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Dwayyo: The Maryland Dogman

Originally posted at: "PHANTOMS AND MONSTERS PULSE OF THE PARANORMAL"

I recently came across new information on the 'Maryland Dogman'...so I decided to update the orginal past:Back in May of 2011 I posted a narrative describing the Snallygaster, legendary beast from my neck of the woods in Maryland. Another cryptid from this region is the Dwayyo...not as well known as the Snallygaster, but just as terrifying to those who have encountered the creature.

In the late 18th century, the Pennsylvania Dutch started to settle on the other side of the Mason-Dixon Line in Carroll, Frederick & Washington Counties. Not long after setting down their new roots, tales of the Hexenwolf started to circulate. The description of this beast was similar to the Dwayyo...'a mammalian biped with features similar to a wolf, but the stance and stature of a human.' 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.

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.

The creature had first come to prominence after a story ran in the Fredrick News Post in November of 1965. Reporter George May wrote in the article, “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.

CONTINUE READING AT:

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




Check out my two short stories, now published on Amazon Kindle:

 

TRAILER PARK FROM HELL  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BAKU8IS

 

LIFE'S A BITCH. A WEREBITCH. http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BFCMNMU

Check out my new book, TEN LITTLE TERRORS, now on Amazon:

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

Terrible Minds Cliffhanger Challenge. CHALLENGE ACCEPTED!

Hi,

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.

Description:

Here’s what you’re going to do:
You’re going to write an unfinished story.
Around 1000 words that leads to a cliffhanger of some kind.
Then, next week, we’ll pick up in part two –
Where someone else may write the end of your story.
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.
Like I said: ~1000 words.
Post at your online space. Link back here so we can read it.

If you'd like, read the complete blog post here: http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2013/09/20/flash-fiction-challenge-the-cooperative-cliffhanger-part-one/

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!

Here is "part one" READ THIS FIRST (follow this link): http://mahoganyandink.blogspot.com/2013/09/cliffhanger-challenge-setup.html

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?").

Here is my continuation:

Julia opened her eyes. She was alone, but other than that, everything remained the same.

     Yet, she was 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.

     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.

     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.

     “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.”

     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.

     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. Windows 17c? 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.

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.

     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.

     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 New Jorvik Police? This was New York.

     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.

 

As I said, I'd like to complete this, but would rather do so only with the original author's approval.

 

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.

http://terribleminds.com/ramble/

- Timothy Whitcher

Check out my two short stories, now published on Amazon Kindle:

 

TRAILER PARK FROM HELL

 

 http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BAKU8IS

 

LIFE'S A BITCH. A WEREBITCH.

 

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BFCMNMU

 

Check out my new book, TEN LITTLE TERRORS, now on Amazon:

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

 

The 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.
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.

A photo of the ghost caught in the window

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.
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.
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.
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?"
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.
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.
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.
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.
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."
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.

 

Check out my two short stories, now published on Amazon Kindle:

 

 

TRAILER PARK FROM HELL

 

 

 

 http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BAKU8IS

 

 

 

LIFE'S A BITCH. A WEREBITCH.

 

 

 

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BFCMNMU

 

 

 

Check out my new book, TEN LITTLE TERRORS, now on Amazon:

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

 

Help Finish This Story!

Hi,

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.

So, I had an idea. Probably not the best idea. If nothing else, it may contain a little entertainment value for you, the reader.

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.

Here goes:

CLENCHJAW

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.

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 fact 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.

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.

 

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.

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.

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.

The anemic light cast shadows that revealed more than I could ever have imagined.

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.

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.

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 dark 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.

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.

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.

 

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^th. How little I knew then about regret.

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.

“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.

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.

“Your Brady’s Dad. Glad you’re here. Don’t get too many fathers willing to volunteer.”

“Well, I’m happy to do it. Brady…”

He cut me off.

“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.”

Within the hour the remaining four Scouts arrived in various modes of transportation.

 

That's it. That's as far as I've gotten. Bring it on! Bring it on like the plague!



Check out my two short stories, now published on Amazon Kindle:

 

TRAILER PARK FROM HELL

 

 http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BAKU8IS

 

LIFE'S A BITCH. A WEREBITCH.

 

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BFCMNMU

 

Check out my new book, TEN LITTLE TERRORS, now on Amazon:

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

  

WEIRD 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?"

"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.
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.
Or is the country closer than he thinks?" - Patton Oswalt

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.

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 Weird Tales magazine.  Most recently, it was included in The Big Book of Ghost Stories, edited by Otto Penzler, the proprietor of New York City’s renowned Mysterious Bookshop and a truly outstanding anthologist.
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:

• His full name was Henry Ferris Arnold
• He was born in 1901 or 1902
• He died in 1963
• He might have been from Illinois
• He moved to Hollywood to be a press agent sometime during the ’20s
• He was likely a newspaperman at some point (more on this in a moment)
• He published three stories in his lifetime (in addition to “The Night Wire,” these were a two-part Weird Tales serial called “The City of Iron Cubes” in 1929 and another two-parter, “When Atlantis Was,” that appeared in Amazing Stories in 1937)

And that is the total set of facts available to the public regarding H. F. Arnold.



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FM9QeHQz-YU


Check out my two short stories, now published on Amazon Kindle:

 

TRAILER PARK FROM HELL

 

 http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BAKU8IS

 

LIFE'S A BITCH. A WEREBITCH.

 

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BFCMNMU

 

Check out my new book, TEN LITTLE TERRORS, now on Amazon:

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

Black Eyed Children Report From Someone Who Let Them In

 

Is this evidence of what happens if you let a BEK into your home?

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…

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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”

 Check out my two short stories, now published on Amazon Kindle:

 

TRAILER PARK FROM HELL

 

 http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BAKU8IS

 

LIFE'S A BITCH. A WEREBITCH.

 

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BFCMNMU

 

Check out my new book, TEN LITTLE TERRORS, now on Amazon:

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