tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57258215221002447952024-02-18T22:41:38.841-05:00Helvetica's Indie Horror StoriesOriginal dark fiction and horror stories, authored and illustrated by myself, Timothy J. Whitcher, as well as updates on my creative projects. Also contains my musings on writing, both fiction and non-fiction, movies, comics and the paranormal... and anything else I damn well please.Tim Whitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18072021569016967821noreply@blogger.comBlogger116125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725821522100244795.post-53104380911825912612018-09-16T20:57:00.002-04:002018-09-16T20:57:51.016-04:00<div abp="1940">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Comb’s Dear Nightmare</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p><a data-cthref="https://www.google.com/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=2ahUKEwjNhaGp6sDdAhWK34MKHfKqDVwQjRx6BAgBEAU&url=https%3A%2F%2Faminoapps.com%2Fc%2Fcomics%2Fpage%2Fblog%2Fwhat-if-the-x-men-joined-the-mcu%2FrZie_u0glPb0qR2WJ1qk3RP8zQEeKQ&psig=AOvVaw125o2YFXKnx_t6QC14ID6s&ust=1537232152730899" data-ved="2ahUKEwjNhaGp6sDdAhWK34MKHfKqDVwQjRx6BAgBEAU" href="https://www.google.com/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=2ahUKEwjNhaGp6sDdAhWK34MKHfKqDVwQjRx6BAgBEAU&url=https%3A%2F%2Faminoapps.com%2Fc%2Fcomics%2Fpage%2Fblog%2Fwhat-if-the-x-men-joined-the-mcu%2FrZie_u0glPb0qR2WJ1qk3RP8zQEeKQ&psig=AOvVaw125o2YFXKnx_t6QC14ID6s&ust=1537232152730899" id="irc_mil" jsaction="mousedown:irc.rl;keydown:irc.rlk;irc.il;" style="border-image: none; border: 0px currentColor;"><img alt="Image result for dimensional travel" height="248" id="irc_mi" src="https://pm1.narvii.com/6205/93e34373b3340fd0517c09d0b00def91b3cff1c6_hq.jpg" style="margin-top: 0px;" width="400" /></a></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please excuse my
penmanship and grammar as I hastily write this entry, but I fear that it is
best that I transcribe this incident as soon as possible, while these sequences
of events are still relatively clear in my mind’s eye. An eye that grows more clouded
by the hour.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Harold Comb has
been a psychiatric patient of mine for the last two weeks. This writing
concerns him, or should I say concerns what has happened in his regard. Comb
became my patient through recommendation of a colleague, who shall remain
nameless, for his protection. My colleague had sent Comb to me with what he
said was some reluctance, and I should’ve read more into the waiver in his
voice as he relayed the patient’s situation to me. It seems Harold Comb
stumbled upon my colleague through pure chance, having wandered, delirious, no
less, into a garden party at said colleague’s home. The lady of the house as
well as the guests were frightened to the point of near terror, but my
colleague was intrigued with Comb’s story and against his better judgement,
calmed the poor fellow and even went so far as in offering to take the
gentleman home, upon which Comb stated, “I have none!” and consequently fell
unconscious. Comb was rushed to hospital and soon after became lucid once
again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is when Comb, with my colleague and the
attending nurse by his side, told his queer tale in further curious detail.
Comb stated that he was from the city of Ashtonworth, in the provence of
Rhiley, in the country of Saldesta, a country that obviously doesn’t exist. He
had no memory of how he came to be in our city. Comb, confused, didn’t
recognize the names of any of the countries the good Doctor related to him
either, although saying there was a country like “Germany” yet spelled
“Jermeny” in his imagined world. Comb became agitated by the Doctor’s inquiries
and refused to answer any more questions until his story was heard. The patient
became physical and orderlies were summoned to restrain him. Once given a
powerful sedative, he began to ramble. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He claimed he was not a man, but a ten year
old boy, saying he awoke in this hideous city in the body of a man. Baffled by
his whereabouts and repulsed by his anatomy, Comb stumbled through the lamp
post lit city streets until, in desperation, followed the sounds of laughter
and music, lurching into the garden of the Doctor. At this point in the
patient’s story, the Doctor asked what came before… could he remember? Comb lay
silent on the bed, eyes closed. Just as the Doctor expected no answer, Comb’s
eyes sprung open. He fought and strained against the restraints, clawing at the
bed linens. Veins stood out in his neck, Comb gnashed his teeth, grimacing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“That’s when they came! The ceiling! The melting…!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At this point, the Doctor felt it best to sedate Comb, and
the patient slept through the night with no further incident. The following
day, Comb remembered nothing of the previous night. He gave my colleague his
address, and even provided identification, which was verified. The Doctor
explained his unusual behavior from the night before to Comb, who showed
legitimate concern for his actions. He even admitted to suffering blackouts,
but being a bachelor and living alone, had no realization of ever leaving his
flat. The Doctor calmed him, saying this may have been the first time, but he
recommended that Comb should see a sleep specialist, which you already know, I
am. The Doctor also explained that he felt my studies and practice of hypnotism
may be beneficial. Comb became my patient the following day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My first session
with Harold Comb was uneventful. I simply related what I knew of him and his
situation, explaining that through experimental hypnosis techniques I intended
to eliminate the blackouts, sleep walking and hypnogogic delusions he was
experiencing. Delusions that remained buried in his subconscious; Harold Comb,
in his concern for his mental health, agreed, signing the necessary forms of
treatment and release. I scheduled Comb as my last patient today, excusing my
receptionist an hour prior to his arrival. Unbeknownst to my receptionist or
Comb, my treatment was anything but sanctioned, and the fewer who knew, the
better.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Comb showed
precisely at 5:30, although he seemed different than he did in our initial
meeting. He diverted his eyes and shuffled to his seat across from me, with no
greeting. I did get a greeting upon forwarding one myself, however. I quickly
went over the procedure that would include a mild sedative. I held back that I
would also be administering a dose of a drug that causes temporary paralysis of
the limbs. As I stated, this technique was unorthodox, but not without warrant
in my studies. Comb took the pills, first putting the pills in his mouth from
his right hand, then taking the glass of water from me with his right also, swallowing
with one gulp. Comb’s left hand was clenched tight, and must’ve been since
entering my office. I proceeded to put him into a hypnotic trance, using a
series of suggestions and mannerisms I’ve perfected over the years. Soon he was
under my influence. I grabbed my pen and pad.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Harold, can you hear me?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Yes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I need you tell me where you are.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“In your office.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Tell me about you. About the boy.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh my God. I don’t belong here. They brought me. What? Why
are you here? I want to go home! This isn’t me! Mommy, this isn’t me! Don’t!
Take me home! OH MY GOD THEY’RE HERE!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Comb sat across
from me, trembling, staring passed and above me, frozen stiff in that chair. I
turned, instinctively, I turned and looked! I shouldn’t have! I shouldn’t have
looked! God help me, a black cloud was forming in the corner of the room. I
watched incredulous as slim, smoke like tentacles sprouted from that sickening
black mass, tendrils stretching out… I threw myself to the floor, covering my
head with clasped hands as I heard the bloodcurdling shrieks of poor Comb!
Comb, unable to move, unable to avert or even close his eyes! Seeing it all!
Then came the sounds, the guttural sounds of a man drowning, air being forced
from lungs… then silence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I came to just
moments ago, sitting in my chair, the chair that sat across from where Comb had
been sitting, that chair now empty. My shirt soaked through with sweat. My
hands gripping the arms so tightly, my knuckles ached upon loosening my grip.
I’d fallen asleep. Comb had never been here. It had been a dream, a nightmare,
I told myself. Comb had shrugged off the appointment. Then I noticed something.
Lying beside the chair across from me. A small object. I picked it up. A small
toy, a little metal car, but unlike any metal I’d felt before. It was ice cold
to the touch. Then, in realization, I looked into the corner of the room behind
me. There, a small black cloud, the size of a walnut, pulsing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still sit here
as I write this. The cloud grows ever so slightly by the hour. I feel I should
leave, but will that stop the inevitable? No.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Tim Whitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18072021569016967821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725821522100244795.post-37336949741435514442016-09-26T23:05:00.001-04:002016-09-26T23:10:17.400-04:00VANISHING HOSE BAFFLES CALIFORNIA!<br />
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The cast of characters in this story are a 38-year-old truck driver named George Di Peso, his 30-year-old wife Ruth, their three children: 12-year-old Susanne, 10-year-old Jean, and 7-year-old George, and, most importantly, one ordinary 1/2-inch (1 cm) diameter, 50-foot (~15 m) garden hose that was about to bring them international fame. No idea on the age of the hose. I’ll just say that it had a lot of energy, so it must have been very young...<br />
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Thursday, June 30th of 1955 started out like any other day at the family’s four-year-old Downey, California home. Should you want to take a peek at the scene of the crime, although I doubt that current owners would appreciate your visit, their home was located at 7739 Alderdale Street. <br />
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So here’s what happened. Mom Ruth asked her daughter Susanne to go out and water the ivy that afternoon. She came back into the house and told her mom that the hose was stuck in the ground. <br />
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Huh? What?<br />
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The two went back outside and sure enough the hose had somehow buried itself into the ground. They tried pulling with all their might, but the hose would not budge. Neighbors came by, but their efforts were futile.<br />
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So, they waited for dad to get home from work. George Di Peso pulled with all the strength of his 170-pound (77-kilograms) frame, but he also had absolutely no success. <br />
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He needed something much stronger. A lightbulb went off in his head. The car! He hitched the hose to the bumper and popped it into low-gear. No luck, the hose snapped close to its free end.<br />
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And here’s where it gets bizarre. The hose appeared to be burying itself deeper and deeper into the ground. It’s Alive!<br />
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Could it really be alive? They decided to place a cloth marker on the hose to see how fast it was descending. They measured that it had moved 18-inches (46 centimeters) in five-hours.<br />
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Read the rest at: <a href="http://www.uselessinformation.org/garden_hose/index.html">http://www.uselessinformation.org/garden_hose/index.html</a><br />
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Check out my books on Amazon Kindle... <br />
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Here are the links:<br abp="204" /><br abp="205" />TRAILER PARK FROM HELL<br abp="206" /><br abp="207" /><a abp="208" href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BAKU8IS"><span abp="209" style="color: #4a4a4a;">http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BAKU8IS</span></a><br abp="210" /><br abp="211" /><div abp="212" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a abp="213" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqottlFEnMm96_E1PccD50VxW7S_Eim7eOsvxqkDbx6tlLcc0dCE83jBx1ZDl5_x-AWomXHpeJZgMhzy7RgDArsbyAuA1A6alzQVCcSVmNSb4qENy-MhFmS301jHVIX9MBHnC7Gv_FddyL/s1600/trailer+park+from+hell+cover2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img abp="214" border="0" closure_uid_837235750="1" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqottlFEnMm96_E1PccD50VxW7S_Eim7eOsvxqkDbx6tlLcc0dCE83jBx1ZDl5_x-AWomXHpeJZgMhzy7RgDArsbyAuA1A6alzQVCcSVmNSb4qENy-MhFmS301jHVIX9MBHnC7Gv_FddyL/s200/trailer+park+from+hell+cover2.JPG" width="143" /></a></div>
<br abp="215" /><br abp="216" />LIFE'S A BITCH. A WEREBITCH.<br abp="217" /><br abp="218" /><a abp="219" href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BFCMNMU"><span abp="220" style="color: #4a4a4a;">http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BFCMNMU</span></a><br abp="221" /><br abp="222" /><br abp="223" /><div abp="224" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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TEN LITTLE TERRORS<div abp="348">
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<a abp="359" href="http://www.amazon.com/Ten-Little-Terrors-ebook/dp/B00CIITW4W/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1366938989&sr=1-1&keywords=ten+little+terrors"><span abp="360" style="color: #4a4a4a;">http://www.amazon.com/Ten-Little-Terrors-ebook/dp/B00CIITW4W/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1366938989&sr=1-1&keywords=ten+little+terrors</span></a></div>
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Tim Whitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18072021569016967821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725821522100244795.post-56707484271045217872016-07-03T21:26:00.000-04:002016-07-03T21:26:12.737-04:00INSOMNIAC: Terrible Minds Writing Challenge<div abp="128">
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The unrelenting Wendig from his terribleminds.com blog has once again prodded the fading embers of my sick little campfire of a mind and brought back enough fire to roast one thousand marshmallow words out of my plastic bag of imagination that I bought at the Seven Eleven during a Tequila binge?</div>
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Well, here it is, burnt and smoking, but I like 'em that way:</div>
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INSOMNIAC</div>
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<span abp="282" style="font-family: "calibri";">Cal’s doctor told him it was insomnia. Sleep state
misperception. Pretty fucking vague term, thought Cal. Pretty fucking vague
term that meant never really sleeping and never really being awake. He barely
felt alive anymore. More like Purgatory, he thought. </span></div>
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<span abp="285" style="font-family: "calibri";"><span abp="286" style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do this, try
that. No caffeine. No TV an hour before bedtime. No computer. No internet.
Drink milk. Don’t drink milk. Try melatonin. Melatonin doesn’t work. <i abp="287" style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Really?</i> he thought as he watched blue
light spill across his bedroom ceiling from the headlights of passing cars.
Were they insomniacs as well? Not the cars, but the people in them; or maybe
both. The slave cars kept awake by their unrelenting masters. </span></div>
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<span abp="290" style="font-family: "calibri";"><span abp="291" style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes the
cold helped, so he had upped the air-conditioning. At first, the cold had
helped occupy his thoughts. It was sixty three degrees in his apartment, though
all he knew was that it was cold, but not cold enough. Or, maybe it needed to
be warmer? </span></div>
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<div abp="680">
<span abp="294" style="font-family: "calibri";"><span abp="295" style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When Cal was a
child, he slept. He could sleep anywhere. School, church, the backseat of his
dad’s Chrysler, the crook in the tree that was in his backyard. Everything was
crisp and clean back then. At age eight he realized there wasn’t really a
boogie man in the closet. The world made perfect sense. Life was fair. Life was
good to that naive kid. Then the world flooded in. The bad world, with bad air,
bad water, bad food… <i abp="296" style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">evil </i>people.
People that meant him harm. People who didn’t even know Cal. People who didn’t
even know they were evil. They made him itch, made him uncomfortable. He worked
with these people. He was related to them. Cal couldn’t get rid of them. Their
conspiracies against him spun webs through his mind, webs tickling, congesting
then consuming his thoughts. Fat, bulbous black spiders sucking sleep from his
brain cells, leaving dry husks cocooned in tumorous clusters. God, let him
sleep! </span></div>
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<span abp="299" style="font-family: "calibri";"><span abp="300" style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had tried
reading; the doctor had said to. At first it seemed to help. He’d gotten
through the first hundred pages of Moby Dick before his eyelids grew heavy, the
book slipping from his hands. Yet as soon as he’d put the book down and curl up
under the covers, the thoughts surfaced like black muck from the bottom of a
clear lake, dirty and vile. Or like a hundred shrill spoiled children screaming
for attention. </span></div>
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<span abp="303" style="font-family: "calibri";"><span abp="304" style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tonight was no
different. However, Cal had come to a realization. Or maybe out of shear
desperation, his mind formed a rationalization. The voices weren’t going away.
Oh, no; they were here to stay. It had been at least three years now. He knew
it was time. Time to start listening. And Cal listened. He listened closely. He
found things out. Powerful things. Dangerous things. Horrible things. Things
that were inevitable.</span></div>
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<span abp="307" style="font-family: "calibri";"><span abp="308" style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was five in
the morning by the time he fell into a fitful sleep. Dreams swirled behind
rolling eyes; pillars of fire seared his skin, dust and smoke choked his lungs,
a crushing blow shattered his bones. Cal awoke, struggling free from the sweat
soaked sheet that had bound him. Panting, he sat on the edge of his bed. Shaking,
he tried to gain composure, reaching for the TV remote on his night stand,
switching to the morning news report on CNN hoping the reality of the outside
world would wash the thoughts and nightmares from his psyche.</span></div>
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<span abp="311" style="font-family: "calibri";"><span abp="312" style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cal didn't see
what he had expected to see. There were no talking heads with perfect hair and
knowing expressions sitting behind laminated plywood desks, green-screen images
flowing in an LCD river behind them. All Cal saw was a lone reporter, who looked
like he’d just rolled out of bed, hair askew, unshaven and bleary eyed, dressed
in a polo shirt with the collar flipped on one side, shirt hurriedly tucked
into wrinkled khaki pants. Cal would bet there was no camera man, just a camera
on a tripod running a live feed. What was going on?</span></div>
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<span abp="315" style="font-family: "calibri";"><span abp="316" style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“…US government
has not officially responded to the current situation. As of this time, it is
assumed that China has made first strike on New York City. An estimated six
million dead, a million plus seriously wounded and near death. I’m… Dale Henry,
lone reporter, ten miles outside city limits…” he broke down crying, “if you’re
seeing this, within a matter of minutes, fallout from the nuclear… strike will
be upon you… for the love of God…”</span></div>
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<span abp="319" style="font-family: "calibri";">The feed went dead. Cal changed stations. Many were not
broadcasting. FOX network was broadcasting out of California. He watched for an
hour, even though “lone reporter” Dale Henry had pretty much said all that was
known at the time, although they were covering reports of nationwide looting
and vandalism. Military experts debated when to expect further strikes, and
where. Cal watched in numb silence. He didn’t even think to call anyone. What
would he have said?</span></div>
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<span abp="322" style="font-family: "calibri";"><span abp="323" style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sirens wailed
outside, near and distant. A few rescue and police vehicles screaming just
blocks from his street. Cal felt tired. He lay back on his bed, eye lids heavy.
Even the wet sheet didn’t bother him. He became aware that the voices weren’t
there. Cal tried to remember what ol’ Dale had said: fallout in a matter of
minutes? Cal fell into a dead sleep.</span></div>
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<div abp="714">
<div abp="746">
<span abp="327" style="font-family: "calibri";">Checkout my works on Amazon Kindle:</span> </div>
</div>
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<span abp="328" style="font-family: "calibri";">TRAILER PARK FROM HELL <a abp="3892" href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BAKU8IS"><span abp="3893" style="color: #4a4a4a;">http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BAKU8IS</span></a></span></div>
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LIFE'S A BITCH. A WEREBITCH. <a abp="3902" href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BFCMNMU"><span abp="3903" style="color: #4a4a4a;">http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BFCMNMU</span></a></div>
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TEN LITTLE TERRORS</div>
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<a abp="3909" href="http://www.amazon.com/Ten-Little-Terrors-ebook/dp/B00CIITW4W/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1366938989&sr=1-1&keywords=ten+little+terrors"><span abp="3910" style="color: #4a4a4a;">http://www.amazon.com/Ten-Little-Terrors-ebook/dp/B00CIITW4W/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1366938989&sr=1-1&keywords=ten+little+terrors</span></a></div>
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Tim Whitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18072021569016967821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725821522100244795.post-46594123476698581812016-04-17T23:11:00.003-04:002016-04-17T23:33:56.830-04:00Comb's Dear Nightmare<div abp="620">
<div abp="3848">
<span abp="307" style="background-color: #f3f3f3;">Another flash fiction challenge from the warped mind of Chuck Wendig at terribleminds.com</span></div>
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<span abp="3852" style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><br abp="3853" /></span></div>
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<span abp="3856" style="background-color: #f3f3f3;">Pick a title, write a story. I chose:</span></div>
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<span abp="308" style="font-family: "calibri";">Comb’s Dear Nightmare</span></div>
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<span abp="315" style="font-family: "calibri";"><span abp="316" style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please excuse my
penmanship and grammar as I hastily write this entry, but I fear that it is
best that I transcribe this incident as soon as possible, while these sequences
of events are still relatively clear in my mind’s eye. An eye that grows more
clouded by the hour.</span></div>
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<span abp="318" style="font-family: "calibri";"><span abp="319" style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Harold Comb has
been a psychiatric patient of mine for the last two weeks. This writing concerns
him, or should I say concerns what has happened in his regard. Comb became my
patient through recommendation of a colleague, who shall remain nameless, for
his protection. My colleague had sent Comb to me with what he said was some
reluctance, and I should’ve read more into the waiver in his voice as he
relayed the patient’s situation to me. It seems Harold Comb stumbled upon my
colleague through pure chance, having wandered, delirious, no less, into a
garden party at said colleague’s home. The lady of the house as well as the
guests were frightened to the point of near terror, but my colleague was
intrigued with Comb’s story and against his better judgement, calmed the poor
fellow and even went so far as in offering to take the gentleman home, upon
which Comb stated, “I have none!” and consequently fell unconscious. Comb was
rushed to hospital and soon after became lucid once again.</span></div>
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<span abp="321" style="font-family: "calibri";"><span abp="322" style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is when
Comb, with my colleague and the attending nurse by his side, told his queer
tale in further curious detail. Comb stated that he was from the city of
Ashtonworth, in the provence of Rhiley, in the country of Saldesta, a country
that obviously doesn’t exist. He had no memory of how he came to be in our city.
Comb, confused, didn’t recognize the names of any of the countries the good
Doctor related to him either, although saying there was a country like “Germany”
yet spelled “Jermeny” in his imagined world. Comb became agitated by the Doctor’s
inquiries and refused to answer any more questions until his story was heard.
The patient became physical and orderlies were summoned to restrain him. Once
given a powerful sedative, he began to ramble. </span></div>
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<span abp="324" style="font-family: "calibri";"><span abp="325" style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He claimed he was
not a man, but a ten year old boy, saying he awoke in this hideous city in the body
of a man. Baffled by his whereabouts and repulsed by his anatomy, Comb stumbled
through the lamp post lit city streets until, in desperation, followed the
sounds of laughter and music, lurching into the garden of the Doctor. At this
point in the patient’s story, the Doctor asked what came before… could he
remember? Comb lay silent on the bed, eyes closed. Just as the Doctor expected
no answer, Comb’s eyes sprung open. He fought and strained against the restraints,
clawing at the bed linens. Veins stood out in his neck, Comb gnashed his teeth,
grimacing.</span></div>
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<span abp="327" style="font-family: "calibri";">“That’s when they came! The ceiling! The melting…!”</span></div>
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<span abp="329" style="font-family: "calibri";">At this point, the Doctor felt it best to sedate Comb, and
the patient slept through the night with no further incident. The following
day, Comb remembered nothing of the previous night. He gave my colleague his
address, and even provided identification, which was verified. The Doctor
explained his unusual behavior from the night before to Comb, who showed
legitimate concern for his actions. He even admitted to suffering blackouts,
but being a bachelor and living alone, had no realization of ever leaving his
flat. The Doctor calmed him, saying this may have been the first time, but he recommended
that Comb should see a sleep specialist, which you already know, I am. The
Doctor also explained that he felt my studies and practice of hypnotism may be
beneficial. Comb became my patient the following day.</span></div>
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<span abp="331" style="font-family: "calibri";"><span abp="332" style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My first session
with Harold Comb was uneventful. I simply related what I knew of him and his
situation, explaining that through experimental hypnosis techniques I intended
to eliminate the blackouts, sleep walking and hypnogogic delusions he was
experiencing. Delusions that remained buried in his subconscious; Harold Comb,
in his concern for his mental health, agreed, signing the necessary forms of
treatment and release. I
scheduled Comb as the last patient to be seen today, excusing my
receptionist an hour prior to his arrival. Unbeknownst to my receptionist or Comb, my
treatment was anything but sanctioned, and the fewer who knew, the better.</span></div>
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<span abp="334" style="font-family: "calibri";"><span abp="335" style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Comb showed
precisely at 5:30, although he seemed different than he did in our initial
meeting. He diverted his eyes and shuffled to his seat across from me, with no
greeting. I did get a greeting upon forwarding one myself, however. I quickly
went over the procedure that would include a mild sedative. I held back that I
would also be administering a dose of a drug that causes temporary paralysis of
the limbs. As I stated, this technique was unorthodox, but not without warrant
in my studies. Comb took the pills, first putting the pills in his mouth from
his right hand, then taking the glass of water from me with his right also,
swallowing with one gulp. Comb’s left hand was clenched tight, and must’ve been
since entering my office. I proceeded to put him into a hypnotic trance, using
a series of suggestions and mannerisms I’ve perfected over the years. Soon he
was under my influence. I grabbed my pen and pad.</span></div>
</div>
<div abp="620">
<div abp="3927">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="336" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<div abp="3929">
<span abp="337" style="font-family: "calibri";">“Harold, can you hear me?”</span></div>
</div>
<div abp="620">
<div abp="3932">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="338" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<div abp="3934">
<span abp="339" style="font-family: "calibri";">“Yes.”</span></div>
</div>
<div abp="620">
<div abp="3937">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="340" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<div abp="3939">
<span abp="341" style="font-family: "calibri";">“I need you tell me where you are.”</span></div>
</div>
<div abp="620">
<div abp="3942">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="342" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<div abp="3944">
<span abp="343" style="font-family: "calibri";">“In your office.”</span></div>
</div>
<div abp="620">
<div abp="3947">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="344" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<div abp="3949">
<span abp="345" style="font-family: "calibri";">“Tell me about you. About the boy.”</span></div>
</div>
<div abp="620">
<div abp="3952">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="346" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<div abp="3954">
<span abp="347" style="font-family: "calibri";">“Oh my God. I don’t belong here. They brought me. What? Why
are you here? I want to go home! This isn’t me! Mommy, this isn’t me! Don’t!
Take me home! OH MY GOD THEY’RE HERE!”</span></div>
</div>
<div abp="620">
<div abp="3957">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="348" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<div abp="3959">
<span abp="349" style="font-family: "calibri";"><span abp="350" style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Comb sat across
from me, trembling, staring passed and above me, frozen stiff in that chair. I
turned, instinctively, I turned and looked! I shouldn’t have! I shouldn’t have
looked! God help me, a black cloud was forming in the corner of the room. I
watched incredulous as slim, smoke like tentacles sprouted from that sickening
black mass, tendrils stretching out… I threw myself to the floor, covering my
head with clasped hands as I heard the bloodcurdling shrieks of poor Comb!
Comb, unable to move, unable to avert or even close his eyes! Seeing it all!
Then came the sounds, the guttural sounds of a man drowning, air being forced
from lungs… then silence.</span></div>
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<div abp="351" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<div abp="3965">
<span abp="352" style="font-family: "calibri";"><span abp="353" style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I came to sitting
in my chair just moments ago, the chair that sat across from where Comb had been sitting, Comb's
chair now empty. My shirt soaked through with sweat. My hands gripping the
arms so tightly, my knuckles ached upon loosening my grip. I’d fallen asleep.
Comb had never been here. It had been a dream, a nightmare, I told myself. Comb
had shrugged off the appointment. I felt a rush of relief course through me. Then I noticed something. Lying beside the
chair across from me. A small object. I picked it up. A small toy, a little
metal car, but unlike any metal I’d felt before. It was ice cold to the touch.
Then, in realization, I looked into the corner of the room behind me. There, a
small black cloud, the size of a walnut, pulsing.</span></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="354" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<div abp="3971">
<span abp="355" style="font-family: "calibri";"><span abp="356" style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still sit here
as I write this. The cloud grows ever so slightly by the hour. I feel I should
leave, but will that stop the inevitable? No.</span></div>
</div>
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<span abp="3976" style="font-family: "calibri";"><br abp="3977" /></span></div>
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</span></div>
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TRAILER PARK FROM HELL <a abp="3892" href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BAKU8IS"><span abp="3893" style="color: #4a4a4a;">http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BAKU8IS</span></a></div>
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LIFE'S A BITCH. A WEREBITCH. <a abp="3902" href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BFCMNMU"><span abp="3903" style="color: #4a4a4a;">http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BFCMNMU</span></a></div>
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Check out my new book, TEN LITTLE TERRORS, now on Amazon:</div>
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<br /></div>
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<a abp="3909" href="http://www.amazon.com/Ten-Little-Terrors-ebook/dp/B00CIITW4W/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1366938989&sr=1-1&keywords=ten+little+terrors"><span abp="3910" style="color: #4a4a4a;">http://www.amazon.com/Ten-Little-Terrors-ebook/dp/B00CIITW4W/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1366938989&sr=1-1&keywords=ten+little+terrors</span></a></div>
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Tim Whitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18072021569016967821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725821522100244795.post-35538402989121824202016-03-04T22:33:00.001-05:002016-03-04T22:33:14.857-05:00REMEMBER TO VOTE<a data-ved="0ahUKEwjK_-bcy6jLAhUDGx4KHVpyBLsQjRwIBw" href="http://www.google.com/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0ahUKEwjK_-bcy6jLAhUDGx4KHVpyBLsQjRwIBw&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.redbubble.com%2Fpeople%2Ftiki2%2Fworks%2F16913010-vote-cthulhu-for-president-2016-no-lives-matter%3Fp%3Dsticker&bvm=bv.116274245,d.dmo&psig=AFQjCNGd4dzEAFu9xVYNO5ERhgOrEmI38g&ust=1457234498264888" id="irc_mil" jsaction="mousedown:irc.rl;keydown:irc.rlk;irc.il;" style="border-image: none; border: 0px currentColor;"><img height="560" id="irc_mi" src="http://ih1.redbubble.net/image.108955566.3010/flat,800x800,075,f.u6.jpg" style="margin-top: 0px;" width="635" /></a><br />
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<br />Tim Whitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18072021569016967821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725821522100244795.post-66782379088983206752016-01-15T23:06:00.002-05:002016-01-31T22:34:59.254-05:00The River's Mask<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember my Dad
and I going fishing. We did a few times before the divorce. Probably when I was
around eight. We fished in the river not far from our house. The Cherry River.
We didn’t live in the country, but didn’t have to. That river cut a swath right
through my home town. God, I hated that place. Lived in the not so great part
of a not so great Midwestern industrial town. I remember fishing. Baiting the
hook with something alive, watching it squirm; wondering if it could feel pain.
I’d hoped so. I hated fishing more than I hated that town. Don’t really
remember much of what my old man said in our few short years of acquaintance,
but I do remember that day, and what he said that day. Probably because I was
hot, sweaty, bored and miserable and would rather have been anywhere else.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Boy, see the water there?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“The river?” I asked. I cringed a little, expecting a slap
to the back of the head.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Yeah. That. But the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">water</i>
itself. See how the sun reflects? Sparkles all inviting like? Saying, ‘you know
boy, it’s a hot day. Bet you’d like to cool off. Bet you’d love to jump in
right now, wouldn’t you, boy?’ There’s more to that river than the water, boy.
The river is what’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">underneath</i> that
water. It’s the current that’ll grip you, hold you down, drown you without a
care. The broken beer bottles that’ll slice your foot wide open. You’d bleed to
death before you ever made it home to your Mama. It might be the tree branch
you can’t see, just below the surface, that’ll spear you like a bullfrog when
you belly flop. You see, the water ain’t the river; it’s the river’s mask.
People wear them masks, too.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I probably
remember that because that’s the most he’d ever said to me that wasn’t a direct
order.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I really think we were made for each other. I first
saw her in the dorm cafeteria. She was very pretty, beautiful in an awkward
way. Thin, maybe she thought too thin, jet black hair and pale skin. A crooked
nose and a slight gap in her front teeth. Glasses with black rims. She gave me
a quick half smile. So quick that I almost didn’t see it. She cast her gaze to the
floor, her fragile hands in her lap. I knew her hair smelled of
strawberries. It was love at first sight. Corny, I know. Hey, she wasn’t my
first.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was weeks
ago. Man, hard to believe. Now we traveled the highway together, to an unknown
destination. How mysterious. The place we were going didn’t matter. All that
mattered is that we were going there together. We’d be together.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was studying
pre-med. That made me proud, I guess. And why shouldn’t I be? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d dropped out last month. She didn’t know
that, and I tried not to think about it. Does it matter? She slowed the car
down as it began to sprinkle. Brake lights flashed briefly ahead. How long
would we drive on before she revealed where we were going? I should’ve been
tired, since I’d been with her since dawn, but the anticipation of where we might
stop had me wired. I talked about everything and anything, until it started to
feel a little weird, so I just shut up. Why did I always do that? All those
regrets and failings, wants and desires. They shouldn’t matter now. Not now
that I have Diane. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dusk turned to
darkness and we drove on. I turned on the radio. After a half-dozen silly love
songs and a few embarrassing songs filled with sexual innuendo, I turned it
off. If only I knew where we were off to, just me and Diane. Even though I’d
only known her a short time, I felt as if I’d known her forever. Like since we
were kids, or something. I’d watched her with children at the clinic she
interned at. She loved those kids like they were hers. I’d see that half smile
as she lifted a toddler and held him in her arms, the kid giggling. She had
pets, too. Two cats. I saw the first one, a big fat tabby right away. The
second, a Siamese, was shy or maybe aloof is more like it. She loved them
equally. I hated the thought of them dying before her, breaking her heart.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Headlights
streamed in streaks across the windshield. Now I was getting tired. It was late.
We were still driving. She hadn’t stopped for anything; food, gas even a
restroom break. I supposed I could hold on. How much longer could it be? I’m
sure she was getting tired, too. We’d both been going since early morning. I
guess I’d bear with it all, I’d come this far.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought to
myself how pretty she’d looked getting into the car. I guess wearing what you’d
call a conservative light-weight coat, khaki, tied at the waist, covering what
I knew was underneath: a silky lavender blouse with a “v” neck, just barely
exposing her cleavage. The blouse covering the lace push-up bra that only she
and I knew she was wearing. A short black skirt exposed her long slender legs
from mid-thigh, her feet styling black low heeled wedges. Yes, I know about
ladies shoes. Whatever. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mind wandered
to places I’d never been as the miles ticked on. Diane and I, in bed together,
her in her coat, blouse and skirt, me naked, excited. Then alone… but then I snapped
out of my reverie. We were taking an exit. Finally! She pulled into a motel. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I kept still as
she went in, not wanting to do anything dumb to spoil the moment. It wasn’t
long before she came out and walked ahead. I followed in the car. I parked and
stepped into the cold, wet night. I couldn’t believe my luck as she slipped the
card key through the slot… before she could close the door, I pushed my way in.
She tried to scream, but I was quick. I hit her hard over the head and knocked
her out. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would be with
her tonight. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I carried her out
around two in the morning, putting her in the trunk of my car. I just left her car in the parking lot. I drove until I got to
Cherry River, on the outskirts of town. It was nearly dawn by the time I had
her body weighted down. I sweated as I dragged her to the edge. I was too tired
to carry her. I gave Diane one last kiss, and then rolled her into the murky water,
the lazy current reflecting the moonlight. The river’s mask looked so calm. But
I knew what lay under the surface. Detective, she hadn’t been my first.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Check out my collection of short stories: "Ten Little Terrors"<br />
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<br />Tim Whitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18072021569016967821noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725821522100244795.post-5499271691455101972015-12-06T23:41:00.001-05:002015-12-06T23:42:40.836-05:00The Rochdale Poltergeist <div class="auto-style26">
Found at: <a href="http://www.soul-guidance.com/houseofthesun/showerswater.html">http://www.soul-guidance.com/houseofthesun/showerswater.html</a></div>
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Rochdale is a town about 10 miles northeast of the city of Manchester in England. In 1995 there were strange phenomena typical for what is considered a poltergeist, but it is actually primarily a case of mysterious appearance of water in the form of drips, rains and gushes. It also had phenomena that also show up with stone showers, like the repeated showers, suddenly stopping and starting elsewhere. Strange smells. Objects moving around, or disappearing and appearing. Although they try to connect the observed smells and the hearing of a voice with a dead relative, these are probably energy impressions in the local aetheric field that they are picking up. Energies of people are often imprinted into objects but also in places like homes. Psychics can read these energies and thus obtain information. When an earth's energetic field is particularly intense at a house, even ordinary people can pickup up on information that is stored in these houses.<br />
Manchester Anomalous Phenomena Investigation Team decided to investigate the case.<br />
For about a year the Garner family had to deal with repeated outpourings of water inside their house, soaking beds, carpet and furniture. Workmen and housing officers inspected the building and could not find a cause for the appearance of water.<br />
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“Sometimes the water breaks out in the form of huge droplets covering large areas of the ceilings and will disappear as quickly as it comes” Vera said. The water would also appear as heavy rain, apparently through the ceiling, but nothing was found that could explain it.</div>
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Mr. Gardner explained: “ It started about ten months ago when we noticed a damp patch on the wall in the back bedroom, which started to leak. We got the council in and they searched all through the loft but could not find anything leaking. We left it to see how it went and at first it stopped. Then we had what we thought was condensation on the ceiling. It started at one place, then it shot right across the ceiling from corner to corner and even seemed to curve around the ceiling light. It would happen in the bedroom and then stop, only to start in the kitchen. I rang the council again, and two men went in our loft while an electrician dismantled the ceiling lights whilst I was sat underneath an umbrella in the kitchen, that’s how bad it was. The whole kitchen was wet through as if it were raining. The council men had no idea what was causing it and in the heat of desperation they decided to fit a fan in the kitchen window.......Some good that did.</div>
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It finally stopped in the kitchen and started in Jeans front bedroom. It stayed there for four to five months. It happened every day and was causing a lot of upset in the home. When we decided to move Jeans bedroom to another room, it followed as if it knew. The council workmen came again and brought some detectors. They were looking for condensation. Of course, all prefabs will have some condensation, especially during the hot weather, but this was ridiculous.......</div>
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Then all of a sudden it stopped for about a week. We thought the ordeal was over. We moved the furniture back and lay the carpets again, and within ten minutes it was back with a vengeance. We daren’t put the stuff back down. Apart from the water, I was sitting here one night when the handle on the hall door turned and <strong>the door opened on its own</strong>. I was expecting someone to be their but we all knew there was no-one as we were all sat in the living room watching TV. Last Friday night we had decided to send Jean and her daughter to stay at a friends house as they were finding it difficult to sleep at night. Myself and Vera were the only ones in the house. We lay in bed and could both clearly hear someone coughing from the corner of the room. Even though a little scared I did thoroughly check the house and found nothing unusual. <strong>We’ve also smelt tobacco smoke in our bedroom and the smell of liquorice as if it was a flavoured cigarette paper</strong>.</div>
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Last night the <strong>hairdryer flew off the drawers</strong> and hit my grad-daughters friend on the back of the head. It seems to be more concentrated around Jean and her daughter when they’re here. The council first said it was a mystery, then said it was condensation, and when they accused us of throwing buckets of water on the ceiling, it was the last straw. We turned to the newspapers in hope of getting it sorted out. The family has lived here for 13 years and we didn’t really want to move out but what else can we do? The council official suggested we shouldn’t cook, shower or bathe due to our condensation problem. How are we to live under such circumstances ? Alison was found crying yesterday. She said she had felt a cold presence over her whilst lying on her bed and now its started banging things around at night and keeps us awake. <strong>We have even seen things fly off the wall for no reason and things that go missing and turn up in the oddest of places some days later when your not looking for it.”</strong></div>
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...the most unusual thing was that we heard a radio working and when we went in to the front room, it turned itself off. When we checked it, <strong>we found hat it wasn’t even plugged in</strong>. <strong>Strange buzzing sound</strong> can sometimes be heard at night yet we are always unable to locate the origin. </div>
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When the mapit team stayed for an overnight vigil, they also encountered strange phenomena.</div>
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Eventually the Gardner family moved out because of the extreme stress they had to endure. The new family that moved into the bungalow were Asian and did not report any unusual experiences. However <strong>the Gardner's on the other hand went through similar experiences for two months in their new home.</strong> After which it suddenly ceased and never returned. Just as with stone showers, the energy fields sometimes locks onto a person, and when the person moves the fields stays with that person, until it suddenly disconnects and moves on.</div>
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Tim Whitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18072021569016967821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725821522100244795.post-9010340178179008112015-08-03T21:33:00.002-04:002015-08-03T22:18:28.856-04:00Drew this while listening to "Powerman 5000" tracks<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Ha1ZqWNL-GBQBB8A4IzixXI_4YU0kSIvhlpnfy0_ZCtvO98kbBD0MnLSOBMQVIjL1WI09sG-fNh_HMxnk3ySYbL4vkTZEse8W9yaooYeOG5P7dLchZFov9w2sk4c7KyevnGXnLbXzkbT/s1600/powerman+5000.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="546" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Ha1ZqWNL-GBQBB8A4IzixXI_4YU0kSIvhlpnfy0_ZCtvO98kbBD0MnLSOBMQVIjL1WI09sG-fNh_HMxnk3ySYbL4vkTZEse8W9yaooYeOG5P7dLchZFov9w2sk4c7KyevnGXnLbXzkbT/s640/powerman+5000.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
Powerman 5000 really hit their stride with their album "Tonight the Stars Revolt," IMHO. A great band from the beginning of the 21st century... almost as great as White Zombie, which is no surprise, as Spider One, the band's founder, is the younger brother of Rob Zombie. That's all I've got to say on that subject. So there.Tim Whitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18072021569016967821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725821522100244795.post-31557049491783394912014-09-23T22:38:00.002-04:002014-09-23T22:38:30.492-04:00"Grave Digger" from "Ten Little Terrors" by Timothy Whitcher, Kindle Edition
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNUaNpHbXXcNSnZyMwpKctI-9NnrbwmbXsV8ip4vM35t04yQOIX4_2iS-Sz3Gix68DOam1jZsBvfUKw7UD4GvyQWcWP_NtyeeiwG_46arMgG8yyIIxxedXsNQmGvQ2rln4TS5h_QBIWjA_/s1600/gravedigger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNUaNpHbXXcNSnZyMwpKctI-9NnrbwmbXsV8ip4vM35t04yQOIX4_2iS-Sz3Gix68DOam1jZsBvfUKw7UD4GvyQWcWP_NtyeeiwG_46arMgG8yyIIxxedXsNQmGvQ2rln4TS5h_QBIWjA_/s1600/gravedigger.jpg" height="291" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
Daniel pulled the near-new Ford pickup into the
drive of the modest ranch style home and waited. He didn’t bother tooting the
horn. His brother Gabriel would know he was there, like every workday morning.
He surveyed the front lawn in mild disgust. Plastic toys lay abandoned for days
by Gabe’s two girls. The yard more weeds than grass, needed mowing. It was
embarrassing. At least Gabe’s wife June kept the house neat and the girls
behaved. Just as Daniel was about to lose his temper, Gabriel made his appearance.
With one hand holding open the aluminum screen door and the other holding the
knob of the front door, Gabriel obediently took instructions from June; his
pudgy six-foot frame towering over her petite stature. Just as Daniel was about
to toot the horn out of impatience, Gabriel leaned in for the kiss. Daniel
shook his head as he read his brother’s lips: ‘I love you.’ This scenario
played out the same nearly every day, but this morning it annoyed him more than
usual.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
Gabriel lumbered around the back of the pickup,
opened the passenger side and hoisted himself into the cloying warmth of the
cab. Daniel looked at him hard, and though not the first time, thought of looking
into a funhouse mirror. Gabriel was Daniel’s identical twin, however, where Daniel
was fit and trim, somewhere along the line in thirty years Gabriel had put on
an additional fifty pounds. Where Daniel still had his hair, Gabriel’s had
decided to recede with a vengeance a la Richard Nixon. Gabe’s wardrobe was a
mix of old and new: old blue-jeans stained near black in spots from hydraulic
fluid, plaid shirt repaired with patches at the elbows, brand new tan leather
high-top work boots bought by Daniel himself as a belated birthday gift; as
opposed to Daniel’s neatly matching denim work shirt, pants and jacket,
finished off with new work boots, kin to the ones his brother wore, the second
half of a two for one sale. To top it off, Daniel thought, Gabriel wore a
dirty, blue nylon down vest. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px; mso-mirror-indents: yes;">
“Morning, Danny.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px; mso-mirror-indents: yes;">
“Sure is.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px; mso-mirror-indents: yes;">
Daniel powered down
the window despite the cool damp air, letting the rush of the wind fill in for
idle conversation. He was put off this morning and really didn’t give a damn to
hear what his brother had to say, which usually wasn’t much anyway. Within
minutes they were pulling into the gated drive of Pine Woods Cemetery, the
largest cemetery in their sleepy little town. Daniel was careful to stay on the
narrow asphalt path that wended its way through the myriad of grave markers,
many well over a century old, as the ground was as wet as a sponge from the
heavy spring rains. Daniel sighed as Gabriel droned on about nothing; Daniel
guessed just satisfied to hear himself talk. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px; mso-mirror-indents: yes;">
Gabriel’s diatribe
of last night’s reality TV show came to an abrupt halt as the tranquil view
yielded to chaos. At least a dozen headstones had been toppled in the oldest
section of the graveyard. Daniel cursed, Gabriel gaped in silence as they
looked over the carnage. This was the third time in so many months that vandals
had struck. It had been Daniel’s fantasy to catch them in the act and beat them
to a bloody pulp and he felt he’d been denied the opportunity once again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px; mso-mirror-indents: yes;">
“Damn, brother.
This is all we need. It’ll take a good day’s work to reset these. At least it’s
not the newer ones. People get real up in arms when it’s the newer ones. As if
the poor bastards in the old graves aren’t just as dead,” said Daniel.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px; mso-mirror-indents: yes;">
“Geez o’ Pete, they’re
all worthy of respect, Danny,” said Gabriel, quietly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px; mso-mirror-indents: yes;">
“Respect. Respect’s
for the living, Gabe. And few of the living get my respect.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
Gabriel kept silent. He could feel his brother’s
anger simmering just below the surface.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
“So, we’re finishing up the Winkler plot, right?”
Gabriel said, as if his brother needed reminding.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
“Yeah, genius. Better get to it. Calls for rain
this afternoon. Goddamn, ground’s wet enough already. Rained nearly every frigging
day the last two weeks. River gets much higher, it’ll be pulling vaults from
the bank.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
It had happened before. Burial vaults pulled out
from the eroding shoreline. Some graves so old that their caskets had rotted to
nothing, earth stained skulls and bones having to be retrieved from the Pine
River, and then cremated. That was a job that Daniel knew he’d assign to Gabe,
when or if the time came.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Daniel
brought the lumbering pick up to a stop just past a stand of pine trees, which
revealed the plot they would be digging. The day before they’d had just enough
time to measure the plot, lay out plywood sheeting, remove sod, cover the sod
with tarp and move the<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Cat</i> backhoe
into place before the sky let loose; a torrential rain driving them from the
site. Daniel had stewed all the way to Gabe’s, while Gabe spoke with pride
about attending his twin daughter’s dance recital that evening, totally
oblivious to his brother’s agitated state. Daniel had spent the night drinking
in his extravagant yet lonely home set deep in the countryside, cursing the
weather. Well, today wasn’t going to be a pleasant day either, Daniel thought,
but damn it all to hell, he was going to get the job done. The deceased in the cement
vault sat waiting for its internment on plywood sheeting, the family already
deprived of a proper funeral. If that wasn’t bad enough, the vault was
vulnerable to vandalism and they’d been lucky that the vandals hadn’t noticed
it last night. Daniel guessed that the stand of pines must’ve hid the vault
from sight. It would’ve been pretty hard dealing with the City Commisioner if
they’d found it desecrated this morning.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
Daniel fired up the Cat and began digging as Gabe
stood to the side, shovel at the ready to keep the growing pile of earth spread
neatly on the plywood, as always. He never ran the backhoe. Danny had always
been too impatient to show him how. Gabe was glad. He knew if anything were to
go wrong with it, he’d be blamed, somehow. Daniel hollered at Gabe every so
often, with increasing agitation, for Gabe to stay off the grass; Gabe’s boots
damaging the muddy turf. Gabe was doing all he could not to. He could never
understand why his brother always had to be so critical of him, to lose his
temper. The weather wasn’t his fault, and he wanted the job done as much as
Danny did. Gabe hoped that no one from the deceased’s family would show up. He
knew it would be up to him to be the level-headed one. The diplomatic one. If
they were to show up, Gabe hoped Danny could control his anger. At least Danny
was sober today.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
“Gabe! Don’t make me tell you again! Keep off that
goddamned grass!” bellowed Daniel from the backhoe.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
Gabe gave him a weary look.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Let me measure Danny,” called Gabe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
He measured the hole for depth. Two feet to go.
Now came the hard part. Gabe knew they’d need to dig the rest by hand. If they
tried to dig further with the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cat</i>, it
was possible that the lip of the hole would collapse due to the dampness of the
soil.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
“Four feet,” said Gabe.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
“Measure it over. I’m not getting back on this
thing again.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
“Four feet, four inches, okay?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
Without another word, Daniel jumped off the
backhoe, slipping and tearing a deep three-foot-long gouge into the muddy lawn.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
Gabe watched with neutral expression as Danny’s face
became redder and redder; Gabe looking away as his twin brother flew into a
rage, expletives flying thick as mosquitos in July. He’d heard it all before
and was just grateful that it wasn’t aimed at him. Gabe was just as grateful
that his twin girls weren’t here for the barrage, like they had been Easter
Sunday. After five minutes of tirade, Danny suddenly stopped, took a deep
breath and began unloading the equipment they’d need from the back of the
truck, as if nothing had happened. Gabe wanted to shake his head in amazement
and disgust, but feared to. Gabriel just pretended nothing had transpired as
well.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
They went to task. Gabe retrieved the step ladder
from the bed of the pick up after Daniel’s prompting, Daniel setting up the gas
powered generator and sump pump to pump out the five or so inches of water that
had seeped into the four foot hole. He set the ladder in, and with Daniel’s
reminder, stepped off well from the edge of the hole as not to cause the wall
to cave-in. He was about to ask Danny why they weren’t shoring up the walls of
the grave with plywood, but thought better of it. He knew that Danny would
either berate him for the idea, or would take off in the truck in anger to
retrieve the boards. Gabe just wanted to be done with it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
Gabe’s boots sank into the sodden earth up to the
laces; muddy water nearly at the tops. The sump pump ran noisily. He grabbed
the hose from Danny and fed it into the water, careful not to let mud clog the
line.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
“Don’t let mud clog that hose again,” said Daniel,
supervising from a squat, balancing with the dirt caked shovel.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
Gabe had let it clog the first time he’d used it.
That was a good dozen times ago, Gabe thought. Danny couldn’t let anything go.
He kept silent, concentrating on the job.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It’s Friday. You and Sandra got plans?” Gabe realized his
misstep as soon as the words escaped his lips.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Trying
to be funny, Gabe? You know I dumped that bitch. Is that your idea of a joke,
Mr. Family Man? You’re a real piece of work. Then, I didn’t marry the first
piece that bothered to look my way, did I? Nope. My dumbass brother threw it
all away right out of High School. Bet you wish you were me every night, don’t
you? Tied to the old apron strings, just like our ol’ man,” Danny ranted.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
“Geez, I forgot she left, okay?” said Gabe,
concentrating harder on the end of the hose, unable to move, his feet cast in
thick mud like wet cement.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
“Left? Holy fuck. Is that what that wife of yours
said?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
“No,” said Gabe, trying to think of something to
say, something that would diffuse the situation, but instead, he blurted out
what was running through his mind in a loop.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
“How’d she get that broken arm, then?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With
all the courage he could muster, Gabe turned to look Danny dead in the eye.
Daniel’s face was deep red, veins bulging from his forehead, lips tight as a
stretched rubber band, nostrils flared; Gabe could hear the rush of Danny’s
breath in and out. Then deep from Danny’s gut rose a bellow of rage that even
through all his years of torment Gabe had never heard from his twin brother
before, shattering the quiet of the cemetery air; Daniel still in a squat, both
hands now gripping the shovel handle which rested across his knees. In one
swift, savage motion, Daniel swung the shovel with all his might, the blade
connecting with the side of Gabe’s head. Gabe’s whole body torqued from the
force, his head twisting on his neck then recoiling back as if spring loaded. A
pain like the sting of a dozen hornets blossomed in his brain. A fierce buzzing
like a giant tuning fork had been struck, just like the times Danny used to
throw him hard onto the cement slab kitchen floor when they were just kids. Gabe
bounced off the far wall of the grave, hitting the muck face first.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Daniel
stood, shovel still in hand, his chest heaving, and looked down at his twin. He
watched as Gabe tried to sit up, grasping at the air. Gabe shook his head.
Blood splattered against the aluminum ladder. He grabbed hold of the ladder and
brought himself up to a kneeling position, then sat back on his calves. Danny
watched as blood flowed onto Gabe’s mud covered down vest. The blood looked
surreal, almost fake on the bright blue material.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
“Kripes almighty! What was that?” said Gabe,
incredulous. Stunned.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
Within seconds, Gabe knew what had happened. He
looked up at his brother with an expression of disbelief.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
“Help me out, Danny. Think I’m hurt bad,” said
Gabe, attempting to stand.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
Daniel stood still, silent, a cold hard look on
his face. He knew he’d fucked up royally. He was screwed. Gabe wouldn’t lie for
him this time. This wasn’t a punch in the gut, or a bruised or cracked rib.
Shit, Gabe might even die, thought Daniel. He’d lose it all. The business. His
house. Hell, if Gabe died, his freedom. His brother had held him back all these
years. He’d have made twice the money if he hadn’t had to split everything with
Gabe. He’d been cornered into that agreement by his Father’s will. If he wanted
to inherit the business, Gabriel would be in it for half. Without another
thought, Daniel raised the shovel, and with machine like precision, brought the
shovel blade down again and again, the shovel ringing with every blow. He
didn’t know how many times. It was the lightning strike and roll of thunder
that brought him back to reality.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
Gabe lay crumpled at the bottom of the grave.
Daniel had a lot of work ahead of him. Dark work.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
Daniel tossed the shovel into the hole and climbed
down the step ladder. He gazed up into the sky, watching the storm clouds in
the distance. Another flash and peel of thunder made him jump. He stepped back
onto his brother’s hand. A hand that looked identical to his own. Danny
gingerly repositioned his feet, trying hard not to touch his brother. He was
determined to not look at the body, but it was impossible not to. Even his
peripheral vision betrayed him. He realized he was hyperventilating. He knew he
needed to get a grip if he were to get through this. He took in long deep
breaths; the first through his nostrils, the sharp tang of fresh blood made him
gag. He counted. Fifty deep breaths. He felt better. His mind clearer. He
looked at his watch. How long had he been in the hole? A cold realization
flowed through him like ice water. The longer this took, the more likely he’d
be caught. Gabe’s wife could show up. A visitor to the cemetery. Hell, even a
cop. He began to dig. Danny dug and dug. The brown muddy earth didn’t give up
easily. Muddy clay and water sucked at the shovel and his boots. Pushing
himself harder, he struggled with each sodden shovel full, which he had to pitch
out of the grave and onto the pile above. At first he was careful not to sling
the mud haphazardly on the grass, but as each scoop became more difficult, each
sling more frantic, the turf above was splattered with a thick layer of clay.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
It started to rain. Just a light drizzle. Daniel
welcomed the cool comfort of the water on his red, hot face. He looked skyward
for the first time in what his watch said had been over an hour. He’d made some
progress. A two foot deep by four foot wide hole lay before him. He’d need to
go a bit deeper, since he’d decided to bury his brother’s corpse in the fetal
position. That would mean another six inches deep. Daniel discarded his jacket.
It couldn’t have been more than sixty degrees out, yet he was burning up from
the exertion; also it gave him the excuse of using it to cover his brother’s
body. He turned and while looking aside, cast the jacket over Gabe’s bludgeoned
head. He watched as blood blossomed through the material. The jacket couldn’t
disguise the unnatural shape of Gabe’s head, but at least his eyes were
covered. His blind, staring, accusing eyes. Danny wiped the sweat and rain from
his brow with the back of his gritty hand. An image of how he must look flashed
through his mind. Face greasy, dirty and wet; eyes watering and wide. He had to
get out of here, get home and clean up. Get home and figure out his next step.
He realized he’d been gripping the shovel handle so hard that his hand had
begun to ache.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
Daniel turned back to the task, driving the shovel
into the murky mess. A sound like a cannon hit him. Brightest day exploded
bringing the blackest of shadows. Shocked, he stumbled backwards. For a
millisecond he thought he’d been shot. Danny tripped on his brother’s legs and
fell back, sitting hard into Gabe’s lap. He groped for a handhold to slow his
momentum but only found the fabric of his discarded jacket, yanking the
bloodied denim from his brother’s ruined face. Danny hit the back wall of the
grave, chunks of gray-brown earth rained down on him. He sputtered and blinked
as the soil invaded his mouth and eyes. He could feel the soft yielding flesh
of Gabe’s legs underneath him. He could smell blood like raw meat, could smell sour
sweat, feces. More lightning, followed almost instantly by booming thunder,
ripped the sky. Purple-black clouds boiled overhead. Danny tried to scramble to
his feet, the slick clay slewing under his boots. His tired muscles struggled.
He was panicking. Flailing arms, his grasping hands finding no purchase,
fingers clawing clumps of sticky muck from the walls. He gave in. Gave up. Fell
back against the earthen wall, panting, shaking. The sky opened up. Hard
driving rain hit him like silver nails, stinging his cheeks, the backs of his
hands. Rain pelted Gabe’s nylon vest with a manic rattle. The aluminum ladder
shook with the force. Danny watched helplessly as the hole he’d dug began to
skim over with water, rain shattering the surface like a hammer on a mirror.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
Danny fought to get back on his feet but in his
reclined position, his back angled against the wall, thighs hiked up over the
flabby thighs of his brother’s corpse, it seemed an impossibility. He would
have to turn on his side and get one leg under him. Closing his eyes against
the onslaught of rain, Danny reached for a hand-hold on anything within reach
and reluctantly grasped his brother’s jeans pocket. He pulled hard while
pushing his other hand under him into the watery grave. Danny felt hard bone
and cold flesh press against his forehead. Opening his eyes, his gaze was met
by Gabe’s empty stare, his limp fleshy lips pushed against Danny’s mouth in an
obscene kiss. Danny could smell the bile on the corpse’s breath as the last
gasp of putrid air was forced from lungs and stomach. Danny screamed,
frantically trying to push the weight of his twin’s body off of him, the dead
weight driving him down, pinning him. He twisted on his side, sliding from
under the smothering weight, bringing himself to an upright position. The
relentless rain pounded on. Despite the rain, Daniel sat unblinking at the
realization that the grave was quickly filling with water. At least six inches
of opaque brown water nearly hid his calves from view. He needed to get out.
Get up the ladder. He knew what he’d do. The Cat. He’d get out, drive it into the
hole, and make up a story how it was all an accident. It could work. He’d be
done with Gabe. He’d come out of this okay.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
It was as if God or the devil had read his mind. Daniel
crawled forward and just as he pulled himself up on the ladder, the earth gave
way in front of the backhoe. Daniel watched incredulously as the three ton
piece of equipment tottered on the edge of the grave, chunks of dirt flowing in
around the ladder in an avalanche. There was nothing he could do, no room to
move. He watched in horror as the steel toothed bucket, grinning its shiny
earth polished grin like some mechanical T-rex, slid inevitably toward him. The
backhoe tilted ever so slowly forward, the heavy bucket effortlessly took the
ladder from his hands and crushed it like a foil gum wrapper into the side of
the grave. But like a dissatisfied, spoiled child it slid on, wanting more than
the lifeless metal. Danny stumbled back once again, grabbing up the shovel and
leveraging it between the bucket head and the dirt wall. The handle snapped,
exposing white splinters like fractured bone. The bucket kept on course. Danny
sat hard beside his twin with an explosion of mud. The mud dripped from the steel
teeth of the bucket like blood. Its idiot grin pushed on. Danny watched helpless
as the inevitable took place. He felt the rigid metal press into him, the
bucket driving into his chest. The backhoe groaned as the front wheel slid on
the slope of earth now burying his legs. He pushed himself back against Gabe’s
body, in an attempt to escape being crushed alive. The bucket bit into him. He
felt and heard a rib snap. A groan that should have been a scream escaped him.
He could barely breathe in or out. Then it stopped. He was pinned, but the
bucket had stopped. The backhoe had settled into place.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
The rain pissed on and on. Daniel’s teeth
chattered from the cold and wet. He’d lost track of time. He couldn’t look at
his watch; his right arm was pinned beneath him. The rising water was at his
armpits. In a couple of hours, it would be at his chin. He prayed to God for
the rain to stop. He prayed to God that he be rescued. He prayed to God for
forgiveness. The rain kept on. He swore at God and prayed to the devil. He reluctantly
rested his head against Gabe’s. His fatigued neck muscles could no longer support
the weight of his head. Gabe’s teeth scraped against his ear. Danny’s labored
breathing was like a metronome; the only sound other than the continuous rush
of rain.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
Daniel awoke, startled. His predicament came
flooding back to the forefront of his consciousness. His jaw ached, teeth
chattering like a wind up monkey. Skin on his face raw from the beating deluge.
The rest of his body was numb. Water lapped at his neck. Hypothermia would soon
be upon him. The sky was near dark. Evening had crept in like a feral black
cat. Gabe’s body had actually floated up a few inches beside him. Ripped flesh
now bloodless and deep pink, water streaming over teeth, gums and slack lips.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
Just as Danny thought all was lost, he saw lights
swing above his head, illuminating the towering pines with a bright amber glow,
reflecting off the sheeting rain. A car. They’d realize something was
wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It must be June, he thought,
looking for Gabe. Wondering why he wasn’t home. She’d come to find Gabe! <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Please God, I’ll tell her everything…</i>
but why should he? There’d been an accident, that’s all. The bucket had crushed
Gabe’s head, then pinned him in place. He’d make her believe him. He heard a
car door open and close. Then another.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
The boys got out of the old Camaro, leaving it running.
Johnny wasn’t born yesterday. His Momma didn’t raise no fool. He and Ray headed
for the new Ford pickup.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
“Shit, Johnny! The dumbass left the keys in it!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
They both brayed laughter as Ray jumped in and
fired up the truck.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
“Mother fucker! Let me drive!” whined Johnny.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
“Finders keepers bitch,” said Ray with a toothy grin,
“follow me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
Ray took off in the truck down the cemetery path
as fast as he could, swiping three headstones as he went, followed closely
behind by Johnny’s Camaro. This beat the shit out of tipping gravestones,
thought Johnny, elated.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
Daniel could barely make out voices. He tried to
shout, but could do nothing but wheeze out a croak. He heard his truck start,
followed by nothing but the sound of pouring rain. It hadn’t been June. Someone
just stole his truck! Fury boiled Daniel’s brain, his face growing hot with
rage. A jagged pain ripped through his chest. He forced himself to calm down.
Survival was all that mattered. More time passed. Daniel didn’t know how much.
He slipped in and out of consciousness. He could feel little but the aching
throb in his chest. In a moment of lucidity, he noticed that the rain was
tapering off. He truly thought he was going to drown, but now that the rain was
stopping, he felt there may be hope after all. Hope was all he had. Even his
face was numb now. He had to keep his head leaned back as far as possible to
keep the brackish water out of his mouth. He was afraid to close his eyes, watching
for headlights, since he was sure that his only salvation was that June would
eventually come looking for Gabe. Gabe, who’s battered and torn face loomed
over him, backlit by a field of stars in the clearing sky.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
“Have to give it to you, Gabe. You just may have
beaten me,” Danny thought. Gabe didn’t answer. The silence was galling to
Danny. “You always were a pain in my ass. You’ll be one to the very end…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Danny’s thoughts were interrupted as once again the tree
line was illuminated by headlights. Danny knew it had to be June.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
June had waited as long as she was willing to. She
hated to dog Gabe like some worried old hen. It wasn’t like Gabe not to call if
he were to be late, nor was it like him to not answer his cell. She supposed he
could’ve forgotten to charge it, but where was he? And now here she was in the
cemetery. There was the backhoe. She saw that it was at an odd angle. Danny,
probably pushing too hard as usual, must’ve gotten too close to the edge. She
never could figure out why Gabe didn’t drive it; he was much more responsible.
Well, Danny’s truck wasn’t here. Damn Danny. He must’ve convinced Gabe to quit
for the day, and then sit out the storm at the Barley House Tavern, or some
other God-forsaken dive. If she didn’t have such good news for them, she’d
probably be angry. She’d drive over to the bar and surprise them there. They’d
be ecstatic once they heard that their lottery number had finally hit. She
couldn’t believe their good fortune.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">
The beams paused for three or so minutes as Danny
waited to hear the car door, then June’s frantic call for Gabe, followed by her
shocked expression as she gazed over the edge of the grave. But he didn’t hear
anything but the idle of the old Buick. Didn’t hear the desperate call. Didn’t
see the shocked expression. Instead, the headlights swung away, the sound of
the motor faded. Danny watched as the stars winked out. Heard the rain, felt the
rain.</div>
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Tim Whitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18072021569016967821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725821522100244795.post-35206594527283270852014-07-12T15:41:00.001-04:002014-07-12T15:41:34.122-04:00The Thing in the Cellar by David H. Keller<span class="cap"><a data-ved="0CAUQjRw" href="http://www.google.com/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&docid=1Z7ppif4mLGCcM&tbnid=e_onp3_SZmBE7M:&ved=0CAUQjRw&url=http%3A%2F%2Fgroovydoom.blogspot.com%2F2011%2F08%2Fit-seems-like-only-few-years-ago-i-was.html&ei=QI_BU-zKDsShyAT0u4CYDg&bvm=bv.70810081,d.aWw&psig=AFQjCNEeyRlZY1bQ_oayaq0j54PkEnzWBA&ust=1405280442383029" id="irc_mil" style="border-image: none; border: 0px currentColor;"><img height="184" id="irc_mi" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbJCWfokz185146Yvp12t83g5zsX7vVnAmdkMj449GAbnp84Bn4lK3Pf4-KNJrz3UeLPGY29SC3uRGDHLlHPCujyNwvJ6pA-BGPq9oO8AHANCaeFfnYf1ptjNbLHyy1orgnPWjTshbveeX/s320/07+evil+face.jpg" style="margin-top: 105px;" width="320" /></a></span><br />
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<span class="cap">I</span>t was a large cellar, entirely out of proportion to the house above it. The owner admitted that it was probably built for a distinctly different kind of structure from the one which rose above it. Probably the first house had been burned, and poverty had caused a diminution of the dwelling erected to take its place.<br />
A winding stone stairway connected the cellar with the kitchen. Around the base of this series of steps successive owners of the house had placed their firewood, winter vegetables and junk. The junk had gradually been pushed back till it rose, head high, in a barricade of uselessness. What was back of that barricade no one knew and no one cared. For some hundreds of years no one had crossed it to penetrate to the black reaches of the cellar behind it.<br />
At the top of the steps, separating the kitchen from the cellar, was a stout oaken door. This door was, in a way, as peculiar and out of relation to the rest of the house as the cellar. It was a strange kind of door to find in a modern house, and certainly a most unusual door to find in the inside of the house—thick, stoutly built, dexterously rabbeted together with huge wrought-iron hinges, and a lock that looked as though it came from Castle Despair. Separating a house from the outside world, such a door would be excusable; swinging between kitchen and cellar it seemed peculiarly inappropriate.<br />
From the earliest months of his life Tommy Tucker seemed unhappy in the kitchen. In the front parlor, in the formal dining-room, and especially on the second floor of the house he acted like a normal, healthy child; but carry him to the kitchen, he at once began to cry. His parents, being plain people, ate in the kitchen save when they had company. Being poor, Mrs. Tucker did most of her work, though occasionally she had a charwoman in to do the extra Saturday cleaning, and thus much of her time was spent in the kitchen. And Tommy stayed with her, at least as long as he was unable to walk. Much of the time he was decidedly unhappy.<br />
When Tommy learned to creep, he lost no time in leaving the kitchen. No sooner was his mother's back turned than the little fellow crawled as fast as he could for the doorway opening into the front of the house, the dining-room and the front parlor. Once away from the kitchen, he seemed happy; at least, he ceased to cry. On being returned to the kitchen his howls so thoroughly convinced the neighbors that he had colic that more than one bowl of catnip and sage tea was brought to his assistance.<br />
It was not until the boy learned to talk that the Tuckers had any idea as to what made the boy cry so hard when he was in the kitchen. In other words, the baby had to suffer for many months till he obtained at least a little relief, and even when he told his parents what was the mattet, they were absolutely unable to comprehend. This is not to be wondered at because they were both hard-working, rather simple-minded persons.<br />
What they finally learned from their little son was this: that if the cellar door was shut and securely fastened with the heavy iron Tommy could at least eat a meal in peace; if the door was simply closed and not locked, he shivered with fear, but kept quiet; but if the door was open, if even the slightest streak of black showed that it was not tightly shut, then the little three-year-old would scream himself to the point of exhaustion, especially if his tired father would refuse him permission to leave the kitchen.<br />
Playing in the kitchen, the child developed two interesting habits. Rags, scraps of paper and splinters of wood were continually being shoved under the thick oak door to fill the space between the door and the sill. Whenever Mrs. Tucker opened the door there was always some trash there, placed by her son. It annoyed her, and more than once the little fellow was thrashed for this conduct, but punishment acted in no way as a deterrent. The other habit was as singular. Once the door was closed and locked, he would rather boldly walk over to it and caress the old lock. Even when he was so small that he had to stand on tiptoe to touch it with the tips of his fingers he would touch it with slow caressing strokes; later on, as he grew, he used to kiss it.<br />
His father, who only saw the boy at the end of the day, decided that there was no sense in such conduct, and in his masculine way tried to break the lad of his foolishness. There was, of necessity, no effort on the part of the hard-working man to understand the psychology back of his son's conduct. All that the man knew was that his little son was acting in a way that was decidedly queer.<br />
Tommy loved his mother and was willing to do anything he could to help her in the household chores, but one thing he would not do, and never did do, and that was to fetch and carry between the house and the cellar. If his mother opened the door, he would run screaming from the room, and he never returned voluntarily till he was assured that the door was closed.<br />
He never explained just why he acted as he did. In fact, he refused to talk about it, at least to his parents, and that was just as well, because had he done so, they would simply have been more positive than ever that there was something wrong with their only child. They tried, in their own ways, to break the child of his unusual habits; failing to change him at all, they decided to ignore his peculiarities.<br />
That is, they ignored them till he became six years old and the time came for him to go to school. He was a sturdy little chap by that time, and more intelligent than the usual boys beginning in the primer class. Mr. Tucker was, at times, proud of him; the child's attitude toward the cellar door was the one thing most disturbing to the father's pride. Finally nothing would do but that the Tucker family call on the neighborhood physician. It was an important event in the life of the Tuckers, so important that it demanded the wearing of Sunday clothes, and all that sort of thing.<br />
"The matter is just this, Doctor Hawthorn," said Mr. Tucker, in a somewhat embarrassed manner. "Our little Tommy is old enough to start to school, but he behaves childish in regard to our cellar, and the missus and I thought you could tell us what to do about it. It must be his nerves."<br />
Ever since he was a baby," continued Mrs. Tucker, taking up the thread of conversation where her husband had paused, "Tommy has had a great fear of the cellar. Even now, big boy that he is, he does not love me enough to fetch and carry for me through that door and down those steps. It is not natural for a child to act like he does, and what with chinking the cracks with rags and kissing the lock, he drives me to the point where I fear he may become daft-like as he grows older."<br />
The doctor, eager to satisfy new customers, and dimly remembering some lectures on the nervous system received when he was a medical student, asked some general questions, listened to the boy's heart, examined his lungs and looked at his eyes and fingernails. At last he commented:<br />
"Looks like a fine, healthy boy to me."<br />
"Yes, all except the cellar door," replied the father.<br />
"Has he ever been sick?"<br />
"Naught but fits once or twice when he cried himself blue in the face," answered the mother.<br />
"Frightened?"<br />
"Perhaps. It was always in the kitchen."<br />
"Suppose you go out and let me talk to Tommy by myself?"<br />
And there sat the doctor very much at his ease and the little six-year-old boy very uneasy.<br />
"Tommy, what is there in the cellar you are afraid of?"<br />
"I don't know."<br />
"Have you ever seen it?"<br />
"No, sir."<br />
"Ever heard it? smelt it?"<br />
"No, sir."<br />
"Then how do you know there is something there?"<br />
"Because."<br />
"Because what?"<br />
"Because there is."<br />
That was as far as Tommy would go, and at last his seeming obstinacy annoyed the physician even as it had for several years annoyed Mr. Tucker. He went to the door and called the parents into the office.<br />
"He thinks there is something down in the cellar," he stated.<br />
The Tuckers simply looked at each other.<br />
"That's foolish," commented Mr. Tucker.<br />
" 'Tis just a plain cellar with junk and firewood and cider barrels in it," added Mrs. Tucker. "Since we moved into that house, I have not missed a day without going down those stone steps and I know there is nothing there. But the lad has always screamed when the door was open. I recall now that since he was a child in arms he has always screamed when the door was open."<br />
"He thinks there is something there," said the doctor.<br />
"That is why we brought him to you," replied the father. "It's the child's nerves. Perhaps foetida, or something, will calm him."<br />
"I tell you what to do," advised the doctor. "He thinks there is something there. Just as soon as he finds that he is wrong and that there is nothing there, he will forget about it. He has been humored too much. What you want to do is to open that cellar door and make him stay by himself in the kitchen. Nail the door open so he can not close it. Leave him alone there for an hour and then go and laugh at him and show him how silly it was for him to be afraid of an empty cellar. I will give you some nerve and blood tonic and that will help, but the big thing is to show him that there is nothing to be afraid of."<br />
On the way back to the Tucker home Tommy broke away from his parents. They caught him after an exciting chase and kept him between them the rest of the way home. Once in the house he disappeared and was found in the guest room under the bed. The afternoon being already spoiled for Mr. Tucker, he determined to keep the child under observation for the rest of the day. Tommy ate no supper, in spite of the urgings of the unhappy mother. The dishes were washed, the evening paper read, the evening pipe smoked; and then, and only then, did Mr. Tucker take down his tool box and get out a hammer and some long nails.<br />
"And I am going to nail the door open, Tommy, so you can not close it, as that was what the doctor said. Tommy, and you are to be a man and stay here in the kitchen alone for an hour, and we will leave the lamp a-burning, and then when you find there is naught to be afraid of, you will be well and a real man and not something for a man to be ashamed of being the father of."<br />
But at the last Mrs. Tucker kissed Tommy and cried and whispered to her husband not to do it, and to wait till the boy was larger; but nothing was to do except to nail the thick door open so it could not be shut and leave the boy there alone with the lamp burning and the dark open space of the doorway to look at with eyes that grew as hot and burning as the flame of the lamp.<br />
That same day Doctor Hawthorn took supper with a classmate of his, a man who specialized in psychiatry and who was particularly interested in children. Hawthorn told Johnson about his newest case, the little Tucker boy, and asked him for his opinion, lohnson frowned.<br />
"Children are odd, Hawthorn. Perhaps they are like dogs. It may be their nervous system is more acute than in the adult. We know that our eyesight is limited, also our hearing and smell. I firmly believe that there are forms of life which exist in such a form that we can neither see, hear nor smell them. Fondly we delude ourselves into the fallacy of believing that they do not exist because we can not prove their existence. This Tucker lad may have a nervous system that is peculiarly acute. He may dimly appreciate the existence of something in the cellar which is unappreciable to his parents. Evidently there is some basis to this fear of his. Now, I am not saying that there is anything in the cellar. In fact, I suppose that it is just an ordinary cellar, but this boy, since he was a baby, has thought that there was something there, and that is just as bad as though there actually were. What I would like to know is what makes him think so. Give me the address, and I will call tomorrow and have a talk with the little fellow."<br />
"What do you think of my advice?"<br />
"Sorry, old man, but I think it was perfectly rotten. If I were you, I would stop around there on my way home and prevent them from following it. The little fellow may be badly frightened. You see, he evidently thinks there is something there."<br />
"But there isn't."<br />
"Perhaps not. No doubt, he is wrong, but he thinks so."<br />
It all worried Doctor Hawthorn so much that he decided to take his friend's advice. It was a cold night, a foggy night, and the physician felt cold as he tramped along the London streets. At last he came to the Tucker house. He remembered now that he had been there once before, long ago, when little Tommy Tucker came Into the world. There was a light in the front window, and in no time at all Mr. Tucker came to the door.<br />
"I have come to see Tommy," said the doctor.<br />
"He is back in the kitchen," replied the father.<br />
"He gave one cry, but since then he has been quiet," sobbed the wife.<br />
"If I had let her have her way, she would have opened the door, but I said to her, 'Mother, now is the time to make a man out of our Tommy.' And I guess he knows by now that there was naught to be afraid of. Well, the hour is up. Suppose we go and get him and put him to bed?"<br />
"It has been a hard time for the little child," whispered the wife.<br />
Carrying the candle, the man walked ahead of the woman and the doctor, and at last opened the kitchen door. The room was dark.<br />
"Lamp has gone out," said the man. "Wait till I light it."<br />
"Tommy! Tommy!" called Mrs. Tucker.<br />
But the doctor ran to where a white form was stretched on the floor. Sharply he called for more light. Trembling, he examined all that was left of little Tommy. Twitching, he looked into the open space down into the cellar. At last he looked at Tucker and Tucker's wife.<br />
"Tommy—Tommy has been hurt—I guess he is dead!" he stammered.<br />
The mother threw herself on the floor and picked up the torn, mutilated thing that had been, only a little while ago, her little Tommy.<br />
The man took his hammer and drew out the nails and closed the door and locked it and then drove in a long spike to reinforce the lock. Then he took hold of the doctor's shoulders and shook him.<br />
"What killed him, Doctor? What killed him?" he shouted into Hawthorn's ear.<br />
The doctor looked at him bravely in spite of the fear in his throat.<br />
"How do I know, Tucker?" he replied. "How do I know? Didn't you tell me that there was nothing there? Nothing down there? In the cellar?"<br />
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TRAILER PARK FROM HELL</div>
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LIFE'S A BITCH. A WEREBITCH.</div>
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<br />Tim Whitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18072021569016967821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725821522100244795.post-44087986926438805982014-04-19T22:20:00.000-04:002014-04-19T22:20:03.045-04:00Supplicant (short story) by Timothy J. Whitcher
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dell had noticed
it the first time he ate at the Dilly Dally Diner. It could only be seen from
the tiny booth that could seat just two, the booth a seeming afterthought of
the diner’s original owner, now surely long dead. The shape clung to the aging
yellowed wallpaper, never changing but seeming more prevalent with each visit. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He’d
originally patronized the diner for no other reason than to satiate his
hunger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dell worked not a block away,
but hadn’t really noticed the diner until one particularly blustery day. He
remembered his first visit vividly; the cold, bitter March weather supplanted
by the warm interior of the Dilly Dally, smelling of strong coffee and frying
eggs with just an underlying hint of mold and dirty vinyl flooring. It wasn’t
really a nice place, but it felt safe; unchanging, yet somehow sentient. He
thought often of that first day, which was probably more of a miss-memory,
since it ran in a loop through his mind, becoming more and more embellished as
it spun out into the silent, bleak hours of night, a familiar haunt. Not wholly
welcome or unwelcome; just there.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He would eat
his lunch there daily in the midafternoon, around two o’clock, excepting Sunday
when they were closed. The tiny booth was always empty, waiting. Dell used to
worry that it would one day be occupied, but as the months went by, he’d
forgotten his worry. There were few patrons that time of day, and the booth was
situated in such a tight, dim location that it would be considered a last
resort for most. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He was often
alone in the diner by two-thirty; the Dilly Dally closed at three-thirty, no
longer offering an evening menu. This Yonkers neighborhood was slowly fading
around him. The stores and offices were blinking out of existence, but Dell barely
noticed. The diner remained. The booth remained. The stain on the wall, close
up to the ceiling, above the bakery display case smeared with the fingerprints
of children, remained.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It looked
like a squirrel to him. It <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> a
squirrel. It was as if Michelangelo himself had lain on a scaffold and lovingly
rendered the animal in rich sepia tones. It wasn’t a water stain. Nor a blot of
grease left by a careless cleaning crew decades ago, as he’d first imagined.
Dell knew for a fact this was a true acheiropoieta if there ever was one. An
image most definitely not created by human hands. But it was more than
that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every day he sat and admired the
squirrel as he dutifully ate his dry turkey on rye sandwich, chewing as slowly
as possible so as to be able to man his booth as long as he could. He had at
some time realized this odd pilgrimage was somehow his destiny, even before the
squirrel spoke to him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I know you
can see me,” said a voice in a conversational tone, quiet and delicate, definitely
male. Dell jerked erect, spilling his coffee onto his half eaten sandwich.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Who said
that?” asked Dell much too loudly, startled, as he eyed the couple who had been
arguing a booth over, nothing left of their lunch but scrunched napkins and
warm half full glasses of cola. The bald man with the neck tattoo gave him a
cool look as his lady friend with too much makeup and too little clothing grabbed
her leather jacket and rose to leave. Dell quickly averted his gaze and slid
down in his seat.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He watched
from the corner of his eye as the couple exited the diner, gulped air and then
looked up at his squirrel.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Now, quiet
Dell,” said the little creature, “you’ll get yourself tossed out of here for
sure.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“My God!
You’re talking?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Shhhh… No
one can hear me but you, and your God has nothing to do with it, I’m afraid.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I’m losing
it. I’ve gone nuts,” Dell whispered.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Excuse me,
sir? Would you like a fresh coffee? I’d be happy to…”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“No! No,
thank you. I’ve had enough. Please may I have the bill?” Dell said to the
waitress, his voice a quiver, never taking his eyes from his squirrel on the
wall.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The
middle-aged woman looked at Dell quizzically, handed him his bill from the
black folder she carried in her apron. She lethargically waddled back through
the double swinging doors into the diner’s meager kitchen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He watched through the pass-through window as
she talked to the cook, both darting glances in his direction. Dell’s attention
was drawn back to his squirrel, who winked at him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Will
miracles never cease, eh, Dell? Now on home with you. You’ve had enough for
today. I’ll still be here tomorrow. I always am, aren’t I?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dell’s eyes
blurred then refocused; he shook his head and stood quickly, ramming one chubby
thigh into the table top. He tossed twelve dollars on the table. He almost left
his jacket behind in his haste to leave, his mind still in a fog, yet once he
was outside in the bright light of a June afternoon, his mind cleared. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He knew what
had happened. His reverence of the curious stain had lulled him to sleep. He had
dozed. Yes, that was it. He had dozed off for a moment and dreamed. Dreamed of
a talking squirrel. This something that had become his own, this secret image
of a small woodland creature, seen only by him, had invaded his dreamscape. He
would be back tomorrow, he told himself, and he would still see the image, but
he’d prove to himself that it hadn’t spoken to him. How could it have? Dell
caught the bus and headed home, not returning to his job. He’d call and tell
them he’d become ill.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He walked
from the bus stop in a daze, climbed the four flights of stairs to his floor;
he’d barely noticed that he’d buzzed himself in. He’d barely noticed the young man
passed out on the ratty tan couch that sat in the foyer. (“Now, quiet Dell.”) Dell
let himself into his one bedroom apartment. He threw his jacket through the
open bedroom door onto his neatly made bed. (“…your God has nothing to do with
it, I’m afraid.”) He completely forgot about calling work.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The whole
apartment was neat, clean and tidy, just as his cubicle was at Walker
Accounting. Walker Accounting, where he crunched numbers and filed reports. His
apartment walls were as void of pictures and decoration as his cubicle. His
life was just as purposely unadorned. Dell tried his best not to revisit the
past or worry about the future. He just was. He didn’t like complication.
Didn’t like confrontation. Dell had made it through grade school, high school
and community college with his head down, ears and eyes open. He’d survived,
and planned on continuing to survive without any outward influence; any trouble.
That is until the squirrel.</span> <span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">(“I’ll still be here tomorrow. I always am, aren’t I?”)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He got
himself a can of Coke from the fridge, kicked off his brown loafers and sat on
the arm of his black leather coach, gazing down the street through the sliding
glass doors that opened to a concrete patio. The crumbling gray asphalt and
broken concrete sidewalk lay in strong contrast to nature’s clear blue sky. The
sun warmed his face and arms, bringing a much welcomed feeling of numbness. His
doughy face reflected in the glass. He thought his reflection looked worse than
he imagined himself to look, an image that even in his mind’s eye wasn’t
flattering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He sat and thought
about his life, thoughts that he usually avoided, blocked out of his conscious
mind, but memories flooded back like so much murky, putrid water. Life for Dell
had been one continuous dull pain, like a terminal stubbed toe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There had been good times. Times when the sun
broke through the gloom, but Dell knew that sooner than later the clouds would
roll in. The rain would come. The throb of pain would resurface; an ache that
settled deep into his very being. Not the ache of guilt or remorse. It was the
hurt of resentment, the anguish of paranoia; although Dell couldn’t quite grasp
his torment in those terms.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dell hadn’t
been bullied in school. He hadn’t been so much as noticed. He hadn’t been
abused by his parents, but merely tolerated, he thought. He had no siblings to
torment him, no rivalry with others. He had just been - <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">detached</i>. Dell didn’t quite have the personality to develop many
friendships and when the few friends he did have gave up on him, he made it a
point to have no more. It was too painful when the rain came and the more often
it came, the longer it lingered.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">His own
Mother had lost her temper with him and berated him over the phone: “You’re so
negative!” she exclaimed, “too sensitive!” That was four years ago. He hadn’t
talked to her or Dad since. They called, he didn’t answer. Last year the calls had
stopped. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Shows how much they really care</i>,
Dell thought<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. People forget who you are; that
you just might be as human as they are</i>. He decided that they looked at him
as if <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">he </i>were the stain. As if he was
almost alive, but not quite.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dell felt
compelled to spend the remainder of the afternoon writing down his experiences
at the diner. It seemed important. It added clarity to the sequence of events. Dell
feared he may slip into madness without this record, this outlet. Some way to
remind himself that he was still part of the real world, starting with the day he’d
first seen the stain. Hours later, he laid aside the spiral notebook, setting
the stub of a pencil on top, his wrist aching, fingers stiff and red. Rubbing
his eyes, smudging graphite on his cheek, Dell stumbled to his bedroom. He went
to bed, fully clothed, soon asleep.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dell awoke
in the early hours of morning. It was still dark outside. He was more than a little
disgusted, falling asleep, fully clothed, not having had dinner or even
brushing his teeth. It wasn’t like him at all. Dell was an orderly person.
There was a time and place for everything. A place for his few books. A place
for his shoes. His shirts hung in his closet in a specific order; all twelve of
them, and he knew there were exactly twelve. The food in his refrigerator
always separated by type. He even knew the ‘sell buy’ date on his half empty
quart of milk. He was more than just disgusted. He was frightened. He needed
order in his life. Order kept the chaos out. Kept the chaotic thoughts at bay.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dell fished
his cellphone out of his jacket pocket which lay on the floor, having kicked it
off his bed during his restless slumber. It bothered him that he hadn’t plugged
it in to recharge. The battery symbol had turned to red for the first time. It
was unsettling. He called work to leave a message that he wouldn’t be in today.
He hadn’t ever called off before and didn’t feel comfortable about doing so,
but he knew that he couldn’t go in. Couldn’t wait until two o’clock, couldn’t
wait for his lunch hour. Dell left a message. He waited for the recorded voice
to let him know that his message had been received and forwarded to the proper
department. Satisfied, Dell pulled the phone from his ear. Just as he was about
to push “end,” a quiet voice could be heard, “Come in Dell. I’m waiting.” He
dropped the phone on the carpeted floor. He left it there. He quickly got
himself around and headed for the bus stop.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">On the bus,
headed uptown, sitting towards the back, arms crossed in his lap, shoulders
hunched, Dell worried. Worried about what was left of his life. Something had
happened. It had spoken to him on the phone. The squirrel. He knew in that
instant that there was no way back to his old, comfortable world. He didn’t
know if that were good or bad. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It would
almost be exciting if it didn’t worry him so.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">His life <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">had</i> been comfortable the last eight
years since graduating college, unburdened for the most part. His isolation
kept it that way. It almost felt that time had stood still, just the television
shows changed. He was even able to deny that he was aging, most of the time. A
memory, unbidden, came to mind, a childhood memory. His Father had brought home
a large box from the warehouse where he worked. Dell remembered that his mother
had wanted one to store clothing in. She’d made a big fuss over how the box was
too big and how his Father was an idiot for bringing it home. He had covered
his five-year-old ears as she berated his Father, who left the house without a
word. Dell remembered finding him asleep in his truck the next day. He didn’t
dare wake him. The box was never mentioned between his parents again. Dell’s
Mother put it in his room. “It’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yours</i>,
Dell. It can be anything you want it to be, silly.” And it was. Dell spent the
whole of that summer in the box. Time stood still.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">They boarded
the bus two stops before Dell’s. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two
teenaged boys, dressed in the typical urban teen uniform of loose fitting
jeans, t-shirt and sneakers. Laughing and pushing each other, they sat down on
the hard plastic seats. One on each side of the near empty bus, feet up on the
seat beside them, both with arms crossed, their backs leaning against the
chrome railings that stood bolted from floor to ceiling. The boys’ boisterous conversation
shot back and forth between them, studded with curse words. The bigger of the
two, probably no more than fifteen, drummed his feet on the seat, laughing
loudly at the older boy’s commentary. Dell looked past them at the other
passengers, three men nearer his own age. One had his eyes closed, obviously
feigning sleep, the second, a tattooed biker type gazed out the bus windows
over his shoulder and the last, dressed in a cheap suit and tie, concentrated
so hard on the newspaper gripped in his hand that Dell almost expected it to
burst into flame. He took a quick look from one teen to the other, noticing the
crude tattoos on the older boy’s knuckles (LOVE HATE) and then found himself
concentrating on a crumpled silver gum wrapper that bounced to and fro on the
floor from the vibration of the bus tires on broken asphalt.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“What did
you say?” one of the boys exclaimed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dell watched
that small ball of foil as it worked its way back and forth over the grimy
floor, pulling his shoulders up to his ears, reciting, “one more stop,” over
and over in his head like a mantra, a magic spell, the piece of foil a talisman.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Nothing.
Nothing,” said Dell, keeping his eyes downcast. He began to shake, bending over
further in his seat, squeezing his eyes shut, his empty stomach tightening like
a fist. He waited with a sickening anticipation for the first blow; the first
thrust of blade.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“What’s
wrong with you? What’s wrong with that dude, Kyle?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“What’s
wrong with you, motherfucker?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The boy
named Kyle guffawed, drumming his feet on the seat next to him. Dell could feel
the violent vibrations run up his spine.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Look at him
shake! Think he’s crazy?” said the Kyle boy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Just… just
leave me alone!” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Man, he is
nuts. Come on.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dell heard
the boy’s shuffling feet on the gritty floor. He held his breath and drew his
feet up, knees to his chest. The brakes of the bus wheezed, the sudden
deceleration nearly tossing him off of his seat. He heard the bus doors open,
his heart in his throat. He should make a run for it, he thought, but he
didn’t. He didn’t move at all. He wanted everything to just end; he wanted to
just disappear.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The doors
rattled shut. The bus accelerated with a jerk. Dell realized he was quietly
crying; sniffling. He opened one eye in a squint. The boys were gone. They’d
gotten off at the stop. His stop. Dell composed himself as best he could,
wiping his wet eyes and running nose on the sleeve of his jacket. The man with
the paper was gone as well. The biker sat smirking, still looking out the bus
window. The sleeper was still sleeping. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Four other
passengers had been picked up, a mother with a small boy with a bad cough and
three teenaged girls, whispering and giggling between themselves. Dell’s face
burned red. He knew the girls were mocking him. They’d seen him cowering from
the boys that were nearly their age. A grown man, afraid to stand up to a
couple of punks, they thought. An ugly little man. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Look at the old perv,</i> said one in a whisper. He couldn’t quite make
it out, but he knew, he knew. And what about the three men who ignored his
plight? Had they stood up to the punks? Had they come to his aid? The biker
with all his false bravado? The businessman who found the morning’s lead story
oh, so engrossing? The ‘sleeper’ who would’ve told the police, “I didn’t see
nothing, officer.” If Dell had… well, things would’ve been different, if he had
a second chance.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dell got off
at the next stop and walked his way back to the Dilly Dally, weak in the knees.
The green wooden double doors of the restaurant, glass panes glistening in the
late morning sun, beckoned Dell inside. The stale warm air comforted him like a
blanket. He glanced quickly round, making sure that the boys from the bus hadn’t
somehow found the diner and lay in waiting. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Reassured, Dell walked back to his corner
booth. He slipped into the dimly lit corner, refusing to look up. He stared at
his hands folded in his lap. Why had he come? What was he expecting? He should
be at work. This wasn’t right. His Mother would think him mad for even
considering what was spiraling through his mind. He could almost see her face
sour with disapproval. He decided he’d order toast and coffee, then be off to
work. He’d tell them he’d got to feeling better. He’d just not look at it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dell noticed movement out of the corner of
his eye. He turned, mouth open, ready to address the waitress, when he realized
it was another patron taking a seat in the adjacent booth. A man in khaki pants
and a blue windbreaker jacket. He looked at Dell. Dell snapped his mouth shut;
the stranger looked away, opening a newspaper he’d brought with him. Dell
recognized him. He had seen this man when scoping out the restaurant just
minutes ago, sitting on a stool at the counter. Although he’d only seen him
from the back, he knew it was the same guy by his close cropped haircut and
muscular build. He was in the place just about as regular as Dell; always sat
at the counter, until today; always flirted with the same waitress that waited
on Dell. ‘Mr. Clean-cut’ Dale had named him, just as he’d named the waitress
‘Miss. Lonely-heart’. She wore a nametag, but Dale never bothered to remember
her name. Why should he, he thought.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You can’t ignore me forever, Dale. You
came to see me, remember? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wanted</i> to
see me. Look at me!” commanded the little brown creature.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Shhhhh,” said Dale, drawing the attention
of Mr. Clean-cut. Dale looked up at the squirrel while at the same time,
watched the man in the booth next to him in his peripheral vision.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Dell, no one can hear me but you,
remember? Isn’t that grand? You’re staring. Take a picture, it’ll last longer!”
said the impossible animal, ending with a twitter that set Dell’s teeth on edge.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The waitress appeared at the booth across
from his. Dell used her presence as an excuse to break eye contact with his
squirrel, looking down at her no-nonsense work shoes and back at his hands that
strangled each other in his lap. He sat and listened while she flirted with Mr.
Clean-cut. She’d barely even acknowledge Dell’s existence when she took his
order, he thought, which was always the same; turkey on rye with coffee. No, no
lettuce or tomato, or mayo thank you. It infuriated him. It hadn’t ever before,
but today, well it infuriated him to no end. How Dell was beginning to hate
this place and everyone in it. But it didn’t matter. He came now for only one
reason: his secret.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yes, I am your secret, Dell. Yours and
yours alone and I know we’re going to become good friends. Right Dell?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I… I guess so,” whispered Dell.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Did you say somethin’ hun?” asked the
portly Miss. Lonely-heart.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Um, I’ll have my usual,” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“And what’s that, hun?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dell felt
like reminding her that he came here five days a week and ordered the same
thing every time, and that she must be some kind of chowder head for not
knowing that, and that if she expected to be tipped… but he just gave his order
and waited for her to leave him in peace.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Chowder head? You mean class ‘A’ bitch,
am I right?” said his squirrel, “and don’t answer that aloud, idiot. You don’t
need to sputter at me for me to hear you.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I am not an idiot, and I don’t sputter,</span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> thought Dale.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“That a boy. Sorry about that buddy, but
you’re attracting unwanted attention, if you get my drift.” The little furry
animal cast eyes in the direction of Mr. Clean-cut. It would’ve been comical,
thought Dell, if it weren’t so surreal.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dell’s lunch was soon set before him with
little care. The waitress was back flirting with the man in the next booth.
Dale thought the man’s toothy grin reminded him of a shark, cold and dangerous.
That brought back uncomfortable thoughts of the bus ride.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Those boys on the bus have you worried,
kiddo? You know, I really enjoy your company. I’d hate to think you might not
come back because of those boys. You should do something about it.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>How would you know about…</span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> started Dell.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I know a lot about you, my boy. There’s a
reason why you can see me and no one else can Dell. I’ve chosen you to see me.
You’re special, Dell. Not like the others; callous in their disbelief. You
truly see things as they are. See <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">people</i>
as they really are; barren and shallow, am I right? Well, I want to be your
friend. We are friends, aren’t we Dell? So, what should we do about it?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">About
what?<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“About those hooligans, you numb… Dell,”
said the squirrel, raising his tiny squirrel voice. It actually frightened Dell
quite a bit, but then the little thing was all honey and molasses once again. “I
think you need to protect yourself, my friend. You need to buy yourself a gun.
Have you ever shot a gun, Dell?” asked his Squirrel.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Once.
Once in summer camp. It was…<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I know all about that. It wasn’t your
fault, Dell. The boy lived. No harm, no foul, am I right?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’d forgotten all about that. I know it wasn’t my fault. My Mother said
it was. No more camp for me. It was actually a relief. God, why am I remembering
this crap?<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Don’t say that word.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Crap? </span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Dale didn’t understand, but he’d
watch his manners. He really did need a friend, even if it was an animated
stain on a wall. And that’s all his squirrel was, wasn’t it?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Stop thinking like that. Concentrate
Dell. Those boys. You know they’re still out there. Still a threat, and I know
I don’t want any harm coming to you, my friend. Get a gun. There’s a gun shop
just eight blocks up on Union. Six hundred dollars and a little paperwork and
you’re good to go.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I
can’t see as I really…<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Get. The. Gun. Trust me, buddy, you’re
going to need it. You must admit I can see a lot more than you can. Do it.” His
squirrel seemed very adamant, impatient and practically rude about it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
next thing Dell knew, he was headed towards Union Street. Dell had decided to
buy the gun. If nothing else, it would be a new experience for him. It would
almost be exciting if it didn’t worry him so.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He’d had to
deal with the waiting period, and thought more than once about calling and
canceling the order. But the worry left him once he had the pistol, slick with
gun oil, loaded (he’d ducked into an alley way and nervously fumbled with the
bullets, a rush of adrenaline turning his fear into excitement), tucked in a
box, tucked in a bag emblazoned: SANDER’S GUN PRO INC. He hurried to the bus
station, heading for home. He hadn’t been to work in a week. They hadn’t
called, he hadn’t cared. Dell sprinted up the four flights of stairs to his
apartment. He never took the elevator; wouldn’t consider it. Three full minutes
trapped alone with a stranger was something to be avoided as much as humanly possible.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mrs. Quigley, his next door neighbor,
stood in the hallway, as if waiting for him. Dell knew it must be a
coincidence, that he was coming as she was going, but it startled him none the
less. He covered the package by holding it against his chest while digging in
his pocket for his keys.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“How nice to see you Dell. How are things
at the hospital?” she asked, peering cheerily at him through bi-focal glasses,
her gray wig slightly askew, dressed in a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hello
Kitty</i> sweat-suit. Dell thought she looked like a kid dressed as an old lady
for Halloween.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“A little crazy. You know how it can be
for a Res,” said Dell, having found his key and now concentrating on shoving it
into the keyhole. When he had started the lie about being a Resident Physician
he couldn’t remember.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I noticed you’ve been home lately. Not to
pry, but…”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“My Mother’s been sick, is all. Taking some
time off. Helping her out, you know.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mrs. Quigley
looked at him like she didn’t know, but Dell finally got his door open, and
headed into his apartment.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Nice to see you, Dell. Take good care of
your mother,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dell simply closed the door in her face,
then watched through the peep-hole until Mrs. Quigley shuffled out of site. He
laid the bag containing the box containing the gun on his bed. He didn’t want
it anymore. He didn’t like what was happening to him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dell wasn’t a participant in life, he was an
observer. A watcher. What was he doing with a gun? A week ago he wouldn’t even
have been able to imagine going into a gun shop, let alone buying a gun. It was
the squirrel. He hadn’t been back to the diner in a week, and even though he hadn’t
been conscious of it, he had been avoiding the place on purpose. He told
himself he hadn’t wanted to attempt it unarmed, but he’d made the trip to and
from the gun shop twice. Maybe he didn’t need to go back. He’d take back the
gun tomorrow. He’d see if he still had a job, and if not, look for another. Dell
made himself a frozen dinner and watched the news. He fell asleep on the couch.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dell awoke, bleary eyed and confused. He
could hear a voice spouting nonsense about tile floors. He realized the voice
was a pitchman in an infomercial on his TV. He groped for the remote and
clicked off the set. He fell onto his bed and attempted to escape back into
sleep. As he drifted, he could hear a skittering noise somewhere in the room.
Sleep overcame him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The early summer sun shone red through
Dell’s eyelids. As much as he desperately wanted to remain sleeping, the sun
stubbornly kept intruding. He sighed and stretched, his body racked with aches
and pains. Dell rubbed the sleep from his eyes and then sat on the edge of the
bed. His blinds were open. He normally pulled them down tight, but he slowly
began to remember that he’d stumbled into his room groggily from the couch.
Dell used the bathroom, then splashed cold water on his face and hair, slicking
his hair back in an effort to tame it. Looking into the mirror, Dell was
shocked at how white his complexion was and how dark, bruised and hollow were
his eyes. He looked sick. More than sick. He looked nearly dead. As he stared
into the mirror, he noticed something else; something perplexing if not
disturbing. A dark spot on the bedroom wall. The wall that was at the head of
his bed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dell went to the spot. He had to climb
onto his bed on his knees to examine it. It was a hole through the plaster
board. A hole about three inches in diameter. A ragged hole. It looked to Dell
as if a rat had clawed its way through. Not from inside the room, but from
behind the wall. He could see small lacerations in the plaster there. The
thought of sharp bloodied teeth and claws came to mind. Bits of plaster
littered his sheets; his pillow. Then, squinting, Dell saw the writing. Tiny
writing. Tiny brown writing in a sepia tone. It said: ‘In this hole lives the
Wicker King. Kill for my Master. I turn children into Killers.’ It wasn’t in
Dell’s handwriting. He wished to God it was, but it wasn’t. Dell backed out of
the bedroom, closing the door after him. He couldn’t understand it. Kill for
who? Who’s children? He’d been a child once. Was he still one? How had he
allowed this to happen? His world had been turned upside down, ransacked. Somehow
he’d allowed a hole to be poked in his reality, and there was no way to mend
it. Something wrong was leaking through.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dell sat on his cracked concrete patio on
his one molded-plastic chair, drinking hot black coffee, trying to breathe some
life into his fatigued body. He watched the cars roll by below; he could smell
the exhaust fumes as their owners fought for position in the morning’s rush
hour. He’d made up his mind. He would return the gun to the gun shop, then see
if he still had a job. He’d decided he wouldn’t sleep here another night. He’d
call his parents and hope they’d give him a place to stay for a while. Dell
gathered his nerve and retrieved the bulky package from his bedroom, once again
closing the door behind him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soon he was on the bus. The bus was
crowded, but it actually made him feel safer. He was just another anonymous
commuter. Dell sat as the bus jostled him along, lulling him. The bus was too
warm. He guessed the driver thought the weather was still too mild to run the
air. Soon he was asleep, drifting in and out of consciousness. (“Dell, get the
gun.”) He awoke in a panic. Had he missed his stop? Where was his package
(GUN)? Dell stood, grasping the sticky chrome pole nearest him. He looked
frantically around. The bag (GUN) was gone. The bus braked, pitching him into
the man next to him. “Watch it, bud.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Sorry,”
stammered Dell, “my stop.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Well, good
for you, guy,” said the middle-aged man in the too small tweed jacket.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Excuse me.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dell was off the bus. He shoved his hands
in his jacket pockets, a jacket that felt much too warm as the clear summer sky
shown down on him. The gun was in his right pocket. It wasn’t a big gun, “good
for a beginner”, said the clerk in the gun shop, “Plenty lethal though.
Excellent for self-defense.” What would he do without the receipt? Hopefully
the guy who sold him the gun would remember him. If not, he’d sell it
somewhere. A pawn shop or something. Dell walked towards Union Street.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The next he knew, Dell stood just within
the deep green doors of the diner. He realized eyes were upon him. How long had
he been standing there? He slinked towards the back of the restaurant, shoes
shuffling on gritty linoleum. He slid into his tiny booth tucked in the
shadowed corner. Dell realized he was sweating. He realized he had his hand in
his jacket pocket, wrapped around the pistol grip, finger on the trigger of his
gun. Dell didn’t even try to avoid it. He looked up at the squirrel.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Dell! Happy to see you! Almost thought
you’d changed your mind, but I was pretty sure you’d come. You are my only friend,
after all. You did have me worried though. However, I know where you live,” it
said, moving slightly down the wall, its tiny sharp nailed paws scrabbling on
the yellowed wallpaper. Dale quickly glanced around. No one was the wiser. The
smattering of customers continued with their benign conversations and senseless
banter.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You! You came to my apartment, you…
squirrel. Those words…”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Shhhhh… Dell, remember what I told you.
Don’t speak aloud! You’ll spoil everything,” it said bearing its sharp, yellowed
teeth, brown eyes now rimmed with red. “And the name is Harvey. It wasn’t I who
wrote those words. The whole picture captures much more than just you and I.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m
done with you</i>, thought Dale, his shaking hand threatening to draw the
weapon from his pocket.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Oh, but I think not. I need you Dell. You
need me. You see me. Validate me. You’re on a different wave length from
everyone else. You know it as well as me.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dell broke eye contact from the thing and
brought his fist down on the table. The silverware set on the white paper
napkin bounced and rattled. Dell drew a deep breath through his nose and
exhaled with a sob through his mouth. The waitress for his section appeared
seemingly out of nowhere.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What can I getcha hun?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“A coffee. Just coffee Miss. Lonely…,” he
caught himself.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What was that? You okay fella?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“A coffee please,” he struggled to read
her name tag, “Lucy.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Sure. Okay. Coffee. Whatever flips your
skirt.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He watched her waddle away. He swabbed his
face with the paper napkin, pieces of it remaining in the stubble of his
unshaven face. He watched as she paused at the counter to flirt with Mr.
Clean-cut. He hadn’t been there before. Dell checked his watch. Two o’clock,
his old lunch hour. Where had the time gone? The missing time put him further
on edge.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Hey, buddy boy. Don’t be rude to your
lunch date. I’m still up here, you know.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Why
don’t you come down here?</i> Thought Dell.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Oh, you wouldn’t want that. Anyway, you
need to relax. As I was saying, this thing is bigger than me and you. It’s
beyond our control. So, let’s just let it be, okay? Truce?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dell hadn’t been listening to the machinations
of the little beast. He’d been watching Mr. Clean-cut. Mr. Clean-cut as he
finished his coffee and got up off the red padded stool. Mr. Clean-cut who
strolled towards the back of the diner, towards Dell. Who slid into the booth
next to Dell. Who opened the folded newspaper that he’d carried tucked under
his muscled arm. Dell watched no more. He withdrew his hand from his pocket and
clasped hands on the table, now littered with his jumbled silverware and used
napkin. Every muscle in Dell’s body was as taut as a piano wire. He wanted to
leave, but felt if he tried, he’d run screaming into the street. Miss. Lonely
Heart brought the coffee and sat it before him with a clunk, without a word.
Coffee sloshed onto the tabletop, a rivulet making a beeline for his jacket sleeve.
Dell let the coffee soak in.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Well isn’t that the be all? What are you,
Dell? Really? What are you? Chopped liver? A doormat? Look at you, sitting
there. You lost your job. Your parents hate you. People walk all over you.
You’re intimidated by children, for fuck’s sake. I’m ashamed of you. Your only
friend, someone who’s tried to help you out, totally and completely ashamed. I
have to hand it to you though, you did find the balls to buy that gun. A gun; you
know, a gun is a great equalizer, Dell. As a friend I can tell you, that’s what
you need, an equalizer. Bring these idiots down a notch or two. Show them who’s
boss for once. Look. She’s coming back. Now’s your chance. Teach her a lesson,
Dell!” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The last screeching sentence from the
creature’s mouth snapped Dell into action. He went for the gun. It wasn’t like
the movies; the hammer of the gun caught on the lining of his jacket, Dell
struggled to free it, panicking, as she drew nearer, step by step. With much
effort, Dell tore the gun free, his finger squeezing the trigger before the gun
was even fully out of his jacket pocket. The report of the first shot exploded
in his ear louder than he could’ve ever imagined, the bullet plugging a neat
hole through the linoleum covered floor. He aimed the gun for the next shot,
but the terrified woman was already diving behind a booth just up from his.
Aiming for her head, he took another shot. The sound was terrific. Red
blossomed on her shoulder as she dropped behind the booth.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Drop your weapon!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dell shrunk back from the bellow,
instinctively putting up his hands in a defensive motion, elbows crooked, gun
now pointing towards the ceiling. He slowly turned his head. Mr. Clean-cut
repeated,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Police! Drop the gun! NOW!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">All Dell
could see was the officer’s weapon trained on him. All he could think to say
was,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Harvey told me to,” pointing high up on the
wall. Dell put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Officer Nathaniel Casey stayed through the
crime scene investigation. The detectives wanted him available if they needed
to ask him any further questions. All he could think about was that he was
truly glad that Lucy had noticed the strange behavior of the shooter over the
course of the last few weeks. She’d always considered him an oddball, she’d
said, but the last few weeks he’d started talking to himself and seemed
disoriented. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nathaniel couldn’t have been happier with
the outcome, especially since his handling of the situation had been exemplary.
He’d even been told by the EMT’s that Lucy wouldn’t have made it without his
medical assistance. Surely that would bode well for him with his current circumstance,
as he was under review for misappropriation of evidence. They’d never pin the
charge on him anyway. Sure, he took the drugs and sold them, but so did a lot
of guys. Nobody could be expected to live on his salary.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nathaniel thought about what the guy had
said before blowing his brains out, ‘Harvey told me to’. The weird part was how
the guy had gestured towards the wall. High up on the wall. He leaned over the
bloodstained seat of the tiny two seat booth. There was a stain there. It
looked like a squirrel. No, it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> a
squirrel. The officer lost track of time.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span> </div>
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<o:p><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
Check out my two short stories, now published on Amazon Kindle:</div>
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TRAILER PARK FROM HELL</div>
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LIFE'S A BITCH. A WEREBITCH.</div>
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Check out my new book, TEN LITTLE TERRORS, also now on Amazon:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Ten-Little-Terrors-ebook/dp/B00CIITW4W/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1366938989&sr=1-1&keywords=ten+little+terrors"><span style="color: #4a4a4a;">http://www.amazon.com/Ten-Little-Terrors-ebook/dp/B00CIITW4W/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1366938989&sr=1-1&keywords=ten+little+terrors</span></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Tim Whitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18072021569016967821noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725821522100244795.post-69121742285977770292014-01-26T20:39:00.000-05:002014-01-26T20:39:14.056-05:00LATEST SLENDER MAN SIGHTINGS 2014<div class="irc_mutc">
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" 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Tim Whitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18072021569016967821noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725821522100244795.post-4662020494428810042014-01-13T22:09:00.000-05:002014-01-13T22:09:06.109-05:00New Jersey house is another Amityville Horror<div class="irc_mutc">
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<br />
Just one week after Josue Chinchilla and Michele Callan moved into their new home in Toms River, the couple and her two children plodded into the lobby of a local hotel about 1:15 a.m. and asked for a room.<br />
As soon as the family had settled into the three-bedroom ranch at the corner of Terrace and Lowell avenues on March 1, they began to suspect they were not its only tenants.<br />
The family would come home and find their clothes and towels ejected from the closets and strewn over the floors. Doors would creak open and slam closed in unoccupied areas of the house. Lights switched on and off without human intervention. At night, footsteps could be heard from the kitchen after everyone was tucked in and unintelligible whispering seemed to fade in and out of thin air, according to the couple.<br />
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READ MORE HERE:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://doubtfulnews.com/2012/04/family-claims-nj-house-is-another-amityville-horror-paranormal-investigators-called-in/">http://doubtfulnews.com/2012/04/family-claims-nj-house-is-another-amityville-horror-paranormal-investigators-called-in/</a>Tim Whitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18072021569016967821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725821522100244795.post-3084922598767322542013-11-06T23:18:00.000-05:002013-11-06T23:18:02.770-05:00Black Eyed Kids (BEK) Report, 2009<img alt="Black Eyed Children Report From Someone Who Let Them In" height="400" scale="0" src="http://pararational.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/02/BEK-the-movie-150x150.jpg" width="400" /><br />
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This happened back in February of 2009.<br />
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As being a Muslim I’m not allowed to have a relationship with a girl until I get married. I was super excited that day because my family was going out of state to attend a wedding. My secretly relationed girlfriend was supposed to spend the two days at my house. She lived in Buffalo and was supposed to arrive at my place at 7 pm that night.<br />
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Have you had and experience with the <strong>Black Eyed Children</strong>? If so, then we want to hear about it. Click on the link below to report your encounter with the Black Eyed Children and help spread the word about this phenomenon.</div>
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At 7.30 I called her and she said she was running late because she got out of class late. She told me 30 more minutes according to the GPS. At 7.15, I was sitting on the couch watching a movie, when suddenly I heard someone hardly beating the door. I got up went to the closest next to the front door and pulled out a cricket bat.<br />
I opened the door and I saw three kids standing there. My damn front light wasn’t working but I could see the first two kids, not much clearly, and the outline shape of the third one. They were all looking at me, judging by their outlined head shapes towards my face. One of them told me that they were lost and needed to call there mum.<br />
They asked to come in, that was the biggest mistake of my life when I said okay. They came in all facing downwards. I told them to go sit on the couch. They walked passed me in an orderly fashion. I went to get the home phone from the kitchen. I wanted to call the cops first. So I did, but the call didn’t go through. I went into the living room and what I saw amazed me little.<br />
All three of them were sitting quietly, faced down. I thought they were good mannered children. I walked over to them and gave them the phone. At that moment my girlfriend called on my cell telling me that she was 5 min away. Talking to her I walked over to the kitchen, I don’t know why.<br />
I disconnected her and thought maybe I should asked them if they were hungry or wanted a drink. I stood by the living room door, which connects the kitchen, and asked them if they wanted something. At the same time all three of them looked at me. Those were seriously the most scariest eyes I had ever seen.<br />
First I thought it must be because of the lights because it was a lil dim. But staring at them for 10 seconds more and I was screaming like a girl. I ran towards the garage door, I felt all three of them running after me because I could hear their feet thumping the wooden floors.<br />
I ran into the garage locked the door, pushed the garage door button and crawled out as soon as the slow moron door opened till my knees. I got up and looked around, confused what to do. I looked back at the house trying to see if the kids were gonna pop from somewhere after me.<br />
I picked up two bricks lying across the pavement, which my mom uses for gardening sometimes. I waited for them to come out. I was gonna pop their heads open if they came out. I stood there for like 2 or 3 minutes when I saw headlights at the end of the street. I ran towards them.<br />
I reached the door and saw that the driver was my girl. That was the happiest moment of my life with her. I got into the passenger seat and screamed at her to hit the pedal. She saw my face was full sweat and frightened and she hit the gas pedal. We went straight to the police station. I told the cop the whole incident. She asked me to get a breath test. I got really angry and told her to come with me. My girlfriend believed me as she believed in paranormal stuff.<br />
We went to the house, lights were still on. The cop had the gun in his hand and asked us to wait outside. She went inside and I picked up two more bricks and so did my gf. She came back after 5 mins and said there was nobody inside, as she said that backup car was here. I asked them to accompany me inside. There was nobody in the house. But the back door, which leads to the backyard, was opened. There were shoe marks of mud on the floor by the couch they were sitting on and the garage door looked a little cracked up. They still wouldn’t believe me.<br />
I didn’t file a report because I didn’t want the story to get out because it was a small town, stories spread like fire and I didn’t want people to think i was crazy. Me and my gf locked the house, drove back to buffalo and spent the night in her dorm. I didn’t come back till the day my family got back. But after that incident i never stayed home alone. I would accompany them or spend a night at a friends. I still go to sleep with a baseball bat and pepper spray in bed.Tim Whitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18072021569016967821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725821522100244795.post-5842734070350971172013-10-31T17:41:00.000-04:002013-11-01T09:33:08.107-04:00Halloween Pin UpsHAPPY HALLOWEEN!<br />
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<a href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3315/3449294972_ff5d469b60.jpg?v=0" id="assetif392061eb8ae1a21124e9285e4b730d332950012-link-img" target="_blank"><img alt="Vintage Halloween Pin-up--Lovely Lady Carves Pumpkin on Flickr - Photo Sharing!" height="480" id="assetif392061eb8ae1a21124e9285e4b730d332950012-img" src="http://img.ffffound.com/static-data/assets/6/f392061eb8ae1a21124e9285e4b730d332950012_m.jpg" width="311" /></a><br />
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<a data-ved="0CAUQjRw" href="http://www.google.com/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&frm=1&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&docid=ilnbUglRHYNE2M&tbnid=VdGol-o3yNHeoM:&ved=0CAUQjRw&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.ebay.com%2Fitm%2FBETTIE-BETTY-PAGE-RED-DEVIL-RETRO-STICKER-Vinyl-DECAL-%2F330561693999&ei=gK1zUpblCMfMkAeo8oDwCg&psig=AFQjCNFoDeu83xv7zlYOdFFfdOuJlJpFYA&ust=1383398783415264" id="irc_mil" style="border: 0px currentColor;"><img height="288" id="irc_mi" src="http://i.ebayimg.com/t/BETTIE-BETTY-PAGE-RED-DEVIL-RETRO-STICKER-Vinyl-DECAL-/00/s/Mjg4WDE5OQ==/$(KGrHqJ,!iQE6K83Zs2jBOs)y73LHQ~~60_35.JPG" style="margin-top: 56px;" width="199" /></a>Tim Whitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18072021569016967821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725821522100244795.post-4033495985034858662013-10-10T17:28:00.001-04:002013-10-10T17:30:54.630-04:00Dwayyo: The Maryland Dogman Originally posted at: "PHANTOMS AND MONSTERS PULSE OF THE PARANORMAL"<br />
<br />
<strong>I recently came across new information on the 'Maryland Dogman'...so I
decided to update the orginal past:</strong>Back in May of 2011 I posted a
narrative describing the <a href="http://naturalplane.blogspot.com/2011/05/beware-snallygaster.html"><span style="color: #99aadd;">Snallygaster</span></a>,
legendary beast from my neck of the woods in Maryland. Another cryptid from this
region is the <i>Dwayyo</i>...not as well known as the Snallygaster, but just as
<span class="IL_AD" iceid="14" id="IL_AD12"><u><span style="color: #1b8ede;">terrifying</span></u></span> to those who have
encountered the creature.<br />
<br />
In the late 18th century, the Pennsylvania
Dutch started to settle on the other side of the Mason-Dixon Line in Carroll,
Frederick & <span class="IL_AD" iceid="9" id="IL_AD7"><u><span style="color: #1b8ede;">Washington
Counties</span></u></span>. Not long after setting down their new roots, tales of the
<i>Hexenwolf</i> started to circulate. The description of this beast was similar
to the Dwayyo...<i>'a mammalian biped with features similar to a wolf, but the
stance and stature of a human.'</i> These farmers raised livestock for food and
revenue, so it was important that their domestic animals be protected from the
beast. Decorative five-pointed 'barn stars' may mean numerous things, such as a
builder's mark or bringing luck, but I have been told that the real reason for
these stars was the belief it was a talisman against baneful spirits or other
dark entities. There is no reference as to the success of the 'barn stars'...but
sometimes a bit of non-conventional intervention can go a long way.<br />
<br />
The
first mention of the name ‘Dwayyo’ or 'Dewayo' comes from a sighting in 1944 in
West Middleton, Frederick County, Maryland. Witnesses heard the creature make
‘frightful screams’ and there were footprints attesting to the claims of the
sighting.<br />
<br />
The creature had first come to prominence after a story ran in
the <span class="IL_AD" iceid="10" id="IL_AD8"><u><span style="color: #1b8ede;">Fredrick</span></u></span> News Post in
November of 1965. Reporter George May wrote in the <span class="IL_AD" iceid="13" id="IL_AD11"><u><span style="color: #1b8ede;">article</span></u></span>, “Mysterious Dwayyo Loose in County” that a young
man, named anonymously as ‘John Becker’ heard a strange noise in his backyard
which was situated on the outskirts of Gambrill State Park. Upon going out to
investigate the noise he initially saw nothing, so he headed back in. It was
then that he caught site of the creature. Something was moving toward him in the
dark, Becker was quoted that “It was as big as a bear, had long black hair, a
bushy tail, and growled like a wolf or dog in anger.” The thing quickly moved
toward him on its hind legs and began to attack him. He fought off the creature
and drove it back into the woods, later calling police to report the
incident.<br />
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CONTINUE READING AT:<br />
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<a href="http://www.phantomsandmonsters.com/2013/10/dwayyo-maryland-dogman.html?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+PhantomsAndMonstersAPersonalJourney+%28Phantoms+and+Monsters%29">http://www.phantomsandmonsters.com/2013/10/dwayyo-maryland-dogman.html?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+PhantomsAndMonstersAPersonalJourney+%28Phantoms+and+Monsters%29</a><br />
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Check out my two short stories, now published on Amazon Kindle:<br />
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Check out my new book, TEN LITTLE TERRORS, now on Amazon:<br />
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Tim Whitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18072021569016967821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725821522100244795.post-84953456685048211212013-09-30T14:42:00.002-04:002013-10-01T16:52:50.692-04:00Terrible Minds Cliffhanger Challenge. CHALLENGE ACCEPTED!<strong>Hi,</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<strong>I've written about Chuck Wendig's blog (Terrible Minds) before, and I've taken up a few of his flash fiction challenges. Well, this is another.</strong><br />
<br />
Description:<br />
<br />
<em>Here’s what you’re going to do:</em><br />
<em>You’re going to write an unfinished story.</em><br />
<em>Around 1000 words that leads to a cliffhanger of some kind.</em><br />
<em>Then, next week, we’ll pick up in part two –</em><br />
<em>Where someone else may write the end of your story.</em><br />
<em>You’re writing, in a sense, to entice another writer to want to complete the second half of your tale. To answer the cliffhanger, to be the one who saves the day, solves the mystery.</em><br />
<em>Like I said: ~1000 words.</em><br />
<em>Post at your online space. Link back here so we can read it.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
If you'd like, read the complete blog post here: <a href="http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2013/09/20/flash-fiction-challenge-the-cooperative-cliffhanger-part-one/">http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2013/09/20/flash-fiction-challenge-the-cooperative-cliffhanger-part-one/</a><br />
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I chose the following story to add to (although I couldn't complete it within the thousand word parameter, so... I didn't.) If the author of the original would like me to carry on, I will, as I'd like to see how this story ends!<br />
<br />
Here is "part one" READ THIS FIRST (follow this link): <a href="http://mahoganyandink.blogspot.com/2013/09/cliffhanger-challenge-setup.html">http://mahoganyandink.blogspot.com/2013/09/cliffhanger-challenge-setup.html</a><br />
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I'd love to give the author credit, but all I could find was the name "Al" (maybe it's like "Cher," or "Madonna," or "Prince?").<br />
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Here is my continuation:<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;">Julia opened her eyes. She was alone, but other than that,
everything remained the same. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet, she <em>was</em>
alone. John and Katie were gone. Where were they? How long had she been out?
She pushed herself off the floor and stood. The clock on the wall showed she’d
only been out a minute or so. She felt fine. She wasn’t groggy or disoriented.
The effect of the “drug” was in no way noticeable; nothing like she had
expected or feared. Gazing at the floor, Julia noticed with some confusion that
the pillow, mat, circles of copper wires, salt and oil weren’t present. That
seemed impossible. She couldn’t see a grain of salt or a smear of oil on the
tile floor. A chill ran up her spine.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Julia’s mind
raced, trying to rationalize the disappearance of the rings of protection, the
rings which John had scoffed at as superstition. Before she could form any kind
of conclusion, she heard the metallic click of a door latch; a slight sound
that echoed from down the long hallway outside the door of the lab, followed by
footsteps.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She hid in the
only place available, under a stainless steel table, pushing herself back into
the corner as far as she could, knees drawn up against her. Her heart beat
furiously. Julia could hear her own blood course through her head, feel her
heartbeat against her thighs. She tried to take shallow breaths, to be as quiet
as possible. The inevitable happened. The someone opened the door and walked into
the room, Julia realized she’d failed to turn out the lights. He walked past
the table where she hid. She heard him sit in a swivel office chair and sigh.
He spoke. She almost screamed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Angel of Mercy
33. Yeah. No one’s here. I know what you said. Your guy was wrong. They weren’t
shooting the koolaid here. Yeah the lights are still on, just like I left them.
I know. I know how dangerous it is to cross over. At least we don’t turn, like
most of the ones who come our way. So, what now? Alright.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She realized he was
on his cell. “Angel of Mercy 33” got up from the chair and walked out, turning
off the lights. He closed the steel door. Julia heard the deadbolt click into
place. She was locked in. She sat in the dark for what seemed like a half an
hour, but when she crawled out of hiding and turned on the lights she saw that
only five minutes had passed. She pulled out her own cell, only to see that she
couldn’t get service.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A lone computer
sat on the desk where the guy had sat. She decided she’d try to attempt contact
with John or Katie through the net. She sat and waited while the computer
booted. A blue screen proclaiming “Windows 17c” was the operating system. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Windows 17c?</i> Never heard of that, she
thought. A series of unknown icons filled the screen. The one most familiar was
a stylized letter “e”, but orange rather than blue. She opened the browser. The
home page was a news site, “MWN, MicroWare News.” The leading headline hit her
psyche like a concrete bus: “More Deaths Attributed to MD Murderer.” Julia read
the article in utter confusion. It read like a bad zombie novel. It seemed some
type of fiend was randomly slaughtering people in a major metropolis that she
didn’t recognize. Then eating part of his victims. The MD stood for “Multi-Dimensional,”
she found out through the site search engine. What was going on? Katie would
know. Katie followed every news site, legitimate and suspect; from CNN to the
National Enquirer and beyond, looking for anything that might even be remotely
connected to Ian’s disappearance/sighting. Julia would email Katie. She’d stay
here as long as she could, awaiting a reply.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;">Julia couldn’t find her email account. She searched
desperately. She found an email site that looked in every way like her gmail
account, but was titled “Goggles.” She felt she was just wasting time. She shut
down the computer.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She tried the
door. It was locked, just as she had expected. How was she going to get out of
this room? She was below ground. No windows. No window out into the hall way.
Her only chance was a key. She knew the lock on the door served one purpose
only, to keep people out. The use of a deadbolt was the best way to achieve that.
So, would there be a key available, in case someone was locked in? She found it
in the top desk drawer and escaped the building.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Julia found
herself on the street, illuminated by the yellow glare of sodium lights, the
sky black beyond the rectangles of light cast from the skyscrapers surrounding her. A patrol
car slowly rolled by, emblazoned with reflective lettering: “New Jorvik Police.”
She walked briskly, her sneakers making little sound. She pulled her gray
hoodie over her short cropped hair, bleached blond. She didn’t hail a cab. She
was afraid to. The drug had taken effect after all, she surmised. It was
confusing her. She’d been unable to make sense of her internet browsing. Couldn’t
find her email account. And what about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">New
Jorvik Police? </i>This was New York. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cool
September air seemed to help clear her mind. She passed all the same apartment
buildings and stores she had always passed on this nine block stretch of the
city. She buzzed herself in to her apartment building, took the elevator to her
floor, and made her way towards her door without incident. Julia stopped when
she saw that something was wrong. Very wrong. A dark stain, like chocolate syrup,
pooled from under her door. As she came closer, she realized it for what it
was. Blood.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>As I said, I'd like to complete this, but would rather do so only with the original author's approval.</em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em></em></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>If you're a writer, or a lover of edgy, dark fiction, you really need to check out Mr. Wendig's blog. And by "need" I mean like you "need" to breathe.</em></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<a href="http://terribleminds.com/ramble/">http://terribleminds.com/ramble/</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>- Timothy Whitcher</em></span></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><a data-ved="0CAUQjRw" href="http://www.google.com/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&frm=1&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&docid=db87tvZ7crPLwM&tbnid=E3qWXyVH8etQiM:&ved=0CAUQjRw&url=http%3A%2F%2Fhumanityhealing.net%2F2011%2F06%2Fmultidimensional-healing-iii%2F&ei=2cVJUqqQE5Oc9QS-poHADQ&bvm=bv.53217764,d.eWU&psig=AFQjCNF1WiGL6vwfaVsx6T2pJTz7wUhVEg&ust=1380652765591402" id="irc_mil" style="border: 0px currentColor;"><img height="400" id="irc_mi" src="http://hhnet.omtimes.netdna-cdn.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/06/Multi-dimensional-realities_Humanity-Healing.jpg" style="margin-top: 71px;" width="400" /></a></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></em><br />
Check out my two short stories, now published on Amazon Kindle:<br />
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TRAILER PARK FROM HELL</div>
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LIFE'S A BITCH. A WEREBITCH.</div>
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Tim Whitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18072021569016967821noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725821522100244795.post-14950140686845550562013-09-24T17:10:00.003-04:002013-09-30T22:09:35.384-04:00The Berini Haunting, New England, Poltergeist or demonic?One of the most shocking Poltergeist cases of recent times, a family was disturbed and terrified by a series of apparitions. The poltergeist activity took place in the late 1970's and early 1980's, and became known as the Berini Haunting.<br />
What began as a benign but remarkable haunting, escalated into terrifying poltergeist activity, makes this one of the most remarkable cases of paranormal activity in recent American history. The real name of the family involved has been kept secret to protect their privacy. The Psychical Research Foundation investigators provided them with the pseudonym of Berini.<br />
<div class="img_caption none" style="float: none; width: 673px;">
<img alt="A photo of the ghost caught in the window" border="0" class="caption" src="http://www.ghost-story.co.uk/images/graphics/berini.jpg" title="A photo of the ghost caught in the window" /><br />
<div class="img_caption">
A photo of the ghost caught in the window</div>
</div>
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The haunting started shortly after Joe Berini moved his wife Rose and two of her children from a former marriage into his ancestral New England home in the late 1970s. The first ghost was that of a little girl whose voice was heard one evening in May, 1979. The girls apparition spoke to his wife Rose "Mama, mama, this is Serena." Neither Joe nor Rose knew of any girl in the family's past by the name of Serena at that time.<br />
After Serena's first visit, their daughter Daisy went to the doctors to have her tonsils taken out, during the operation there were complications, which resulted in her heart stopping, and she nearly perished. The timing of Serena's visit and Daisy's near death experience did not go unnoticed by the Berinis.<br />
Serena's visit to the family also coincided with the stroke of Joe's grandmother and a night in November before the elderly woman passed away. Her connection to the family seemed strong as Joe remembers waking up hearing Serena's voice to find his wife choking next to him in her sleep. After shaking her awake, she shares with him that her ex-husband was choking her in her dream.<br />
From Christmas 1979 to February 1981, the paranormal activity in the house had decreased, and then in March Rose was startled by the ghost of a small boy, dressed completely in white, walking along the upstairs landing. . "It was almost like looking through a milk bottle," Rose later told researchers. "It was a very peaceful experience. It stayed for about two hours on and off, coming and going." The boy's spirit appeared again a week and a half later, and this time spoke to Rose asking, "Where do all the lonely people go? Where do I belong?"<br />
The boy's ghost, was witnessed by Joe, he watched the apparition enter each bedroom then settled on the floor of the hallway in search of something. Curious, Joe later pulled up the floorboards and found a medallion of the Virgin Mary.<br />
On one occasion when Joe saw the boy's apparition he heard the little boy say to him, "My oldest brother is the only one who can help me." Joe did not know what this meant but that very sentence was the beginning of the terror. It was shortly after this statement that objects started to move in unpredictable fashion with phones flying, doors slamming open and shut and objects being yanked from Rose's hands.<br />
The Berinis upset sought the advice of a local priest who said they should ignore the spirit if it should appear again. The next time the boy in white appeared to Rose, she did as she was advised and paid it no attention. Immediately, the closet door began to slam opening and shutting repeatedly. On some occasions unexplained footsteps were heard in the house, and box of macaroni was yanked from Rose's hands and thrown to the floor.<br />
Joe and Rose returned to the Church for help, two of the priests agreed to visit the house. The priest's came and they blessed the house, and said mass. Initially there was a quiet spell after the rituals, but it did not last long.<br />
In June 1981 a new entity descended upon their home this one according to the family was straight from hell. The apparition of a sinister hunchbacked male figure clad in a black cape. Throughout that summer, the hunchback, which the Berinis described as having large feet and a gruff voice, appeared regularly in the house. The Berinis tried to question the entity, but the only thing it only told them was "I a minister of God."<br />
Though it proclaimed itself "A minister of God" it brought with him only fury and intimidation. Rose took the brunt of the figure's attacks on one occasion Rose was struck by an opened freezer door. One day when Rose was praying with her rosary, the dark figure tried to distract her with various obscenities. The poltergeist activity increased in frequency and intensity. Joe, Rose and 15-year-old John reported that they had been struck by thrown objects. The bedroom telephone continued to fly off the table. A bedside lamp "fell," striking Rose on the head. Furniture in several rooms was on occasion found overturned or moved. Daisy's bedroom desk was somehow transported down the stairs. The retractable attic stairs were open and shut repeatedly and with such violence that it cracked the hall ceiling. Several religious objects were removed from walls or broken.<br />
During an evening meal, Rose's arm was twisted behind her back and her head pulled to one side with such force that she began to choke. On more than one occasion, Joe testified, that he saw Rose pulled out of bed at night, levitated into the air and then dropped to the floor. After one of these attacks, bruises were found on her arms and legs, as if from a powerful grip.<br />
Two months after it first appeared, the dark, hunchbacked entity became its most violent. Not long after Joe left the house to work the night shift at his factory job, a loud banging shook the bedroom walls. "The bed was rising off the floor," Rose said. "I tried to scream and the door slammed so I could not get out of the room. The dog was growling and the door opened." Rose struggled to get to the children's bedrooms, but their doors slammed shut and she was dragged by the unseen force back into her room. Invisible hands began to choke and scratch her. She managed to phone Joe. He rushed home and ran upstairs to the bedroom where he saw the bed jumping as high as two feet into the air, and found Rose crouching in a corner clutching a crucifix.<br />
Remarkably, the Berinis still refused to abandon their home. Their minds were changed, when one morning they awoke to find a heavy carving knife stabbed into the kitchen table. Fearing that their lives could truly be in danger, the Berinis moved out of the house for a month, putting most of their belongings into storage. Once again they sought help from a priest, who went to the house and performed an exorcism. When the Berinis returned to their home, the evil seemed to have been vanquished. They no longer saw apparitions of any kind or suffered any more poltergeist activity.<br />
Ironically, it was only after the haunting activity stopped that Joe Berini invited an investigation by the Psychical Research Foundation, based in Durham, North Carolina. The organization is now the American Institute of Parapsychology, based in Gainesville, Florida. The investigators were able to corroborate some of the Berini's claims through friends, neighbours and their priest, all of whom testified that they witnessed poltergeist phenomena in the Berini home.<br />
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TRAILER PARK FROM HELL</div>
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LIFE'S A BITCH. A WEREBITCH.</div>
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Check out my new book, TEN LITTLE TERRORS, now on Amazon:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Ten-Little-Terrors-ebook/dp/B00CIITW4W/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1366938989&sr=1-1&keywords=ten+little+terrors"><span style="color: #4a4a4a;">http://www.amazon.com/Ten-Little-Terrors-ebook/dp/B00CIITW4W/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1366938989&sr=1-1&keywords=ten+little+terrors</span></a></div>
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Tim Whitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18072021569016967821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725821522100244795.post-21253034844816492962013-09-15T11:16:00.002-04:002013-09-30T22:09:52.880-04:00Help Finish This Story!Hi,<br />
<br />
I haven't posted lately. I've been suffering a bout of writer's block the last couple of months. I have four short stories that I have started, but I've been unable to finish them. I even know how each should progress, but for some reason I'm having a hard time pushing forward.<br />
<br />
So, I had an idea. Probably not the best idea. If nothing else, it may contain a little entertainment value for you, the reader.<br />
<br />
Below I've posted one of the four incomplete stories. It is up to you, dear reader, to give me your take on how the story should progress. Take this seriously. Or not. A snarky comment may be as valuable to dispelling my writer's block as a sincere, thought out reply. Who knows. <br />
<br />
Here goes:<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihaz9es15_hdquJy4NWKGJIBwNvQe_PzLorOEKwtRx7NwxeEc1B-S_Kh9WQX-rir4MezqXaHPcb-CF_gb2HN8QZZ7cfC2vy7mm4lGUHFUsNNr-nCRn2BNbzPdLERDtQRBkF2jzsu38JuqM/s1600/clenchjaw1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="356" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihaz9es15_hdquJy4NWKGJIBwNvQe_PzLorOEKwtRx7NwxeEc1B-S_Kh9WQX-rir4MezqXaHPcb-CF_gb2HN8QZZ7cfC2vy7mm4lGUHFUsNNr-nCRn2BNbzPdLERDtQRBkF2jzsu38JuqM/s400/clenchjaw1.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">CLENCHJAW</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;">Not many people really believe in the paranormal, right? I
never really believed or disbelieved. I just pretty much ignored the concept
altogether. I was raised to be pragmatic. I’ve never strayed from what my mind
accepted as purely logical. I see now that that has been to my detriment.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;">I’m not going to try and convert anyone here, but merely
attempt, as best I can, to explain my feelings on the matter. I no longer
ignore the possibility of things paranormal. Or should I say, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fact</i> of the paranormal. I think most of
us go through life in ignorant bliss of our true surroundings; of our natural,
or as some may say, supernatural environment. But what is supernatural? If it
exists, it’s a natural phenomenon, as far as I’m concerned. Even the purest of
evil.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;">Look around. Truly look. Step outside of yourself. Open your
mind. Become the animal you truly are; the animal you were at birth, or even
before birth. You may see, might comprehend, that there is darkness where you
have never noticed it before. Anomalies where light and shadow cross. In the
shade of oaks. In deep waters. In your child’s thick head of hair. Believe me,
it’s there. The thing that eats at us. Terrifies us. That itch, an itch that
has tormented mankind from creation.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;">My son was pretty much like any other thirteen year old boy.
Loved his Mother more than me (something that I knew from day one, and was fine
with), had a best bud in Jerry Orwell, played Little League ball, hated math
and loved video games. Brady, my boy, was a good kid. It was the day he came
home and announced that he was joining the Boy Scouts that everything changed.
Forever. God help me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;">His buddy Jerry had convinced Brady that being a Boy Scout
was “rad,” and that Jerry had even been allowed by his Scout Master to build
and light the campfire as well as lead the hike on their last camping trip.
Brady told his Mother and me about all the cool things Jerry and his troop did,
from swimming in the ice cold waters of Devils Lake to baking a cake in a Dutch
oven over hot coals.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;">Tabitha was a little underwhelmed by it all. Although she listened
politely to her Brady’s pleas, she had fallen back on the old stand-by, “We’ll
see.” The two of us later discussed it in bed, the room illuminated by one weak
lamp on my night stand. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;">The anemic light cast shadows that revealed more than I
could ever have imagined. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;">I gave my argument in that sanguine light. I’d thought hard
on the subject. Even though I’d never been a Scout, my Grandfather had been and
even became a Scout Master. I’d attended some events. I had friends that were
Scouts. It all seemed pretty innocuous to me. Even though we weren’t church
goers, it gave me some comfort that the Troop was sponsored by the nearby
Methodist Church, where most of the activities were held. They even had a
private Scout Camp on the lake. She voiced her fears of poor supervision;
exposing our son for extended periods of time to children we didn’t know, even
about being injured. It was at that point that Tabitha realized she was being
over protective, and she relented. Had she somehow seen the darkness, the blotch
that lay just beneath our reality? Then possibly shrugged it off, like
shrugging off the winter chill without a second thought while stepping into the
fire light? That’s what I think. No. That’s what I know. Now.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;">And so it was done. Every Thursday evening, Brady, dressed
in khaki shirt and neckerchief, would meet with Troop 649 in the Fellowship
Hall of the First United Methodist Church. I would drop him off, watching from
the warmth of our minivan until he made it inside, a quick wave back, passing
from the cold, dark November night into the bright, warm light of the church.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;">We were glad that we’d let Brady join. It would be good for
him. You see, although his Mother and I thought of him as normal in every way,
he did have a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">dark</i> side; something…
compartmentalized, hidden in his psyche. I’m not sure that’s the right thing to
call it, ‘a dark side,’ but I can’t think of any other way to say it. He drew
dark things; ever since he could hold a pencil. They weren’t monsters, per say.
Otherwise, I could’ve gotten a handle on it, realized his motivation. I
could’ve rationalized that the images were of childhood fears; bogey men,
vampires, witches; fascinated by creatures derivative of fairy tales or
television programs. But the images were not really recognizable as such. No
fangs, claws or clichéd bug-eyed monsters. No knives, blood or viscera. But
dark, none the less. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;">At the age of two, black Crayon was scribbled in
concentration. It was as if Brady was trying to obliterate all light from a
certain area of the page. As he grew, his drawings became more defined. Head,
arms and legs appeared. The head, always large and white with a lantern jaw;
the body, tall, broad shouldered yet gaunt, legs and arms long and thin, filled
in, in black, as black as Brady could make it. He’d be in a near trance when he
drew these images. Once completed, he’d destroy them. Then it was over. Brady
would start another drawing, the typical child’s rendering; yellow sun, brown
tree with a green mop top of leaves, v-shaped black birds darting in a blue
flurry of sky. A dog. A friend. His Mom and Dad.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;">We didn’t always see him create these images, otherwise I
think we’d have been more concerned. In hindsight, I realize he must have been
obsessed with making and destroying these drawings. I do remember asking him at
the age of five who he was drawing. Brady whispered, “Clenchjaw.” Clenchjaw.
Such an odd name. It meant nothing to me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;">As hard as I tried, it wasn’t long before I was drawn into
Scouting. I’m not what you’d call the outdoors type. My idea of roughing it is
the Holiday Inn. But Brady was a priority. Maybe it was guilt. Had he been a
priority up to this point? I’d given him a good home, but then I worked sixty
hours, sometimes more, a week. I worked nearly every weekend. At two he cried
when I left. At eight, he looked forlorn as I playfully messed his hair and
told him to be “good for Mommy.” At eleven, he was nowhere in sight when I
headed out to work. Neither was Tabitha. It all happened so gradually; so yes,
guilt. Regret brought me to the Fellowship Hall on July 17<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup>. How
little I knew then about regret.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;">I pulled into the church parking lot, parking alongside Ted
Sanders’ big Ford pick up. Ted Sanders was the Scout Master. Small and thin,
nearly the size of the boys he supervised, Ted seemed to keep them in line with
his authoritatively stern baritone voice. A Chevy Suburban was being loaded
with camping gear by two Scouts, the oldest with rust red hair looking to be no
more than fifteen. Brady looked to me, then without a word, bolted over to the
boys, eager to help. I hesitantly walked over to Scout Master Sanders. I stood
mute, like a shy thirteen year-old boy, waiting for Sanders to acknowledge my
presence. He seemed not to realize I was standing there as he directed the boys
on loading the gear into the back of the SUV.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;">“Gentlemen, this is serious business. If a bedroll is
unaccounted for, there’ll be a cold, uncomfortable weekend for one of you. If
you miss a box of provisions, we’re all going to go hungry. Let’s step it up.
We’ve got a four drive ahead of us.” Sanders sounded overly brusk to me, but
the boys settled down and took to the task without question.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;">Sanders folded his arms across his thin chest and stepped
back, feet apart, concentrating on the boys. Now standing next to me, he spoke
without looking at me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;">“Your Brady’s Dad. Glad you’re here. Don’t get too many
fathers willing to volunteer.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;">“Well, I’m happy to do it. Brady…”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;">He cut me off.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;">“You’ll be driving the church club van. Just follow me, in
the Suburban. Tom, our Assistant Scout Master, will ride with me. You’ll have
the rest.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri;">Within the hour the remaining four Scouts arrived in various
modes of transportation.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That's it. That's as far as I've gotten. Bring it on! Bring it on like the plague!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br />
<o:p>Check out my two short stories, now published on Amazon Kindle:<br /><br /><br />
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TRAILER PARK FROM HELL</div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BAKU8IS"><span style="color: #4a4a4a;">http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BAKU8IS</span></a></div>
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LIFE'S A BITCH. A WEREBITCH.</div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BFCMNMU"><span style="color: #4a4a4a;">http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BFCMNMU</span></a></div>
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Check out my new book, TEN LITTLE TERRORS, now on Amazon:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Ten-Little-Terrors-ebook/dp/B00CIITW4W/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1366938989&sr=1-1&keywords=ten+little+terrors"><span style="color: #4a4a4a;">http://www.amazon.com/Ten-Little-Terrors-ebook/dp/B00CIITW4W/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1366938989&sr=1-1&keywords=ten+little+terrors</span></a></div>
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</o:p> </span> </div>
Tim Whitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18072021569016967821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725821522100244795.post-31954950814362028482013-08-11T22:26:00.001-04:002013-09-30T22:10:15.926-04:00WEIRD TALES: "The Night Wire."A truly creepy story published in 1926. Could this have inspired John Carpenter's The Fog," or Stephen King's "The Mist?" <br />
<br />
"H.F. Arnold was 24 years old when he published this story in WEIRD TALES magazine. Thankfully, the magazine's publisher didn't see the worth of the story, and so didn't make it a cover story and didn't assign an illustrator to render it. <br />
Good. Because this is another business-like, completely realistic tale, about a man working the night shift on a news wire. Your brain will burn a few gears imagining what's only hinted at by the protagonist. He starts receiving reports from a country that doesn't exist, about...something horrible happening. <br />
Or is the country closer than he thinks?" - Patton Oswalt <br />
<br />
<br />
<pre><strong>The Night Wire
by
H. F. Arnold
"New York, September 30 CP FLASH
"Ambassador Holliwell died here today. The end came
suddenly as the ambassador was alone in his study...."
There is something ungodly about these night wire jobs. You sit up here on
the top floor of a skyscraper and listen in to the whispers of a
civilization. New York, London, Calcutta, Bombay, Singapore -- they're your
next-door neighbors after the streetlights go dim and the world has gone to
sleep.
Alone in the quiet hours between two and four, the receiving operators doze
over their sounders and the news comes in. Fires and disasters and suicides.
Murders, crowds, catastrophes. Sometimes an earthquake with a casualty list
as long as your arm. The night wire man takes it down almost in his sleep,
picking it off on his typewriter with one finger.
Once in a long time you prick up your ears and listen. You've heard of some
one you knew in Singapore, Halifax or Paris, long ago. Maybe they've been
promoted, but more probably they've been murdered or drowned. Perhaps they
just decided to quit and took some bizarre way out. Made it interesting
enough to get in the news.
But that doesn't happen often. Most of the time you sit and doze and tap,
tap on your typewriter and wish you were home in bed.
Sometimes, though, queer things happen. One did the other night, and I
haven't got over it yet. I wish I could.
You see, I handle the night manager's desk in a western seaport town; what
the name is, doesn't matter.
There is, or rather was, only one night operator on my staff, a fellow named
John Morgan, about forty years of age, I should say, and a sober,
hard-working sort.
He was one of the best operators I ever knew, what is known as a "double"
man. That means he could handle two instruments at once and type the stories
on different typewriters at the same time. He was one of the three men I
ever knew who could do it consistently, hour after hour, and never make a
mistake.
Generally, we used only one wire at night, but sometimes, when it was late
and the news was coming fast, the Chicago and Denver stations would open a
second wire, and then Morgan would do his stuff. He was a wizard, a
mechanical automatic wizard which functioned marvelously but was without
imagination.
On the night of the sixteenth he complained of feeling tired. It was the
first and last time I had ever heard him say a word about himself, and I had
known him for three years.
It was just three o'clock and we were running only one wire. I was nodding
over the reports at my desk and not paying much attention to him, when he
spoke.
"Jim," he said, "does it feel close in here to you?"
"Why, no, John," I answered, "but I'll open a window if you like."
"Never mind," he said. "I reckon I'm just a little tired."
That was all that was said, and I went on working. Every ten minutes or so I
would walk over and take a pile of copy that had stacked up neatly beside
the typewriter as the messages were printed out in triplicate.
It must have been twenty minutes after he spoke that I noticed he had opened
up the other wire and was using both typewriters. I thought it was a little
unusual, as there was nothing very "hot" coming in. On my next trip I picked
up the copy from both machines and took it back to my desk to sort out the
duplicates.
The first wire was running out the usual sort of stuff and I just looked
over it hurriedly. Then I turned to the second pile of copy. I remembered it
particularly because the story was from a town I had never heard of:
"Xebico." Here is the dispatch. I saved a duplicate of it from our files:
"Xebico, Sept 16 CP BULLETIN
"The heaviest mist in the history of the city settled over
the town at 4 o'clock yesterday afternoon. All traffic has
stopped and the mist hangs like a pall over everything. Lights
of ordinary intensity fail to pierce the fog, which is
constantly growing heavier.
"Scientists here are unable to agree as to the cause, and
the local weather bureau states that the like has never occurred
before in the history of the city.
"At 7 P.M. last night the municipal authorities...
(more)
That was all there was. Nothing out of the ordinary at a bureau
headquarters, but, as I say, I noticed the story because of the name of the
town.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
It must have been fifteen minutes later that I went over for another batch
of copy. Morgan was slumped down in his chair and had switched his green
electric light shade so that the gleam missed his eyes and hit only the top
of the two typewriters.
Only the usual stuff was in the righthand pile, but the lefthand batch
carried another story from Xebico. All press dispatches come in "takes,"
meaning that parts of many different stories are strung along together,
perhaps with but a few paragraphs of each coming through at a time. This
second story was marked "add fog." Here is the copy:
"At 7 P.M. the fog had increased noticeably. All lights
were now invisible and the town was shrouded in pitch darkness.
"As a peculiarity of the phenomenon, the fog is accompanied
by a sickly odor, comparable to nothing yet experienced
here."
Below that in customary press fashion was the hour, 3:27, and the initials
of the operator, JM.
There was only one other story in the pile from the second wire. Here it is:
"2nd add Xebico Fog.
"Accounts as to the origin of the mist differ greatly.
Among the most unusual is that of the sexton of the local
church, who groped his way to headquarters in a hysterical
condition and declared that the fog originated in the village
churchyard.
"'It was first visible as a soft gray blanket clinging to
the earth above the graves,' he stated. 'Then it began to rise,
higher and higher. A subterranean breeze seemed to blow it in
billows, which split up and then joined together again.
"'Fog phantoms, writhing in anguish, twisted the mist into
queer forms and figures. And then, in the very thick midst of
the mass, something moved.
"'I turned and ran from the accursed spot. Behind me I
heard screams coming from the houses bordering on the
graveyard.'
"Although the sexton's story is generally discredited, a
party has left to investigate. Immediately after telling his
story, the sexton collapsed and is now in a local hospital,
unconscious."
Queer story, wasn't it. Not that we aren't used to it, for a lot of unusual
stories come in over the wire. But for some reason or other, perhaps because
it was so quiet that night, the report of the fog made a great impression on
me.
It was almost with dread that I went over to the waiting piles of copy.
Morgan did not move, and the only sound in the room was the tap-tap of the
sounders. It was ominous, nerve- racking.
There was another story from Xebico in the pile of copy. I seized on it
anxiously.
"New Lead Xebico Fog CP
"The rescue party which went out at 11 P.M. to investigate
a weird story of the origin of a fog which, since late
yesterday, has shrouded the city in darkness has failed to
return. Another and larger party has been dispatched.
"Meanwhile, the fog has, if possible, grown heavier. It
seeps through the cracks in the doors and fills the atmosphere
with a depressing odor of decay. It is oppressive, terrifying,
bearing with it a subtle impression of things long dead.
"Residents of the city have left their homes and gathered
in the local church, where the priests are holding services of
prayer. The scene is beyond description. Grown folk and
children are alike terrified and many are almost beside
themselves with fear.
"Amid the whisps of vapor which partly veil the church
auditorium, an old priest is praying for the welfare of his
flock. They alternately wail and cross themselves.
"From the outskirts of the city may be heard cries of
unknown voices. They echo through the fog in queer uncadenced
minor keys. The sounds resemble nothing so much as wind
whistling through a gigantic tunnel. But the night is calm and
there is no wind. The second rescue party... (more)"
------------------------------------------------------------------------
I am a calm man and never in a dozen years spent with the wires, have I been
known to become excited, but despite myself I rose from my chair and walked
to the window.
Could I be mistaken, or far down in the canyons of the city beneath me did I
see a faint trace of fog? Pshaw! It was all imagination.
In the pressroom the click of the sounders seemed to have raised the tempo
of their tune. Morgan alone had not stirred from his chair. His head sunk
between his shoulders, he tapped the dispatches out on the typewriters with
one finger of each hand.
He looked asleep, but no; endlessly, efficiently, the two machines rattled
off line after line, as relentlessly and effortlessly as death itself. There
was something about the monotonous movement of the typewriter keys that
fascinated me. I walked over and stood behind his chair, reading over his
shoulder the type as it came into being, word by word.
Ah, here was another:
"Flash Xebico CP
"There will be no more bulletins from this office. The
impossible has happened. No messages have come into this room
for twenty minutes. We are cut off from the outside and even
the streets below us.
"I will stay with the wire until the end.
"It is the end, indeed. Since 4 P.M. yesterday the fog has
hung over the city. Following reports from the sexton of the
local church, two rescue parties were sent out to investigate
conditions on the outskirts of the city. Neither party has ever
returned nor was any word received from them. It is quite
certain now that they will never return.
"From my instrument I can gaze down on the city beneath me.
From the position of this room on the thirteenth floor, nearly
the entire city can be seen. Now I can see only a thick blanket
of blackness where customarily are lights and life.
"I fear greatly that the wailing cries heard constantly
from the outskirts of the city are the death cries of the
inhabitants. They are constantly increasing in volume and are
approaching the center of the city.
"The fog yet hangs over everything. If possible, it is
even heavier than before, but the conditions have changed.
Instead of an opaque, impenetrable wall of odorous vapor, there
now swirls and writhes a shapeless mass in contortions of almost
human agony. Now and again the mass parts and I catch a brief
glimpse of the streets below.
"People are running to and fro, screaming in despair. A
vast bedlam of sound flies up to my window, and above all is the
immense whistling of unseen and unfelt winds.
"The fog has again swept over the city and the whistling is
coming closer and closer.
"It is now directly beneath me.
"God! An instant ago the mist opened and I caught a
glimpse of the streets below.
"The fog is not simply vapor -- it lives! By the side of
each moaning and weeping human is a companion figure, an aura of
strange and vari-colored hues. How the shapes cling! Each to a
living thing!
"The men and women are down. Flat on their faces. The fog
figures caress them lovingly. They are kneeling beside them.
They are -- but I dare not tell it.
"The prone and writhing bodies have been stripped of their
clothing. They are being consumed -- piecemeal.
"A merciful wall of hot, steaming vapor has swept over the
whole scene. I can see no more.
"Beneath me the wall of vapor is changing colors. It seems
to be lighted by internal fires. No, it isn't. I have made a
mistake. The colors are from above, reflections from the sky.
"Look up! Look up! The whole sky is in flames. Colors as
yet unseen by man or demon. The flames are moving; they have
started to intermix; the colors are rearranging themselves.
They are so brilliant that my eyes burn, they are a long
way off.
"Now they have begun to swirl, to circle in and out,
twisting in intricate designs and patterns. The lights are
racing each with each, a kaleidoscope of unearthly brilliance.
"I have made a discovery. There is nothing harmful in the
lights. They radiate force and friendliness, almost cheeriness.
But by their very strength, they hurt.
"As I look, they are swinging closer and closer, a million
miles at each jump. Millions of miles with the speed of light.
Aye, it is light of quintessence of all light. Beneath it the
fog melts into a jeweled mist radiant, rainbow-colored of a
thousand varied spectra.
"I can see the streets. Why, they are filled with people!
The lights are coming closer. They are all around me. I am
enveloped. I..."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The message stopped abruptly. The wire to Xebico was dead. Beneath my eyes
in the narrow circle of light from under the green lamp-shade, the black
printing no longer spun itself, letter by letter, across the page.
The room seemed filled with a solemn quiet, a silence vaguely impressive,
powerful.
I looked down at Morgan. His hands had dropped nervelessly at his sides,
while his body had hunched over peculiarly. I turned the lamp-shade back,
throwing light squarely in his face. His eyes were staring, fixed.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Filled with a sudden foreboding, I stepped beside him and called Chicago on
the wire. After a second the sounder clicked its answer.
Why? But there was something wrong. Chicago was reporting that Wire Two had
not been used throughout the evening.
"Morgan!" I shouted. "Morgan! Wake up, it isn't true. Some one has been
hoaxing us. Why..." In my eagerness I grasped him by the shoulder.
His body was quite cold. Morgan had been dead for hours. Could it be that
his sensitized brain and automatic fingers had continued to record
impressions even after the end?
I shall never know, for I shall never again handle the night shift. Search
in a world atlas discloses no town of Xebico. Whatever it was that killed
John Morgan will forever remain a mystery.
</strong></pre>
<br />
<br />
The sole work for which he’s known, a six-page long story called “The Night Wire,” is still being anthologized almost ninety years after its first appearance in <em><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Weird_Tales" title="Wikipedia entry -- Weird Tales">Weird Tales</a> </em>magazine. Most recently, it was included in <a href="http://www.mysteriousbookshop.com/products/otto-penzler-ed-the-big-book-of-ghost-stories" title="Go here to buy this from Otto Penzler, not Amazon!"><em>The Big Book of Ghost Stories</em></a>, edited by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Otto_Penzler" title="Wikipedia entry -- Otto Penzler">Otto Penzler</a>, the proprietor of New York City’s renowned <a href="http://www.mysteriousbookshop.com/" title="The Mysterious Bookshop">Mysterious Bookshop</a> and a truly outstanding anthologist.<br />
Penzler’s editorial note proceeding the story is perhaps the best source of information about Arnold, who left remarkably few traces of himself behind. A web search adds a few facts, but not many:<br />
<ul>
<li>His full name was Henry Ferris Arnold</li>
<li>He was born in 1901 or 1902</li>
<li>He died in 1963</li>
<li>He <em>might</em> have been from Illinois</li>
<li>He moved to Hollywood to be a press agent sometime during the ’20s</li>
<li>He was likely a newspaperman at some point (more on this in a moment)</li>
<li>He published three stories in his lifetime (in addition to “The Night Wire,” these were a two-part <em>Weird Tales</em> serial called “The City of Iron Cubes” in 1929 and another two-parter, “When Atlantis Was,” that appeared in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amazing_Stories" title="Wikipedia entry -- Amazing Stories"><em>Amazing Stories</em></a> in 1937)</li>
</ul>
And that is the total set of facts available to the public regarding H. F. Arnold.<br />
<br />
<img alt="Weird Tales September 1926" class="pic" height="385" src="http://thenostalgialeague.com/olmag/arnold/weird_tales_1926-09.jpg" width="250" /><br />
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Tim Whitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18072021569016967821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725821522100244795.post-68702623715809014102013-07-22T21:49:00.003-04:002013-09-30T22:10:30.764-04:00Black Eyed Children Report From Someone Who Let Them In<h1 class="entry-title">
</h1>
<div class="entry-content">
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" id="dd_start"></a><br />
<h2>
Is this evidence of what happens if you let a BEK into your home?</h2>
This report of what happens if you let Black Eyed Children into your home comes completely 4th hand. So believe it if you will. It is edited for spelling because I couldn’t stand looking at all the red misspelling squiggles as I get ready to post this. The lack of periods, I left…<br />
<blockquote>
I have read many accounts of these black eyed kids but I don’t think any really come close to what happened to me when I let two into my house. Some people think that if you let them in that the will kill you, obviously I can say this is not true.<br />
This is what happened, I was sitting in my bedroom at home when I heard a knock on the door, it was not too late so I didn’t hesitate opening the door to whoever it was. when I opened it there was two children standing there, both were looking at the floor. “yes ” I said, the taller one asked if they could come in as they were lost and the other boy needed the toilet. I live in an area where it is very easy to get lost, so I just assumed that they were telling the truth and was looking down because they were shy, even though the one talking, spoke very confidently. so I let them in, the one who needed the toilet just walked in and straight up the stairs so I shouted up its on the right, I don’t know why I didn’t find this strange but most toilets are upstairs and as he was young I didn’t think anything of it.<br />
I told the other one that the phone was down the hall, “thanks” he said and he started to walk down the hall, I followed him and then I suddenly came over with a really awful feeling like something bad was going to happen, I became very nervous and a bit shaky I still cant explain how that happened, the boy stopped at the phone and paused, “everything OK?” I asked, he turned to me and looked up and that’s when I saw his eyes, and trust me I will never get that picture out of my head, I was so scared that I couldn’t even scream as I turned to run down the hall the other kid was standing at the end.<br />
I became very dizzy and struggled to stand up, he walked closer to me and said that they had been sent to collect me, I still couldn’t bear to look into his face, I pushed away from him and ran into my front room and slammed the door shut, I was in so much shock about what was happening I couldn’t think straight, this is something that you don’t even expect to happen even in movies. after standing against the door for around and hour or so I finally got the courage to make a run for the back door, so I ran to it and unlocked it, I ran to the back of my garden and jumped over the fence not once looking back.<br />
my friend lived close so I ran to his house, I told him the story and as I guessed he was a bit skeptic about what I had said. I convinced him to come back with me, when we got there we looked around the whole house but couldn’t find them. ever since this happened I always have a dream that this kids with the black eyes stand over my bed with there hands stretching to me, I hope to god that I never see these again.”</blockquote>
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Tim Whitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18072021569016967821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725821522100244795.post-81953986913426940632013-07-20T22:24:00.001-04:002013-07-20T22:24:54.261-04:00Slender Man Picture UPDATE JULY 2013The latest Slender Man pics to surface:<br />
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<a data-ved="0CAUQjRw" href="http://www.google.com/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&frm=1&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&docid=hvOflYpaY-nx1M&tbnid=xYSLMz5tLFVdjM:&ved=0CAUQjRw&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.appbrain.com%2Fapp%2Fslender-man-xmas%2Fcom.rory.slendermanxmas&ei=-kPrUZaxDZHi9gSoiIHIBg&bvm=bv.49478099,d.eWU&psig=AFQjCNFTEoYael3_BNpoekqf4XsDckhjhA&ust=1374458999682371" id="irc_mil" style="border: 0px currentColor;"><img height="200" id="irc_mi" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_mGHN01QCutBkr3N3RackA5oeeShf-uVIGYH-LxkYAargMLd3NFnia4qxksHgqpiE-SoMllWM3fIB0wQpIJxr9w=h200" style="margin-top: 97px;" width="356" /></a><br />
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<a data-ved="0CAUQjRw" href="http://www.google.com/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&frm=1&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&docid=69OlbkWj0F_aQM&tbnid=Wrw20vOBkVQPuM:&ved=0CAUQjRw&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.tumblr.com%2Ftagged%2Fcreepypasta&ei=U0TrUcXkEof49gSGrYDYDA&bvm=bv.49478099,d.eWU&psig=AFQjCNFTEoYael3_BNpoekqf4XsDckhjhA&ust=1374458999682371" id="irc_mil" style="border: 0px currentColor;"><img height="393" id="irc_mi" src="http://25.media.tumblr.com/ecbeff0b323028b938c7ee60496a1571/tumblr_morb9o5LyN1rb94zto1_500.jpg" style="margin-top: 0px;" width="262" /></a><br />
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<a data-ved="0CAUQjRw" href="http://www.google.com/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&frm=1&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&docid=e8Q33HNNx7P55M&tbnid=UuMHIZw25F4sqM:&ved=0CAUQjRw&url=http%3A%2F%2Fastralsociety.net%2Fmystery-of-the-slender-man%2F&ei=jUTrUcGmIobo8wTJoYHACw&bvm=bv.49478099,d.eWU&psig=AFQjCNFTEoYael3_BNpoekqf4XsDckhjhA&ust=1374458999682371" id="irc_mil" style="border: 0px currentColor;"><img height="266" id="irc_mi" src="http://astralsociety.net/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/Mystery-of-the-Slender-Man.jpg" style="margin-top: 64px;" width="400" /></a><br />
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<a data-ved="0CAUQjRw" href="http://www.google.com/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&frm=1&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&docid=krmrj8zw6e8dKM&tbnid=IjRSRsDSEBqhuM:&ved=0CAUQjRw&url=http%3A%2F%2Fcreepypasta.wikia.com%2Fwiki%2FFile%3ASlender_man_by_lewis_wass.jpg&ei=-kTrUcnHIIje9ASC5YCICQ&bvm=bv.49478099,d.eWU&psig=AFQjCNFTEoYael3_BNpoekqf4XsDckhjhA&ust=1374458999682371" id="irc_mil" style="border: 0px currentColor;"><img height="334" id="irc_mi" src="http://images1.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20110707001716/creepypasta/images/thumb/3/31/Slender_man_by_lewis_wass.jpg/500px-Slender_man_by_lewis_wass.jpg" style="margin-top: 30px;" width="500" /></a><br />
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Tim Whitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18072021569016967821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725821522100244795.post-53150663083998884382013-07-01T00:04:00.000-04:002013-07-01T00:06:27.804-04:00Corn Monster of Wynn, Michigan<br />
Original post at "Weird Michigan."<br />
<br />
In 2003 I was a Schwann guy in Wynn Michigan. The locals told me about a corn monster on West Coe road. They seemed concerned that I was there late at night. Sometimes at dark it seemed as if something reached out of the weeds towards my truck as I drove by. There was a spot where I would stop to take a break because in a 14 hour day there was certain spots you would count on if you had to take a lunch on the road. This spot was on West Coe Rd.it was a road no one traveled. about 2pm, I stopped my truck pulled it into the brush and ate my lunch. After lunch I stepped out of my truck and stretched. Out of the corn five feet in front of me something apeared.it looked unexplainable, dark dirty manlike I had been stopping here for 9 months. I yelled jumped in my truck, it just watched me drive past I was scared it jumped on my slow moving truck, this was broad daylight I can still picture it in my mind. <br />
<br />
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Tim Whitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18072021569016967821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725821522100244795.post-59761951712315730862013-06-30T11:53:00.005-04:002013-06-30T11:58:41.574-04:00Corn Demon <img height="300" src="http://a4.ec-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/66/2618f96372974786b72ee581ae58d664/l.jpg" width="400" /><br />
<br />
A sinewy man in his 60s - hale and browned from the sun and dusty from the road
- walks alongside the edge of a fallow field. He carries a gas can - the old
type, metal and dome-shaped, the kind with a thin rubber spout. There is a dry
and chill breeze, and his coat is not enough for this time of year. A light
dusting of snow is falling, and the sun is lowering. Dusk comes early in an Iowa
February, and the tough old farmer wants to find help before dark.<br />
<br />
He
pauses to rest on the shoulder, hopeful that he will soon see the welcoming sign
of headlights or run across a farmer patching fence line or inspecting his
drainage system. He's left his truck just a few miles back so he knows if he can
hitch a ride, he can still make it home before it gets too late.<br />
<br />
He
crouches down on his haunches and blows on his hands. The left one in particular
is stone cold from being exposed to the wind. The right has fared better, since
he can keep it stuffed in his pocket while the other hand carries the gas can.
He decides to light a cigarette, but the breeze kills the lighter flame. He
looks around, and notices that he can get out of the wind by climbing down the
little embankment beside the field that leads up to the shoulder of the road.
<br />
<br />
His boots hit the powdery soil of the field and he idly examines the
tillage as he manages to light his cigarette. Here and there, half-buried in the
dirt are the tell tale signs: the dessicated husks and stubble of a cornfield.
He turns back to the road, watching for any signs of passers by. He has just
made the decision to climb back up into the wind so that he can be seen on the
road. As he begins to climb, he does not hear the thing that comes out of the
dirt at his back with lightning speed. He feels the impact and the piercing, and
he opens his mouth to scream as a terrible disorienting wave hits his panicked
brain. Then the earth closes over him with terrible finality...<br />
<br />
<a href="http://iowacoldcases.org/cases-by-county/winneshiek-county/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #660000;">http://iowacoldcases.org/cases-by-county/winneshiek-county/ </span></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="more"></a><br />
When we began our investigation of the Corn Demon phenomenon
we were understandably skeptical. The first time an article regarding this
creature received mention at <a href="http://www.anomalist.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #660000;">the Anomalist</span></a>, the editor wisely noted the potential
pop-cultural links to films like Tremors, whereas we had thought almost
immediately of the sand worms of Dune, not least because it is the business of
Athena's Men to bring about an actual <a href="http://dune.wikia.com/wiki/Kwisatz_Haderach" target="_blank"><span style="color: #660000;">Kwisatz
Hadderach</span></a>. But I digress...<br />
<br />
Several months later, it appears that the
Corn Demon is a genuine phenomenon from the standpoint of at least a few
perspectives. First, I have personally heard tales related directly by migrant
workers involving this creature. We have also collected tales from residents of
various small towns throughout the area of Southern Illinois, southeast Missouri
and also parts of Michigan, Wisconsin and Iowa. What is interesting about these
stories is that they do not universally describe the creature we were first
introduced to. Instead, a range of forms and likenesses have been conveyed,
leading me to conclude that what we have is myth-making in action. Like most
myths, there is likely to be a solid core of truth in this. Much like the
Chupacabra of Puerto Rican origin, the Corn Demon is thought by some to be
natural, others to be the result of U.S. Military genetic manipulation and still
others believe it is a paranormal entity with shape-shifting qualities and an
ecology that causes it to feed not on flesh, but rather on souls.<br />
<br />
The
latter view is somewhat related to the widespread practice of Santeria amongst
Central and South American migrants. Most of the workers in the Midwest are
coming from Mexico and Guatemala, but one occasionally runs across people with
South American roots. The general rule regarding these kinds of belief systems
is that the more remote the origin, the more unique and jarringly different from
civilized norms the rituals and dogma become. Thus, it is not at all impossible
that the notion of the Corn Demon is more spiritual in form than it is
physical.<br />
<br />
The best exposition for this is the mere fact that categorizing
these articles represents a challenge. Are we seeking a cryptid? An alien
entity? A military experiment gone awry or - worse yet - unleashed on the
populace for testing? Or is this being a parapsychological or paranormal
phenomenon? As each piece is written and goes for publication and distribution,
the relevant category issue raises it's head. We at the Lamp end up having to
make a call based upon what the most recent information reveals. But the most
recent information doesn't always make sense in the context of what has gone
before.<br />
<br />
The first time we had a report of El Diablo del Maiz, we were
apparently dealing with a cryptozoological phenomenon, a burrowing creature with
reptilian and perhaps even ornithological features. What seemed to be described
was an ambush predator, and there are anecdotes from migrants to support the
idea that men and women and even - horrifyingly enough - children have been
snatched and dragged below ground in broad daylight in the midst of fields. Most
attacks are placed at night, however. This sounded to us like total nonsense,
largely because if such a phenomenon were occurring even semi-regularly, it
would raise awareness quickly. Even if the victims are mostly migrant workers,
their disappearances would still make an impact on the communities they work in.
There would at least be significant upset in the camps. Migrants often know one
another, even if they are an invisible part of the Midwestern workforce and
temporary population from the standpoint of the citizenry. What we first thought
we had encountered was a metaphor for INS, reflective of the U.S. government's
mixed attitude toward these labor sources and the power of immigration officials
to rapidly remove any migrant who runs afoul of the law.<br />
<br />
This kind of
surrealist, metaphysical outlook, particularly applied to political issues, is a
bit of a fixture in Latin literature. <a href="http://www2.udec.cl/~mariasmo/literatura/La%20Mandr%E1gora.htm" target="_blank"><i><span style="color: #660000;">La Mandragora</span></i></a> is a fine example of the same; a
political group characterized by literary and artist members whose primary focus
was surrealist. We thought initially that we had stumbled onto a political front
emerging amongst migrants, but for the very obvious fact that labor populations
tend not to be characterized by high levels of education and subtle means of
pursuing desired outcomes like freedom, equality and justice. It was through
contact with social workers that we had become aware of the phenomenon in the
first place.<br />
<br />
What now seems clear is that a number of factors make the
Corn Demon a much creepier prospect than ever before. This entity is said by
some to be a spirit that haunts the corn fields of middle America, sometimes
associated with early sacrifice rituals practiced by indigenous peoples.
Literally, native American nations at some point in the distant past killed
young people of their own culture groups in the expectation that the land could
be persuaded to provide bounty. When the region became conquered by the
Europeans, the spirits "seeded" into the earth rose up in retribution. As it
turns out, reports of mysterious activities in the corn, including haunting,
spirit & paranormal manifestations, monster sightings and a general sense of
dread strong enough to give rise to certain Halloween practices and the iconic
Children of the Corn have long been part of American lore.<br />
<br />
To determine
if such a thing can even exist is hard enough; to figure out what it is and how
it behaves is another crusade entirely. The first step was to figure out if
people were really talking about this. And they are. The second step was to
follow up on a report and do an on-site assessment. And we did. The third step
has been to delve much more deeply into folklore and the varied reports that are
inevitably and constantly generated by the fringes of humanity and the edges of
sanity.<br />
<br />
The first account presented at the top of this posting is of
course fictionalized and - frankly - sensationalized for effect. It constitutes
a fair hook for the rest of this article and we really couldn't resist. But the
facts from which it is drawn are very real. Following the link provides the
curious reader with two mysterious cases - one a death from unknown causes and
the other a total disappearance. While there is not enough to go on to conclude
that a malevolent force associated with corn and corn fields is to blame, it
does serve the purpose of introducing this very idea: To the ancients, sacrifice
was essential to making the crops grow. Are we still locked into this mode of
thought on a Jungian, unconscious level? A great many bodies are deposited in
cornfields, as a brief review of literature relating to missing persons and
unidentified remains can attest. The corn makes a convenient temporary hiding
place, but... Is an ancient unconscious motivator causing some murderers to
deposit their kills on what would have been sacred ground? Or did we long ago
sacrifice to a <i>thing </i>beyond our true understanding in order to hold down
casualties amongst the farm hands? Is there something <i>other</i> in our
fields, even as the <a href="http://www.mythicalcreaturesguide.com/page/Fae" target="_blank"><span style="color: #f8f800;"><span style="color: #660000;">Fae</span> </span></a>are still walking in our forests and meadows?<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Are These Additional Victims? </div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<a href="http://abcnews.go.com/US/story?id=3765472&page=1#.UEUsRCKQnCo"><span style="color: #660000;">http://abcnews.go.com/US/story?id=3765472&page=1#.UEUsRCKQnCo</span></a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.isp.state.il.us/crime/missingdetails.cfm?ID=79"><span style="color: #660000;">http://www.isp.state.il.us/crime/missingdetails.cfm?ID=79</span></a><br />
<br />
People
disappear all the time; here at the Lamp we often offer other explanations for
the mysteries that surround these events. In the two cases identified above, the
missing persons were last traced to locations in direct proximity to cornfields
and appear to have vanished without a trace. <br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
And Are These Sightings? </div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<a href="http://paranormal.about.com/od/othercreatures/a/tales_09_03_08t.htm"><span style="color: #660000;">http://paranormal.about.com/od/othercreatures/a/tales_09_03_08t.htm</span></a><br />
<br />
This
particular piece is an excellent example of the mythological, metaphysical
<i>otherness </i>of an encounter with something in a cornfield. Note how the
author is struck by the sheer weirdness of what he is seeing. This is precisely
the same kind of experiential detail Jacques Vallee discusses in <a href="http://www.jacquesvallee.net/magonia.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: #660000;">Passport to
Magonia</span></a> and elsewhere.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.bfro.net/GDB/show_report.asp?id=1118"><span style="color: #660000;">http://www.bfro.net/GDB/show_report.asp?id=1118</span></a><br />
<br />
I
was loathe to include Bigfoot-style sightings in our review, but Sam insisted
that the fact is we haven't got the slightest notion what a Bigfoot is any more
than we know what the elusive Corn Demon is. No less, we have always to deal
with the fact that frightened people in a hurry are not necessarily very good
observers. Besides, does Bigfoot eat corn? And if so, would a Corn Demon eat
Bigfoot? <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.trueghosttales.com/paranormal/thing-in-the-cornfield/"><span style="color: #660000;">http://www.trueghosttales.com/paranormal/thing-in-the-cornfield/</span></a><br />
<br />
Far
and away the creepiest thing we've found that relates to the research to date.
The sighting and experience described here suggests something very different
from anything we'd heard of before, except for the fact that it is somewhat
similar to the first possible sighting posted above. If true, this is an account
that relates something <i>other </i>is in the corn.<br />
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Tim Whitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18072021569016967821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725821522100244795.post-18098847830980598542013-06-23T20:59:00.001-04:002013-06-23T20:59:20.021-04:00Author Tim Cook unearths soldiers’ spine-tingling ghost stories from First World War<span class="name">By Randy Boswell, Postmedia News</span><br />
<span class="name"></span><br />
<span class="name"></span><br />
<span class="name"><img alt="War ghosts" border="0" class="thumbnail" id="story_photo" src="http://www.canada.com/news/Author+Cook+unearths+soldiers+spine+tingling+ghost+stories+from+First+World/8560545/cms/binary/8560546.jpg?size=620x400s" title="Two Canadian soldiers from the First World War examine a skull." /></span><br />
<span class="name"><div class="imagetext" id="storyphotocaption">
<strong>Two Canadian soldiers from the First World War examine a skull.</strong></div>
<div class="imagetext" id="storyphotocredit">
<strong>Photograph by: Handout/George Metcalf Archival Collection, © Canadian War Museum, Postmedia News</strong></div>
<div class="imagetext">
<strong></strong> </div>
One of Canada’s top military historians has published the first serious study of the First World War’s eeriest phenomena: frontline soldiers’ accounts of ghosts and other “supernatural experiences” amid the bloody battles of Europe almost a century ago.<br />
Award-winning author Tim Cook, the Canadian War Museum’s leading expert on the 1914-18 conflict, has unearthed a host of poignant and spine-tingling stories involving bizarre apparitions, life-saving premonitions and other unexplained happenings that — beyond the mysteries that linger — shed fresh light on “the unending mental and physical strain of fighting on the edge of No Man’s Land.”<br />
Writing in the Journal of Military History, the field’s most prestigious scholarly publication, Cook describes how the knife-edge existence of Canada’s troops in battles such as Passchendaele and Vimy Ridge — perhaps fuelled by widespread interest in the occult and spiritualism in the early 20th century — led some men to believe they’d seen dead comrades resurrected and wandering the scarred landscapes of the Western Front.<br />
In other cases, soldiers claimed to have seen angels hovering over battlefields or felt an “otherworldly” presence that somehow silenced enemy guns to allow escapes from vulnerable positions.<br />
“As a threshold borderland, the Western Front was a place for such spectral thinking and haunting, where the strange was made ordinary, where the safe was infused with danger, where death was natural and life fleeting,” writes Cook, author of an acclaimed, two-volume history of the First World War. “The unnatural, supernatural, uncanny and ghostly offered succour to some soldiers, who embraced these ‘grave beliefs’ to make sense of their war experience.”<br />
Cook vividly describes how the living and the dead were gruesomely mingled in the muddy trenches of wartime France and Belgium, where fighting men “became martyred corpses in the blink of an eye” and the unrelenting carnage encouraged a heightened awareness of the thin line between life and afterlife — or, at times, a perceptual blurring of the line.<br />
“Grimy, exhausted soldiers, covered in mud, asleep on a fire step or in a funk hole could easily be mistaken for the dead,” Cook observes. “It was not lost on the soldiers that they seemed to be digging extended graves — the trenches — to protect themselves from death-dealing artillery shells. And, in sick irony, the artillery bombardments often buried the living and disgorged the dead.”<br />
One well-known story from the war is highlighted in Cook’s study: Cpl. Will Bird’s moving description of the night his brother’s “ghost” saved him from certain death. Bird, who had a postwar career as a Nova Scotia journalist and published his war memoirs under the title Ghosts Have Warm Hands, had written about a night after the 1917 Battle of Vimy Ridge when he was suddenly stirred from deep slumber under a tarp he’d been sharing with two fellow soldiers near the front line.<br />
“Before dawn, warm hands shook him,” Cook recounts. “Wiping away sleep, he looked with amazement at his brother Steve,” who had been reported missing in action in 1915. “Steve led him through some ruins, when he suddenly rounded a corner and disappeared.”<br />
Cpl. Bird, settled for sleep in the new location, dismissed his brother’s ghostly appearance as a “hallucination.” But in the morning, he was stunned to learn that the two other soldiers under the tarp had suffered a “direct hit from a high explosive shell” and were “dismembered beyond all recognition.”<br />
Another Canadian soldier wrote to his mother that, “One night while carrying bombs, I had occasion to take cover when about twenty yards off I saw you looking towards me as plain as life.” Dumbstruck, he “crawled nearly to the place where your vision appeared” as a German shell slammed into the place he had just left behind.<br />
“Had it not been for you, I certainly would have been reported ‘missing,’” the soldier wrote. “You’ll turn up again, won’t you, mother, next time a shell is coming?”<br />
Cook, who also teaches history at Carleton University, said his research has always focused on “how these young men coped and endured at the front.”<br />
Embracing magical or mystical explanations for what happened during the war, he told Postmedia News, “was a common response for some soldiers who lived in a space of destruction and death. As I read the memoirs, letters, and diaries of soldiers I kept encountering the uncanny, the supernatural, and even the spectral.”<br />
He added that while Bird’s account of being delivered from harm by his lost brother is a staple of Canadian war narratives, other such “crisis apparitions” had not been well documented and “no historian really has attempted to understand what that central story meant to Bird.”<br />
While researching the subject, Cook said, he encountered those kinds of stories “over and over again. I kept coming back to the ways that soldiers dealt with death — by being callous towards it, or embracing it, or finding ways to live with it.”</span>Tim Whitcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18072021569016967821noreply@blogger.com0