless, and he had no idea why – only that he didn't like this place.

"Mark, I think that's Route 2 man, we don't need to ask for directions," His voice was distressed, and he was not far from panic. Mark turned to him, and it was apparent he could feel something too, but held himself together with a guise of minor annoyance.

"It'll take a second, and then we'll be out of here," Mark reasoned, and Jeff conceded.

His knuckles knocked solidly against the old wooden door. Each knock was an exclamation, exaggerated by the silence. They could not hear movement, but they could somehow feel there was someone home.

"It's obvious they don't want company," Jeff began, but his words died in his throat. The drapes had flinched like skin away from a flame. In the heavy folds there was movement, like someone lost in cloth hills and valleys. "Mark. The window." He said under his breath, just barely audible. Mark turned around , and time began to slow for the both of them. A hand with papyrus like skin had emerged from the moth eaten depths; it was frail, old, and had blue spider web like veins.

"Holy shit," He heard himself say in disbelief. His eyes glued to the woman in the window. It began to rain. Mark felt like his balls were in a vice, being squeezed by some kind of ghost fist with an iron grip. She was a small woman with clouded eyes, and a clouded expression on her face. Her skin was ash-yellow and looked dry – taught – as if movement alone might rip it, and the dust of her life spilled in its entirety. Her eyes, wandering, sequestering the boys, outside – , Mark found himself thinking – and her trembling old hand extended a finger, and tapped the glass three times with a split brown nail.

It was the sound of hard picks against thin ice. The vices tightened, and the goosebumps spread across both of their bodies. Like an animal that has heard, yet not seen, an invasive noise she began to sniff the air, and lightly rapped at the window again. This time, she left her nail against it. She smiled for a moment and Jeff swore there was something vulpine; something crafty, about her face, as if through some haze was laid a trap. They dared not move, even to blink, as she did this. Mark felt a tugging in his mind - something urgent and wild; he felt, quietly, the urge to help this poor old woman, to come inside and give her a hand like a nice little... and he pushed it away as quickly as it came. The woman, as if smelling the thought as it dissipated into the air, withdrew into the house, into the folds of the curtain and into the dull light within.

"Let's get the fuck out of here. Let's just take one of these roads, there's 'gotta be something else out here, how far can your car get us?" Jeff, spell broken, began to move toward the car, half waiting for Mark to pursue. Mark said nothing for a moment but broke for the car. He didn't want to think what would happen to them if they were stuck here.

Jeff and Mark ran to the Volkswagen eager to leave this place. The sun shone through in a brilliant but somehow foul red. The roofs of the buildings cast long jagged shadows across the ground.

"Just get in the car, and let's drive," Jeff said uneasily. Mark thought it sounded like Jeff wanted to throw up. He was right. He opened the driver side door, and Jeff, nearly frantically, opened the passenger. The goosebumps on their skin now felt like stinging nettles, alive with painful electricity. Jeff wanted to scream "Start the fucking car, you dumb shit! Just start the fucking car!" But he saw Mark trying – twisting the key – but nothing. The car didn't turn, didn't even try.

It was dead.

Mark began to twist faster, furiously "Goddamn thing! Goddamn battery! I just bought a new battery; I just spent sixty bucks on a new battery! It can't be dead,"

"Shut the fuck up. There are people coming." Jeff silenced him.

Mark raised his eyes from the steering column. In his rear view mirror he saw figures walking toward them. He wondered if they had been there all along, somehow making up the shadows and dark places. They came from somewhere from the rear of their car, behind one of the larger clusters of houses, silently walking toward the boys in a slow inquisitive haze. The air filled with became foul and rotten. It was a smell Jeff recognized as death.

"We gotta get out of the car, maybe find an empty house or something," Jeff was yelling, terrified, but his voice sounded distant, "It doesn't matter where, not really, we just can't stay here. Can't you feel that something is just wrong with this place? Christ, can't you feel it?" Mark could. He could feel it in the bottom of his stomach, and in the pit of his heart. Weak at first, but now it was strong. And then he realized.

The town is awake.

Mark was in a daze, his body was taught with fear, or was it dread which held him? A purple ray of light, the last bit of sun now just a whisper above the horizon, caught his eye, and he was free from dreads terrible chains. Jeff glanced several hundred yards east of them, just beyond what looked like a scarce river and sun-rotted old wooden bridge, a small white church jutted out like a jagged tooth.

"In all the movies and books and video games, evil shit can't come onto hallowed ground." Jeff said this in eager belief, and it made sense to Mark - as much sense as anything else did. Rational thought had left the building, because the internal alarm inside the two of them was blaring: something terrible is going to happen. This is not a test.

Both of them bolted from the car in a dead sprint toward the old church. As they ran, they could see more figures emerging from the places between – the nooks and crannies of the small village. There was something about their eyes, a glimmer, the way cats eyes sometimes look, but not quiet. To Mark their eyes looked like dull coins of silver. “How many fucking people live here?” The pairs of dull silver were too numerous to count.

Mark could feel the intense urge to just give up, turn around and give up. There was a part of him which seemed to say "Stop running, it's easier if you just stop running," But there was also a part of him which did not trust this voice. A part of him was screaming "This isn't you."

They ran over the frail bridge with the dry creek bed beneath, and past the pale grave markers to their left and their right. As they approached the church, Jeff realized it looked bleached, like bones in the sun, more than painted white, and hoped he had been right about coming to the church in the first place.

Mark did not knock, but opened the door as if walking into his own home. He shut the door behind them and found a thick beam which would brace the door shut.

"Help me with this Jeff," Mark was attempting to move the beam into the brace on the door. Jeff met the left side of the splintered but still massive beam. They were barely able to lift it, but managed to place it on the brace. Jeff felt a biting pain in his thumb. "God damn," he muttered. He looked upward "Sorry, that was bad taste I guess". A large splinter stuck out of his thumb. He put the thumb to his mouth and pulled it out. Large, deep ruby pearls began to well out onto the floor. Jeff put the thumb to the hem of his white t-shirt, and began to apply pressure with his other hand.

There were people outside who had gathered at the other side of the river. Dull glints of vulpine light glittered in the dark. Mark began, his voice sounding distant "I don't think they can cross, you were right" Something had been on the tip of his tongue, tracing its way towards leaping out of his mouth, something old, very old from one of those stupid books he read when he was a kid. "The undead can't pass rivers, or move over running water or... something, I think I read that somewhere,"

The idea ignited a small flame of hope in Jeff's heart, they need only to stay in the church for the night, and walk a couple miles 'til they ran into the next village.

"I'd still feel safer if we took a look around, made sure there isn't..." He didn't want to say it.

"One of them in here." Mark finished for him. Whatever hope they had was dashed, carried off on some dark wind.

"None of that splitting up bullshit like they always do in the movies – seriously. Stay within arm's reach of each other, alright?" Jeff said plainly. “We need to stick together.”

Mark nodded; he understood the rationale behind this. In movies, when people broke up into groups or went off by themselves they died.

The old church smelled dry, like old books and memories: sun baked wood, and of summers which had long since passed. There were old wooden benches; a dozen rows which lead up to a dark wooden pulpit. Behind the pulpit was a large stained-glass window, but because there was very little light to be seen, it simply looked like a dark jigsaw puzzle. To their left, there was a set of stairs which lead to what Mark imagined would have been a priest's rectory.

"I bet you sat up there, watching a town go mad, your congregation growing smaller by the day." It reminded him of the sidewalks outside, how over time they had been reclaimed by nature. This town had been reclaimed by the night. There was a door which was beneath the stairs, perhaps a supply closet. "Let's check upstairs first,"

The wooden floors were solidly built, and aside from the occasional groan, and stood the test of time. It had been a stubborn sentinel. He led Jeff up the stairs, first testing each step for signs that it was going to give under his weight – but he found that this too was built well enough to cause little concern while ascending. Jeff placed a hand on the flat wooden banister. It felt coarse with dust, webs, and the filth of age, and he decided he'd prefer to leave his hand at his side instead.

"What do we do, Mark, if there are more of 'em," Jeff nodded, motioning toward the simple brown door "In there? What do you want to do? It's a real possibility. Just because we've seen the movies doesn't mean it'll hold up here." He said without trepidation, but with cold clarity.

"I don't know, I guess we can take our chances outside or something, make a run for it." Mark didn't know the direction of what it was, nor how far they would have to run to get there.

They continued up the stairs, noise in temporary suspension, mimicking their subconsciously held breath as if maintaining silence would keep a potential undead creature at bay. Mark again without fear or hesitation, opened the door.

Before them was a small room, with an equally small window, several large book cases, a chest, and a table littered with dusty books and papers. They walked into the study, as it appeared to be, but left the door open so if anything should move below them they would know it.

"Undead are like, vulnerable to silver, garlic, wooden stakes, right?" Jeff said this, and began to search the room for some type of defensive makeshift weapon. "I think so, yeah, but we don't have any silver, and I'm all out of garlic." Mark said absent absentmindedly, dusting off the papers on the desk with a hand, scanning the old pages.

"Well, I don't know – just trying to make sure there wasn't something I was missing." From the window came a tap, tap, tap. Mark and Jeff froze, but their eyes darted to the window. There was nothing there, nothing they could see at least. "Rain," Mark said at last. The faint sound of rain hitting the church, the occasional tapping noise, like the old woman's finger against the glass.

Jeff and Mark relaxed slightly, and Jeff went back to searching the room for something usable. Mark read the old slips, old notes which were spread hastily across the wooden desk; much of it was symbols: A star with an eye in the center, a circle with squirming lines which drew away from it, an unfinished triangle; symbols that Mark did not understand, with unintelligible words scrawled beneath each. They were alien and cryptic. He didn't like the way the words made him feel. And then he saw them – real words. English words. It was a book, a small red-brown bound book and Mark recognized this immediately as a diary, or a journal. He grabbed the book and flipped through the pages. Marks eyes caught something strange near the back of the journal, the most recent entries, shortly before the words ran out entirely. Mark skimmed the page, and barely managed to spurt out "Listen, wait – listen." He motioned toward Jeff, and then Mark began to read aloud the open page before him.

September 17 1801

Bill and Harriet's boy Lloyd was found today. It looked as though the wolf pack which killed all the cattle over in Milford last week killed him. There wasn't much left, but what was, we buried in a plot behind their farm. What a terrible tragedy. Bill Briarson is an old friend, and the family are good Christians. I have never seen such sorrow in a person's eyes. I do not question our savior, or his will, and so what has passed has certainly been in accordance to, but it pains me to see so much pain. I hope that he is at peace now.

September 20 1801

Bill Briarson came to me today; he was ill of mind, and seemed distraught. His eyes were heavy lidded with lack of sleep. He told me, with a madness which can only stem from grief, that he spoke with his son last night. At first I took this to be a spiritual conversation, but perhaps sensing this, Bill told me he saw him, his son, stark naked, flesh hanging from his ghastly white body, in the cold hours after midnight at his bedroom window. His wife had awoken, and she rushed outside to her son, despite his pleading and warning. Bill told me he heard a single mortified scream, and then nothing else. He did not hear or see from his wife. Oh, such a terrible fortune, and such an undeserving man to bear it all; I fear that Bill Briarson has gone mad with grief. Such ghastly images are not conjured of sane mind, and sudden loss has been known to cause temporary mania. I agreed to visit his home and purify whatever evil ails it. I sent Bill home, and spoke with the constable, who said he would keep an eye on him.

21 September 1801

Something terrible has happened. My pen [sic] shaking as [sic] writes this. As I had promised to visit the Briarson home, I left for it after the morning light had been up but only an hour or so. As I approached, I felt sick – as if my stomach were on a boat fairing tumultuous seas, and my nostrils flared as if sensing a foulness – but there was no foulness to be smelled, just the cold morning air. I knocked on the Briarson's door, and neither Bill nor his wife answered. I waited nearly an hour, and decided to open the door and walk in. I wish I had not done this. I wish I had left [sic] right then. The house was empty, but only just so. Cold coffee was on the table, and muddy footprints – child's foot prints – were tracked through the house. At first I only saw the path leading from the door to what must have been a bedroom; it was not until later I saw the tracks on the walls, and on the ceiling. After expunging my stomachs of its contents, I quickly left the house. Dear Lord, what has happened to such a good family? What foulness has set upon them? I reported what I saw to the constable. I pray that whatever is happening, I may be the Lord's shining light through these dark times.

23 September 1801

My curiosity perhaps, or perhaps my pride, drew me to the Briarson's back lot, where just a week before the Briarson child lay at rest. Now, there was a soggy empty hole which felt vacant like an eye socket, peering at me with blind spite. The child's body was gone! I have sent a letter to a good friend, Marcus Patton, in Portland, requesting he come immediately. I informed the perplexed constable of the vacant grave, and have resigned myself to the church until Marcus arrives.

A hastily written letter addressed to a Marcus Patton acts as a bookmark.

23 September 1801

Marcus, my friend, something terrible is happening. A boy I saw buried with my own two eyes has risen from the grave, and I fear has claimed two lives – those of his parents. I must ask that you come, warrior of our Lord, for my faith alone cannot heal this blight – of this I am sure! Please come at once. Your friend,

Cornelius Goddard

7 October 1801

In the earliest hours of the morning, I awoke to a child screaming from somewhere in town. I know what the town must think of me; some dark cloud has shadowed our home, and their priest is too fearful to leave his church. What faith must this inspire? My fears do not yet let me leave this church; it is not my sanctuary, but my burden, my prison. If my faith were stronger, it would indubitably steel my resolve; I wish I were stronger. Strange sounds can be heard in the night, some animals – others something else. If God once watched over this town, he does so no longer; God has turned a blind eye to us. Last night, I thought I heard scraping from underneath the floor, coming from the cellar. I dare not investigate, for no rat or rodent has ever ailed this church; whatever it is, it came with the storm. I have since used the oak beam to seal the door from opening from the inside.

8 October 1801

I hear scratching at the other side of the door. No one has come to church today. I do not know who – or what – is left in the town. At night I see fey glints of light wandering the streets from this study. I dare not light a candle.

10 October 1801

Marcus arrived last night. He called to me from the second story window. His face was the shade of bleached bone. Part of it was missing. He asked me to let him in. He told me that he had come for me, as I had asked, and I should ask him in. It was the face of my friend, but it was something else inside which wore him, as one might wear a suit or a hat! He would not leave, not even the invocation of our Lord and Savior drew his attention, whether it be scorn or disgust, he showed neither. Endlessly, he requested I let him in. I did not, and near sun rise, Marcus eventually fled to some dark corner. I will attempt to make my way from [sic] tomorrow night; I feel the dark shadow which has spread across our town is lengthening.

Added hastily: As I reviewed my previous journal entries, any and every mention of [sic] has been made mottled or indistinct. Our town shall certainly be forsaken; no longer will people speak of [sic]. We have been damned.

"It ends there," Mark was staring at the words on the paper, reaching the last of the entries.

"Jesus," Jeff put his hands to his temples. "So whatever has been happening to this town has been happening since the eighteen hundreds?" There was a hint of terrified reverence in his voice. "Places like this don't exist.”

The storm began to pick up outside. Jeff heard an old wooden door, or perhaps a gate blown open by the turbulent wind outside. "Maybe they shouldn't, but they do." Mark said. "And the only thing we have to do is sit tight – we've just got to sit tight until dawn, and we'll be fine." There was confidence in his voice. He looked older in the dim light cast by the moon.

"Yeah, 'til dawn," Mark felt that nagging, that tip of the tongue, tip of the damn conscious mind, something which his subconscious picked up but could not translate to him, he knew there was something important something he missed, something his mind was unable to piece together fully and then the pieces floated away. He shook it off, and stood up to look at the crowd which had gathered below.

Dull light glittered in semi-circles, blinking in and out, the town below alive with movement. Some of the eyes scaled the houses like flies on a carcass; stemming from every which way and traversing another. Mark did not count the sets of eyes; he did not want to know how many of them were down there, waiting, hungry.

“Wait, where did you get the piece of wood we used to block the door?” Mark realized they had used the beam which held the cellar shut to secure the front door. Jeff looked confused for a moment, and then he understood. Almost at that exact moment the door to the study opened. The door let out a creak, and Jeff spun around to see what had made the noise. There wasn't any time to say or do anything. Jeff was at one moment vertical, and the next horizontal, his head hitting the floor with a dull thud. Mark could not see Jeff, but he could hear whatever had knocked him down feeding on him; the slurping, the crunching.

"Oh god.. Mark," He said raggedly, and began to cry. The creatures skin was waxen and white, it looked like a man – hunched over. Mark imagined its mouth a chasm of needles. He realized this was not just food, or sustenance, but somehow terrible, depraved. It was a perverse lust which came over the creature. Mark realized that Jeff was dead, and he would be next unless he didn't get moving and quick.

He ran toward the window, opened it, and climbed out. There was no hesitation, there was simply that voice again; Get out. There is still time.

The creature had killed, and was now eating his friend, Mark knew this and if perhaps his conscious mind had been in control, not the primal urge to survive which drove him now, he would have given up all hope. He thought of this, and processed this as unnecessary information for the moment; the moment required getting the fuck out, that's it - nothing else. Unfortunately the only way out was through the window.

The roof was tiled, and like the rest of the town had gone bad. Mark could see thick support beams which ran to the steeple. On the steeple was a weathered lightning rod in the shape of a cross. He wanted to tell someone how shitty it was that the safest place in this god forsaken town was on a roof, but Jeff was gone. Dead. And Mark realized that he only had himself, and his life depended on it.

Mark clamored up the soft roof as carefully as he could, but not sparing any more time than necessary. Rain whipped at him violently and veins of light streaked the sky. Lightning patches illuminated dozens of vampires below, watching Mark ascend.

Mark glanced behind himself as he climbed against the rotting old roof; his back was pins and needles, and it felt like ice. He knew the thing was behind him, watching him squirm. He reached the cross and, grabbing it, pulled himself up to the steeple.

The lightning rod buckled slightly under his weight. For a moment Mark thought of falling, and how he hoped the fall would kill him. The lightning rod held, and he was able to pull himself up. He found that the rod wasn't bolted down – the base had been inserted into a hole on the platform unsecured. He stood behind the cross, and in a moment the sky lit up. The smell of ozone burned his nostrils, and the sound of thunder pierced his ear drums.

"I'm going to die now, sorry Uncle Brad." Mark thought to himself. His parents would never know what happened to him. If this is how it ended, he didn't want them to know.

Mark heard splitting of wood; the white creature. The Vampire. The creature approached, pressed against the roof like a fly against a wall. "Now is your time to die, child." It had an uncomfortable voice; one which does not speak English as much as it sounds it out.

Mark stepped behind the iron cross defensively. "Oh," the voice glinted, full of pity. "Those tricks do nothing." The voice was that of two boulders being rubbed together. "Your sigil has no power." The Vampire grinned ghoulishly. "Kneel before me.” The Vampires eyes were alight. His eyes made Mark's skin crawl.

"I offer you life eternal. All I ask from you is but a drink. I will baptize you, as I did your friend, in the river of the night," He reveled in himself. "He does not yet stir, but soon... soon," He licked his lips fiendishly, and his face began to pull back into a vulpine snarl. The voice that was once boulders rubbing together was now a whisper, but a suggestion – a persuasive one at that. "Kneel before me," His voice was quaking in exultation; he mistook Mark's quiet fear as defeat. Mark clutched the old iron sigil for dear life. His skin felt itchy, tingly, electrified.

Light filled the sky in a ribbon of fey blue light. "You will worship me," it sneered. "It enjoys this - toying with me. This son of a bitch doesn't get many visitors," Mark thought, not in futility but with bleak understanding.

The rain was pouring down; the fat droplets bit Marks skin and he subconsciously began to shiver. "You could kill me right now," Mark said from behind the cross, still using it as a shield. "Yes." The Vampires eyes drew tightly on him. "Why don't you?" Mark heard himself ask in a faraway voice. The creature looked taken aback for a moment, stunned, and then a coy look crossed his face. "There is much to show you of my kingdom," He said, smiling madly and focusing on the indistinct silhouettes which made up the town below. "My hunger is quiet now. And I will need to make you last a long, long time." The Vampire was drooling. Marks skin felt electrified, as if some transducer of electricity – he felt an ocean of force build up behind his right arm and that internal alarm said but one thing:

Stab Him.

Mark withdrew the lightning rod like a sword. The Vampires' eyes lit up madly. He thrust the cross forward as hard as he could. It missed the place where a heart would be, if it had one, by four or five inches. Instead it slipped through the pale chest and the waxen skin, with surprisingly little resistance. Marks eyes met the Vampires. He meant to say something, something meaningful, something powerful – something that would drive the Vampire away, to die off in the night. Mark could not speak, but his snarling face spoke for him; I killed you, you son of a bitch.

The Vampire laughed, and began to pull the sword deeper into itself - through itself - pulling Mark closer, gnashing its giant maw of needles. As it did so, Mark knew it was laughing at him. The Vampire slashed at Mark with its scythe like fingers, and he put up his hands defensively. Fine blood red mist sprayed from three severed fingers on his left hand. Mark howled in pain.

The Vampire bared its teeth. "I will find your people. I will find your mother and feed her to your father, and then I will eat them both," It snarled. Mark could feel its breath which stank of decay and long dead things. And then his arm was alight with pain. A fey blue light enveloped his right arm as a crack of lightning touched his shoulder. The energy coursed down his right arm, to his hand and bridged to the old cross now buried deep within the Vampires' chest. The creatures eyes widened and it snarled. The Vampire cursed incoherently, eyes turning to jet black slits, his jaw unhinging, ready for his final course, its face contorting in what could only be pain. The Vampire stopped, its hands awkwardly finding the gaping wound in its chest.

The hair on Mark's arm shriveled, and then knew what he smelled like cooked medium rare. The blue light dimmed, and the rush of energy, not the pain, had left dissipated. There was a sickening rupturing sound, and then something wet. Blood began to pour out of the Vampires orifices. The Vampire hissed dully, faltered and fell to one knee, then tumbled off the roof. The creatures below rushed toward the corpse. Three husks approached on all fours as scavengers would a destitute corpse; greedily. There was a loud pop, like the sound a water balloon hits hot pavement. The Vampire exploded in a gratuitous hail of blood. Mark could hear hissing, and he saw the undead shrink back to their dark, in-between places.

"Oh what the fuck just happened," Mark said to himself, exhausted, and in excruciating pain. He tried to move his right arm. It felt well done. Mark passed out atop the steeple, clutching the cross.

The early rays of sunlight hit Marks face, and he woke nearly immediately. He slowly descended the top of the roof; he had a surprising amount of energy for what he had been put through, but it was more than likely borrowed time; adrenaline, and he would make as much use of it as he could. He went to the Volkswagen and tried to start it. The engine sputtered, but became stronger, as if shaking the dust of a season off. Mark pulled away from the small town, though he knew a piece of him would never leave.

He was unsure of where he was going, or how much gas he had left. He just wanted to get the hell out of here. So he drove. He had no idea which road he took, only that it was one far away from here. Mark didn't stop until he reached Verna, another town he had never heard of, but this one had cars, and people, and a sign that said "Welcome to Verna, Massachusetts!"

Mark found his way to the hospital, and collapsed in the entry way. He was treated for severe burns, and slept for almost seventy two hours.

He lay there with a bandage around his arm, in a cramped hospital bed. The room was off-white, and it smiled of pine-sol. His eyes fluttered open, and there was a doctor sitting patiently in a chair with a notebook. He was an older man with thin white hair, and a face lined with years. He peered out from behind his glasses, "How you feelin'?" He said, and stated flatly "any pain of the head? Blurriness in your vision?"

Mark shook his head. "I feel groggy is all," Mark was quiet though obviously in pain. "I don't remember anything,"

"That's right," The doctor nodded slightly, and spoke in a concerned tone, “The nurses mentioned that. You might have what's called stress induced amnesia; you know what it is?"

Mark nodded a little. "The gist of it, I guess. I understand the idea," He understood alright. He understood that if he said he was attacked by vampires, they'd toss him in the looney bin.

"Whatever happened to you must have been something... your subconscious likely blocked it out." The doctor fingered his clipboard. "Over time you might begin to remember parts... you should probably look into some therapy about this; your wounds will heal, but you had some shock, kid. You're going to need to take it easy for a while. You've been in and out for the last half hour, but you're pretty lucid now. We're going to keep you for a while, and one of the nurses is going to get your information – we'll call your folks, okay?" Mark nodded slightly.

"I don't want to scare you Mark, but you had a lot of blood on you when you came in – that means something coming from a doctor – we're used to it. It wasn't your blood, either." The doctor looked at him like he was a wounded animal. "Do you recall who Jeff Hill is?" the doctor said cautiously. "Yeah, he was – is," Mark corrected himself, "He's my friend." The doctor looked at him gravely. "The police are going to want to talk to you, get as much information as they can about what happened," the doctor sighed. "But we haven't heard or seen from him yet, there's been no sign."

And there wouldn't be, Mark was sure of this. Just as he had been sure to stab that son of a bitch in the heart with that cross. He was as sure as this as he was that there would be no body. Because sometimes the dead do not die. They hang around like a dark cloud.

"It's actually pretty amazing... I've seen some burns kid, but yours left you relatively unharmed. You're lucky," The doctor got up, and took a step to leave, but stopped. "Do you need anything before I leave?" the doctor asked, concerned.

"Something for sleep. Something to knock me out," He said, tired.

Mark slept for another eight hours. When he woke there was white moonlight filtering through the blinds at his window. His stomach hurt, his hand hurt, his whole body hurt. And then he heard it.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

There was something at the window. A face Mark recognized. It was a face he wanted to forget.

“Let me in Mark. It's so cold out here. You owe me.”

The Head: Short Story

2011-08-04T16:30:00.002-07:00

In the moments before dusk while the autumn sun was slowly setting and the winds still played their sprinkling notes over red and golden leaves, a boy lead his father down a dirt path through a small park. “There it is dad.” The boy, who could be no older than eleven said. He extended his index finger and pointed. His father looked at where his son pointed, paused for a moment, and cringed. “Son of a… you weren’t fibbin’,” the father said, a little astonished. A head hung from the wild mass of oak tree in front of the man and his son.
Rays of light escaped through slits in the canopy, dust motes slowly drifted through the cool air, and the head of a middle-aged man with a stony-face rocked silently in the breeze. “I told you!” The child said triumphantly, as his father had not believed his claims. He stood there puzzled. The head itself was not in decay; its cheeks still flush, the face more somber than dead. “It’s a head alright,” He admitted; whatever else he had meant to say escaped him at that very moment. He stood there with his jaw locked, on the verge of a syllable, but he had come to the conclusion that words alone could not describe how strange this was. “Son, you head down to Mr. Raines house – he’s a policeman, and surely he should know of this and could provide us with clarity into this situation. Let him know what we’ve seen here and that your father will vouch for you.” The boy nodded, and ran down the winding path toward help. “Hello?” The father said in a brisk, stern voice, just as his son was out of earshot. The head took on an illusory floating appearance; the fine line from which it dangled seemed to disappear in the purple tones just before night set on. “Are you… alive?” There – he could swear the head moved, perhaps not much, but it did and of this he was sure. He reeled back from the ghastly face.

A husky policeman made a valiant effort to keep up with the boy, his ruddy face testimony to the pace which was necessary to have been kept. He drew in ragged breaths as they made their way through overgrown ivy and dense foliage on either side of the path. “Hold up a second there boy,” He said, breathing in sharply, and believing this very second he may have a heart attack should he not slow his ascent over the small hill. “It’s just around the corner Officer Raines,” the child said, as eager as a schoolboy could be. The policeman used the brim of his hat to soak up the sweat on his drenched forehead. He saw the boys’ father, and knew him by name. “Edward Thistle? Something like that.” He thought to himself, and disregarded the thought with a wag of his jowls.

“Edward, your boy here says-“ As he approached, ready to recite the cry wolf parable, his eyes fell on what appeared to be a head suspended by some type of fishing line from one of the old gnarled oak trees.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” The officer said, his flush skin burning against the rapidly cooling night air. “Your son ain’t a liar,” The policeman said a little shocked. The little boy was quiet, excited to see how the adults handled the situation, vindicated, though he did know not this word, is how he felt. “Officer Raines, should you not attempt to examine the, err,” Edward fumbled. “The body… or what’s left of it?” He finished eager to see what a trained eye in the art of detection and forensics might find. In truth, Harley Raines was neither trained in the art, nor was he especially qualified for the job. “Well, of course.” The officer said matter-of-factly. He approached the floating head, taking slow, careful steps forward into the thick brush. At a distance of four or five feet, the officer stopped in his tracks, his voice wavering slightly. “Ah, well, this is obviously a head which has been… separated from its body.” He said this as if presenting new information, keenly observed through an eye over a microscope. He stood on his tippy toes to see just where the fishing line had been attached, but his nerves would not let his curiosity venture too far. “Well, Edward, we should really be calling a, you know – professional. I’ll fetch the coroner. He’ll know what to make of this, and once we know the cause of death we’ll be able to cut the poor guy’s head down, and find the monster that did this.” Officer Raines appeared to have convinced Edward and his son, and made a pudgy trot to his police car.

A thin, pale man in a black coat held a flashlight that trembled audibly in the dark, causing the loose connections inside to produce an intermittent flicker of light. The coroner had thick framed glasses, and jowls like a hound dog. “Oh,” He said, surprised, as if he came upon someone changing. “So a hanging head. Not exactly what I pictured, Harley.” He said in an attempt to sound facetious amidst the morbid atmosphere. He ran his fingers through what remained of his fine silver hair. “Well, let’s take a look, shall we?” The coroner banged the metal flashlight again, struggling to keep the floating head illuminated. All three men stopped. The head swayed slowly, as if being propelled by some revenant autumn breeze. One of the eyes flicked open, though, not in the normal sense. The lower lid retracted, revealing beady black gemstones. “What in heaven’s name – “The coroner stopped, his face suddenly shrinking behind his coke-bottle glasses. The head began to sway in a lateral motion, slightly, like a child on a swing trying to gain momentum. The other eye flicked open, the last of the day's light fading into the coal black shards. “Perhaps we should get a specialist out here,” suggested the coroner, his voice rising to a choked falsetto. He looked helplessly to the officer, then to Edward, and probably would have turned to the boy had he known he was there. There was a creak from somewhere high above; the oak groaned. The head rocked back and forth, and began to soar through the air. It exhausted a shriek, like hinge that needs grease, and it echoed through the otherwise silent twilight. There was a wet sound - a sick sound. The sound watermelon makes as it is dropped on hard-concrete. Hundreds of busy machine-like teeth bit into the coroners head. The little boy ran down the path, swiftly and silently as young boys do in times which they need to be unheard. The policeman fumbled with his firearms holster, his clammy hands slipping over the brass snap. “Shoot the goddamn thing Officer Raines, shoot the damn thing!” Edward shouted, he himself beginning to run away from the hungry teeth which were finishing the last of what was left of the coroners head. Raines finally freed his weapon, the sound of his gun cutting through the slick sloshing sounds like fireworks on the fourth of July. The shot must have hit its mark, but only succeeded in making whatever the hell it was angry. The head expelled a sharp, alien cry which reminded the policeman of seagulls fighting over trash at the pier. And those were the officer’s last thoughts. The head lowered itself against the earth, and vaulted into the air, clinging to officers Raines scalp in passing, and removed a sizable chunk of his skull in the process. There was a hollow sound, an aimless shot which fired into the dark, and then silence. Edward imagined the officers trigger finger squeezing away at his pistol in vain, the top of his skull removed like a cap, and the creature – whatever it was – drinking, no – feasting – on the officers vitae. The last of the light had long since been extinguished, and Edward now realized how alone he was.

Scared, he began to run aimlessly away from this gruesome scene. As he ran toward the way which he believed he had come, his foot became caught in thick ivy and he toppled over into the undergrowth. Edward heard the sound of movement from somewhere nearby. “Hello?” He said quietly. “Is… someone there?” He asked cautiously, though he meant something, hoped to god there was no reply, and waited with bated breath for a response. The teacher heard nothing. Edwards’s eyes slowly began to adjust to the darkness – he had not made it far at all, and could see the vague outline of the path perhaps thirty feet from where he was now standing. He ran at a full, mad, sprint toward the path, vaulting over the dark shapes on the ground – rocks, bushes, and rotted out logs, he imagined; with every step his desire for life grew and his resignation to death dwindled. Edward flew across the dark woodland landscape toward the amber streetlights he could now make out through twisted and gnarled branches. Silhouetted, however, against the orange-gold glow of safety he could see dozens of heads; he saw shadows but knew them as they were, descending from the silent and still canopy above. As if sensing his despair, the familiar terrible sound of the clacking, machine like teeth rang out in chorus around him. Edward, frantic, made his silent pleas and bargains to a god he knew would not answer. And then he stopped dead in his tracks; a crude image of his face. A dull spider’s carapace was, as he stood mouth agape, taking upon the form of his face, deflating like a balloon to accommodate even the smallest details and scars, carving out a near perfect relief from within. Edward cried out in dismay but could not run. The streetlights which had been so close were now blacked out by hundreds of suspended heads which slowly descended from above, as if someone had just rung the dinner bell.

The Shadow Down the Street

2011-08-04T16:29:00.001-07:00

There are houses like it in most small towns. Some are set about a mile out of town, as if peering in coldly, its windows dim eyes and the air around it stale, while others are nestled tightly like teeth, its decay sorely sticking out. This is the house that people jokingly suggest as haunted as they pass by, or the house that a friend of a friend swears he heard something weird one night; both would be right, as both are true. The house is haunted, in a sense, like all houses are haunted. A place absorbs a memory – sometimes you can feel it on a hot day – like walking into a dream, or sometimes late at night when the midnight mist rolls in and the street lamps become glowing golden orbs, and the last days of summer feel like they will last forever.
This was a brown house, and was likely made at some point in the sixties –a split level ranch, as was the neighbor to either side, and each neighbor aside those. Every third or fourth driveway along Fig street had a basketball hoop, and most of the lawns were well kept. Except this lawn, because it belonged to this house. The lawn was as dead as the house was cold. There were patches of weeds and crabgrass; clods of dirt and the husks of long dead plants littered the yard, and near the front door was a pile of old newspapers. But even as families on the street grew up or moved away and their houses were sold, this one seemed to never be occupied. Not in any of the resident’s life times – any who still lived in the neighborhood at least – could even recall the house ever being listed for sale. No one was too concerned with it – not the adults anyway – they supposed they knew what the problem was; it was like any other house, except this one had problems, and would need a good landscaper to boot. The kids however, they knew what the problem was; the house was cancer. Inside was something evil – something terrible. Inside the house there was something that – up until recently – only gobbled up kids in their nightmares. Up until recently, there were a dozen or more children playing on Fig Street at the corner of 5^th. Now there were none; now, there were only three kids on their bicycles staring forlornly into the dead eyes of the house. Now, it was just them. Now, they were alone.

“Brad, you know this is like – crazy – right? This kind of thing doesn’t exist, and we’re just being stupid kids – you know that right?” Andy said this in a tone which dissuaded any notion that he may in fact believe it. Andy was a lanky brown haired kid who was wearing a black Jurassic Park t-shirt. The other boys, Brad and Andy, didn’t move. This is what the trio did now, now that the children on Fig had seemingly dried up and turned to dust. Each of them had a reason to suspect something dark was in that house, but the downside of crying wolf is that when you’re only twelve, no one ever believes you – even if all of the sheep are all gone.

No one knows who the first ones were, but all the kids on Fig street from as far back as Brad could remember told scary stories about the house, kids disappearing – the type of thing that stirs your imagination once a year for Halloween, and eludes your minds’ eye for most of the remaining eleven months. Sometimes the kids, who ‘disappeared’, were later to be found as runaways and some of the families just had loose roots and wound up in Fisher Minnesota or some other unheard of place – but not many. The disappearances that could be explained totaled forty eight, at least according to the local police, but this was over the course of twenty years, so while the police officers who would look into these claims may have at one point seen or heard of other kids disappearing on Fig, it was never enough to cause any concern. Not until recently. Had an officer taken a look two years ago, they would have noticed one glaring problem: all of the reports were of children. Now, they were putting together the pieces. The disappearances were picking up – six children reported missing since last year. Brad didn’t need this figure, though – his friends had been taken in the night and if he didn’t stop whatever was in the house he knew he would be next. He had seen into the heart of the house before. He knew it, and it knew him.

Andy glanced at his watch, a cheap Timex indiglo, and cautiously – “It’s almost six guys, we should head home before it gets dark.” Andy didn’t know if he exactly bought into the witchy Scooby-doo haunted house idea, not entirely at least, but whenever he passed the house, man it gave him the creeps. His mom said there was a perv-o running around snatching up the kids, he had heard her say it one night when she and her father had too much to drink and she forgot Andy was at the table. She had been discussing, over five or so glasses of wine, the recent disappearances – the first since a year ago when three other kids Brad relinquished, and shook his head, irritated. He looked at Andy, and then Ned.

“You know one of these days we’re going to go to sleep, and never wake up at all?” Brad said bluntly. “Or what if we do wake up; I wonder what happens to the kids that are taken. D’ya think if they had a choice they would go in their sleep? I think so.” Brad looked to Andy. “I know you guys think I’m some freak, but sometimes they come back. I hear them outside when everyone else is asleep. I know it sounds like make believe, but sometimes at night I can’t sleep because they are out there and I can feel them looking at me. I can feel them!” Brad looked terrified as he said this, but his voice was firm. Neither Ned, nor Andy, nor Brad said anything for a minute, but each was acutely aware of the dimming landscape. “I don’t think you’re crazy,” Ned began. He looked at Andy and then back to Brad. “I’ve heard things too, or at least I think I have. The dea-“ he fumbled, searching for the words “-they sometimes play outside my window at night. I don’t see them, but I think I hear them, whispering in the dark. And I think they’re whispering about us.” Ned said quietly. “That’s bologna, guys, Mark and Jimmy and Vanessa were kidnapped by some pervoid, that’s what the cops think – you two are just trying to have one over on me, or you think I’m some stupid kid. I’m not a kid.” Andy protested. Brad shook his head. “If you don’t believe us – spend the night tonight. They come around most nights.” Andy considered this a moment. “Are you guys serious? Like, really serious? ‘Cause they were my friends too – and if this is some kind of prank or joke, just drop it now because that’s really mean. They were my friends too,” Andy said, hurt, his armor of disbelief now gave way to just how scared he really was, and for once his true age was not belied by his tall, lanky body. In his face shone a frightened twelve year old boy – a young twelve at that. Each of them – even Andy – felt the unreality of the situation wash over them. Perhaps there were dead children, and the house was cursed? No one can prepare for that, and boys of a certain age will always find a haunted house – sometimes it’s only haunted in their minds; but this time there was something more than that. “No, it’s not like that.” Brad shook his head slowly and suddenly felt as though Andy might somehow be worst off, as the last bits of incredulity broke away from the corners of his eyes in the shape of tears. The piercing tones of an alarm clock broke the moment. “The sun sets at 6:12 tonight, and it’s 6 right now –“

“I know, I only live like four houses away Andy,” Brad reassured him, “we’ll make it.” The street lights worked intermittently at best on Fig street, and since the disappearances of their friends, Mark, Jimmy, and Vanessa – and the other three children last fall – the parents who did not just up and move held a tight curfew; most kids played inside these days, there were the Butler kids who were cooped up all day, and were driven to and from school, and Andy had heard that their parents didn’t even let them play outside any more. Brad knew this to be mostly true – he was friends with the Butler boy; it’s not that his mother didn’t let him play in the yard, but that she could only maintain short periods of him playing outside before she freaked herself out, imagining that someone was going to swoop in and steal him like a harpy. There were the Cooper twins, but they were always off to themselves – so not much was different there, but it had only been recently that they began to stare forlornly at the street. It was like looking at an old picture, remembering how life used to be, and realizing the picture is staring back. There was Danny Fisher; his mom had taken him out of Wilcox Elementary, and had begun to homeschool him. Whenever Andy, Ned, or Brad tried to get him to come out and play, his mom would answer the door with the same excuse as every time before “Danny has homework, he’ll be out again when his homework is done.” She would say to them, the sense of urgency bleeding through her otherwise calm – if not stern – voice. Brad thought it was like people were scared, but didn’t know it – or if they did – they didn’t know why, even though they tried to tell themselves it was a kidnapper, or a molester, it was somehow worse than that and everyone knew it. No one else but Brad would admit it, but he certainly was not the only one to notice.

The boys crossed the street and walked their bikes between the cars that lined the curb. Each of the boys was caught in his own thoughts. It was an uneasy quiet that was accentuated by the clicking of derailleurs. “So how come you guys aren’t scared.” Andy asked, slightly injured, feeling weak. “There’s this house down the street from where we live that kills kids. Was it just that easy for you to ignore all of the times we’ve been told this kind of thing doesn’t exist?”

“I’m scared. I’ve been scared every day since Jimmy, Mark, and Vanessa disappeared. There’s only so much that you can take before you just get kind of numb to it, I guess.” Ned didn’t respond. “And besides, its dangerous to let fear control you.” Brad suddenly wished he had a thicker sweatshirt on. His black hoodie was stretched and worn, and the months to come were bound to be colder.