Kevin Lucia's Blog, page 13

ZooTown #6

Recap from Last Week:

Of course, before this week, I had no idea what those sins were. Now, however?

I think I know, Father. I think I know.

*

There was a pause before the young man said, sounding apologetic, "Geez, I'm sorry, Father. I'm rambling off at the mouth here. Hope I'm not wasting your time any."

Father Ward chuckled. "By no means, son. As I said, All Hallow's Eve is usually slow around here. The only thing you're doing is making the time pass more quickly, and making it more interesting."

"It just sounds like I'm complaining about my dad, is all. I'm sure you hear enough of that sort of thing all the time."

In a snap decision, Father Ward decided to abandon his studied impartiality and relate to the young man. If only to reassure him, and keep the conversation alive, which - contrary to the youth's concerns - he found fascinating so far.

"I don't want to make the mistake of sounding condescending, which is what we adults and ministers of the faith so often do, though often unintentionally. And I also don't want to say 'I totally know how you feel' because I don’t know. I can't. I'm not you, so how could I know?

“But I've had a little taste, I believe. As I've mentioned already, though my father was also a Baptist minister like yours, he was very opened minded. He liked mysteries as much as I did. We enjoyed many of those same discussions you can't have with your father.”

"Wow. What made you decide to be a Catholic, Father?"

Father Ward smiled at the warm memory. "I spent the weekend at a Catholic friend's house. That Sunday at mass, I heard for the first time 'the mystery of faith.' The idea appealed greatly to me. The humble admission that while belief in and knowledge of God is important, we simply can’t know everything. That God is, essentially, in large parts, unknowable."

"Huh. 'The mystery of faith.' I like that."

"So did I. So much so, when I graduated high school, I enrolled at Le Moyne College and went on to become not only a priest, but a Jesuit. That did throw Dad's gears for a bit, but eventually he came to accept it."

Father Ward paused. "I believe he was proud of me. For following my faith and my love of mystery."

A regretful sigh, and then, "Wow. Must be nice." Father Ward imagined the young man sagging like a balloon releasing air. "The worst part is, if I did something like that, my Dad wouldn't even be pissed at me. He'd just act like he'd expected I’d end up bad all along."

Father Ward opened his mouth to offer some sort of consolation or comfort, anything to lighten the young man's mood, but the boy rushed on before Father Ward could speak. "Anyway, I totally got off track. I mean, it all sorta connects together - I think - but I'm getting bogged down complaining about my Dad, when's he just not worth it. I'll get back to him and his 'faith' and his...well, his 'sins' later.

“But the thing that really opened this can of worms happened after I went to bed that night, because was the first time I dreamed about Zoo Town..."

*

What's Zoo Town, Father? Well, I'll get to that in a minute. I can tell you I started dreaming about Zoo Town the first night after I heard that singing.

Y'know how some dreams are just so out there, that even as real as they seem, you know they're dreams? Like say you're dreaming of pitching against Babe Ruth or Micky Mantle, or dunking over Wilt Chamberlin, or you're dreaming of making out with the hottest girl on the cheerleading team that you know you have no chance with in real life, but there you are, doing all those things anyway, and real as it seems, deep inside somewhere a little voice is whispering, No way this is happening; it’s gotta be a dream?

Well, this dream wasn't like it that. It was…what’s the word? Subtle. Down-to-earth. The kinda dream that feels so real, when you wake up, you’re not sure if it was a dream, or if you were remembering something which actually happened, or something you actually did.

That's what this dream was like. I woke up Monday morning, and for a minute, I actually had to ask myself: Am I remembering something that actually happened? Or was that a dream?

I don't really remember how the dream started. I was just riding my bike along some sort of access road in the woods. It was worn with lots of ruts. The trees around me were full and green, and it was summer, not Fall like now. The brush was healthy and growing, and so were the leaves on the trees.

But sunlight was still filtering in through the pines, so even though it was nice and shaded, there was this....SHIMMER to everything. I can't explain it any better than that. Enough sunlight was getting through, despite the heavy tree cover, so it was easy to see, and there was a warm feeling there, also.

In the dream I was riding along, mind pretty empty, and I was feeling good. Good, that's the word. Happy and quiet. Which, to be honest, I haven't felt much these days. Especially around Dad. And though the woods was hushed, I could hear the usual things: Birds calling far away, things rustling occasionally in the brush, the clicking of my bike chain and the hush of the bike's tires over pine needles and fallen leaves, and crickets buzzing.

I love that sound, don't you, Father? The crickets? That's when you know it's high summer; when they’re buzzing like that. You know what I heard also, mixing right in with everything?

That singing.

I could hear that girl singing, and even though I couldn't tell any better what the words were, it sounded even more familiar. But this time I didn't feel so intruiged by it, like before. It seemed to fit right in with all the other nature sounds. Like she was meant to be singing right along with all those other sounds.

Here's where the dream gets a little odd, Father. I was just riding along on my bike, all peaceful-like and feeling good and fine, listening to that beautiful voice singing a song I sort of recognized but couldn't quite place, when the path starts going uphill a bit. I'm feeling really good, though. Full of energy, so I stand up on the pedals and lean forward a bit, like you do to pick up some steam, and huff my way up that hill.

As I'm pedaling along and getting closer, that singing is getting louder. The song is getting even more familiar. I can just about pick out words I almost recognize when I crest over that rise...

And then I wake up.

Which figures, right? That's how it always happens with these dreams. Right when you get to the most mysterious part, you wake up. But I remember something, Father, from right before the song ended and I opened my eyes. This image of what was over that hill, flashing before my eyes. Just before I woke up, I thought I saw...what looked like...a village?

Or something. Rows of buildings and cottages on either side of that well-worn and rutted path running through the woods. There one second, gone the next, and then I was blinking my eyes in my bedroom, the sun peaking under the shade on a Sunday morning.

Which, of course, meant church.

I'd be lying, Father, if I didn't admit to wishing I could escape into that mysterious place in the woods forever, so I never had to go sit in my Dad's church ever again...

Except for one little thing. Right before I woke up? In that split second before that image of buildings deep in the woods dissolved? I got the faintest sensation that I was being watched, and not only that...that something was lurking behind those buildings, watching, waiting...

Waiting for me.

Pre-order THE HORROR AT PLEASANT BROOK!

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This Halloween, a malevolent, creeping horror invades a small, isolated town nestled deep in the Adirondacks. It cares nothing for this town’s secrets, prejudices, or flaws. Its only desires are to consume everything in its path and spread, until nothing else remains.

A small group of people stand in its way. They are the leftovers, the ignored, the excluded, and the dismissed. However, as the evil grows, they prove to be the only ones strong enough to stand and fight.

But how can they prevail against this power? It is ancient, pitiless, and unstoppable.

It is The Horror at Pleasant Brook.

“…in The Horror at Pleasant Brook, the Horror is absolutely Implacable, unavoidable, unstoppable. A force of Supernatural Nature, but with both Purpose and Sentience.” - Into the Abyss Reviews

“Kevin Lucia’s first novel is a fun throwback to ‘80s tales of dread. The story contains a surprisingly robust cast with little by way of excess or waste. The book hits the ground running, with knockout horror that keeps the reader going. The monstrous, spreading evil is suitably nightmarish. Lucia wears his love of horror on his sleeve and wants the reader to enjoy it just as much with him.” - HorrorDNA

" The Horror at Pleasant Brook is more adult than most of Kevin Lucia’s short stories I’ve read, in terms of profanity and gore. And if this novel were made into a movie (which it should be), it would definitely be rated R for slasher-type violence.

But there is also a thread of grace that weaves through the novel, providing a glimmer of light even in the darkest of circumstances. I found one of the violent deaths to be strangely moving, and the way that character faced death was heroic and even beautiful.

I strongly recommend The Horror at Pleasant Brook to anyone who loves horror literature." - Darrell Grizzell, author of I Never Meant to Start a Murder Cult

"The Halloween, Salem’s Lot, and IT mash-up you never knew you wanted, but can’t do without now that you know it exists!" - A. E. Jackson

"An exciting take on small town horror." - The Horror Tree

“A gory, blood splattery, good time, with a diverse cast of characters, bucket loads of entrails, and suspenseful writing that will have you jumping at shadows and cringing at every unexpected noise.” - Well Worth A Read

Advance review of THE HORROR AT PLEASANT BROOK

Another great advance review of The Horror at Pleasant Brook, from author A. E. Jackson!

"This contemporary classic horror novel opens with an exciting gory bang. Fans of splatter look no further - Lucia has got you covered. Quite literally… readers will feel like flicking the dripping entrails off the pages.

All of the characters are believable. Each carries a rich, intertwined history with others in the small town. Just as anyone living in a small town will tell you is true.

The novel is fast-paced but still feels full. A complete ending awaits readers who give this one a try. This well-told horror tale wraps up with a strong cathartic conclusion!"

Preorder today!

BILLY THE KID AND THE LAZARUS STONE

Hey folks - I’ve been chasing deadlines and have been terrible about staying current with my posts, but the light is at the end of the tunnel. In the meantime, I’m THRILLED to share the following:

It's been a long-time coming - almost thirteen years, and many, many, MANY rewrites - but my long-awaited Weird Western, Billy the Kid and the Lazarus Stone, will finally blast its way into the world courtesy of David Niall Wilson and Crossroad Press Audio & Digital Books and Macabre Ink. Stay tuned!

Advance Review of THE HORROR AT PLEASANT BROOK

I can't love this review enough. Extremely detailed, with no spoilers - this is one of those reviews which makes you think like you're on the right track as a writer. It's my first novel, and I couldn't more excited or terrified!

TL; DR:

"The Horror at Pleasant Brook is an exciting take on small town horror. The characters are deep and well developed with an excellent spider webbing of relationships and interactions. This book is highly recommended." - The Horror Tree

Pre-order today for personalized copy and limited edition chapbook!

Full Review:

"Welcome to Pleasant Brook, a small town with its fair share of hard times and harder people. Author Kevin Lucia creates a setting that is rough, depressed, and all too similar to many small towns, and then drops a unique horror threat right in the middle of it.

Other novels might use the small-town theme to depict a happy and friendly community beset by tragedy; not here. Lucia’s Pleasant Brook is about as far removed from that troupe as possible, with neighbors, and family members caring almost nothing about each other until the tragic fate befalls them. Readers be warned: this story contains instances of sexual and domestic abuse and violence with an overarching theme of alcoholism and its effect on families and communities.

Lucia does an amazing job of populating Pleasant Brook with characters that feel unique and real. Each of the major characters has well developed personalities and quirks, even if most of them are on the alcoholism scale. There are connections between the characters that are revealed throughout the story, building suspense for the reader through every chapter.

Grace Matthews, the local constable and only law enforcement in town, escaped to Pleasant Brook after an incident in the big city left her career in jeopardy. Sage Hunter, the local librarian and Matthews’ ex, serves as Matthews only friend and confidant. These two stand out in the overly conservative community of Pleasant Brook and face their share of ridicule for their sexual orientation.

Scott Carter and his mother, Tiffany, are one of the many broken families in the community just trying to make ends meet. Jasper Riley is the closest thing Scott has to a best friend and when Scott attempts to put their friendship to the test, it comes back to haunt him in more ways than one.

Bobby Lee Haskel is a vile antagonist and serves as the entry point for the supernatural horror that will be unleashed on Pleasant Brook. Though the reality is that his worst acts are conducted before the story begins, Lucia writes a truly vulgar character readers will love to hate. While this article will not spoil the true horror that lurks in Pleasant Brook, it is a unique take on a being that has been seen sparingly in horror.

A recurring point throughout is COVID and its impact on communities. This story doesn’t take place during the pandemic, but the lingering effects are still present and it paints the attitudes of the residents. As a touchy subject to everyone, readers need to keep in mind that works taking place near and after the 2020s will likely hit on COVID and the impact it had on the surrounding setting. To not do so would be like writing about the 1940s and not mentioning World War 2." - The Horror Tree

ZooTown #5

Recap From Last Week

I nodded (which didn't matter, of course, because he wasn't looking at me), and left for my bedroom without saying another word. I'd been dismissed for the night, and I knew he'd have no more to say.

Believe it or not, Father, I actually did go and do my devotions that night. I did my devotions every night, and I’d do them every night, even if Dad didn't nag.

Must sound weird, huh? With me and Dad not getting along, him and me not seeing eye to eye on Halloween and rock and roll and monster movies and such. Thing is, even though I don't agree with Dad on lots of things, I do believe in God. I do believe lots of things in the Bible are true and probably happened, though maybe not in the way Dad and folks like him see it.

Also, it seems like lots of stuff in the Bible is more like advice than rules. When I read the Bible (even though I'm reading from the same King James translation Dad reads from) I get a much different message than the one Dad gets. I'm not saying I'm smarter than him by any means, or that I know more about what's in the Bible and all. He majored in Religion in college, then went to seminary after that. So he's studied the Bible way more than me, to be completely honest.

But he only seems to focus on some of it, Father. Mostly the 'shall not' stuff, and the wages of sin, and what's ungodly and Satanic, and how we should be able to tell what that is, and all. I mean, I'm not going to lie, I see a lot of that stuff in the Bible too. But right alongside that, I see verses about faith and hope and love and forgiveness and God quieting the storm in our hearts, and making provision for us in times of hardship.

Dad likes to warn of hardship coming, of course. Mostly, hardship coming if we don't abide by the 'truth of His word.' The whole wages of sin thing, again. He also likes to harp a whole lot about the 'sins of the father visited on the sons.' You know, if a man is enduring hardship in his life, it's probably all his dad's fault, for some sin his dad did and never confessed.

Thing is, he hardly ever talks about God making provision for us in that hardship - which I see in the Bible plenty - and he hardly ever talks about a 'peace that passeth understanding' in the 'midst of life's storms.' He always warns that these storms should convict us of the sins we haven't confessed, and that our only hope is to 'throw ourselves on the mercy of the Lord.'

Father, you ever hear that saying: 'sinners in the hands of an angry God,' by John Calvin?

Yeah, that's my Dad, through and through.

Of course, I don't bother asking him questions about stuff. Or about anything else that doesn't fit into his little box of beliefs. Not anymore. Like how there's so many rules about righteous men living pure and holy, but it seems like a lot of these Bible guys can go hit up a harlot along their journeys if they feel like it, and nothing bad'll happen to them, but if a woman gets caught as a harlot; BOOM, not waiting for her. She gets stoned, right quick. Or other questions, like how it seems part of the Bible's totally okay with slavery and stuff.

I get why some of those questions get under Dad's collar, I guess. If I’m being totally honest, I probably ask them more to rile him up than anything else.

But some of the questions I'm actually interested in asking, because I've worked them over and over in my mind, and I can’t figure them. Like, for example: The Bible says after Cain killed Abel, he wandered for years into the Land of Nod, then eventually met some woman and had kids with her.

I've always wondered: if Adam and Eve were the only people, and they had only two kids, Cain and Abel, who ‘d Cain marry? A Sunday School teacher once tried to explain to me that with everyone's really long lives back then, somehow Adam and Eve had a ton more kids who then had more kids, who then had kids of their own, all while Cain was wandering, and then by the time he settled in Nod whole generations of humans had been born and spread, and he married one of them.

Course, it doesn't really SAY that anywhere in the Bible. Not in any Bible I ever read, anyway. That’s just the way my Sunday School teacher tried to explain it to me once, and boy was she unhappy when I told her I’d never seen anything like that in the Bible. Dad’s not the only Christian who doesn’t like questions, I guess.

My favorite theory is that maybe Cain married someone who wasn't exactly human, then the kids they had weren't exactly human, either. You ever read that old epic poem Beowulf, Father? The thing about that story I find the most interesting is the bit about how Grendel descended from Cain, 'the father of all monsters.' And it sorta makes sense, too, right? According to the Bible, he was the first murderer and all.

But see, that's the biggest reason why Dad and I don't get along. I look at something like that, some question the Bible can't answer completely, and then I wonder about stuff like that bit from Beowulf. This stuff interests me, Father. I like turning stuff over in my head. Even if my answer isn’t even close to the truth, (but c’mon, who knows that, really?) it's fun turning that stuff over.

Not Dad, though. He justs call all that ‘blasphemy’ and 'defaming the word of God with idle thinking.' According to him, I have to believe every single word of the Bible, whether it make any sense or not.

Sorry about all, that Father. Didn't mean any disrespect or anything, and I didn't mean to get rambling. I just don't want you to think that I'm one of those PK's - pastor's kids - who doesn’t believe in God ‘cause he doesn't get along with his Dad. It’s more complicated than that, I guess.

That’s another thing. I could act like a lot of the PK's I’ve met at Bible camps over the years. Kids who had their act down perfect, obeyed every word their parents said, pretended to toe the line...but they didn't believe a word of it. Thought the whole game was horseshit, and soon as they left home and went to college, they stopped pretending and went wild.

Me, I believe it all. Mostly, anyway. And, I read my Bible because it interests me. I like turn that stuff over, but because I dare ask questions, Dad treats me like I've already gone wild and run off to God knows were.

You know what bothers me the most, Father? I keep coming back to the 'sins of the Father are visited upon the son' thing, and how Dad always likes to blame times of hardship on a father's sins. My mom was killed when I was five. Dad and I hardly speak. I'd call that a little bit of hardship, wouldn't you? So sometimes I wonder if Dad acts like I'm a lost cause, because his sins - whatever they were - have been visited upon me, and because of that, I'm screwed.

Of course, before this week, I had no idea what those sins were. Now, however?

I think I know, Father. I think I know.

Supplemental Writing Update

ZooTown #4

Recap From Last Week:

Of course, I was a bit wrong about my father’s plans. Thinking he was just gonna whip up some holy brimstone and hellfire and preach about the evils of trick or treating and wearing costumes and celebrating Halloween. Turns out, he had way more planned than just a Halloween night sermon.

Way more…

So a I'm sure you can figure, this past Sunday I wasn't in any hurry to get home, even though I knew a lecture about curfew, punctuality and obedience was waiting for me if I dragged my ass any longer.

But I just couldn't make myself pedal any faster. I coasted down Samara Hill, turned right onto Main Street and cruised past all the shops. The neat old bookstore, Arcane Delights, Handy's Pawn and Thrift, the pawn shop that's been on Main Street since forever, the pizza place and ice cream joint, Brown's Apothecary (which is a fancy name for drug store, which in my way of thinking is a bit two fancy for a small town like this), past the police station and the Town Hall.

Then, a sharp right onto Winter Street, past the rows of houses with lights burning in the windows, and then a left onto Stanton, up to the Baptist church, and to parsonage's driveway just past it. I had half-hoped that maybe Dad would be out, but no such luck: I saw the garage door down (a sure sign he was home for the night) and lights coming from the den window.

I could tell I was late. Didn't need a watch or clock. Just a sense that I'd missed my curfew of 8:30 by just a minute or so. It's weird, Father. At the time I don't think I meant to be late. There was that weird singing I stayed to check out at Raedeker Park, and even though I didn't ride as fast as I probably could've, I also didn't go super slow purposefully.

But looking back, y'know what? Think I subconsciously wanted to be late. Wanted to rile Dad up, get him angry...hell (pardon my mouth), have him yell at me, for once. Seems weird, but it was harder to deal with him being so calm, rational and distant all the time. For once, I just wanted him to yell and scream at me, hell (sorry again), even throw something. You'd think that would've made it harder on me, but not so. It would've made things easier.

So much easier.

*

"Easier to do what, son?"

Of course, Father Ward thought he knew the answer, but also thought it best to continue letting the young man on the other side of the confessional tell his own story.

A sigh, and then in a voice sounding regretful and not a little ashamed, "Easier to hate him, Father. I know that sounds awful. That I wanted him to yell and scream and treat me badly, so then I could hate him without feeling guilty about it. You can't hate a robot with no feelings, or a department store mannequin. Right?

Sure, Dad has grounded me plenty of times, has punished me and taken away privileges, forbids television and rock music around the house, doesn't want me going to parties or movies...but he always does these things in such a bland way. A boring way, almost.

Somehow, that's harder to fight. I guess that's probably why I wanted to be able to hate him. So I could fight him better. You really hate something; I mean really hate it, you can go after that thing, beat it down. Whenever Dad starts lecturing me about missing curfew, or grades, or the evils of rock and roll or monster movies or Halloween...he does it in this bland, perfectly calm manner that sorta tires me out, to be completely honest.

It doesn't matter how much I work myself up to get angry at him, he just looks at me with those sad, kind of dead eyes, his face blank as stone, and then he sorta hammers me with lectures. Takes the window out of my sails, beats me right down. Actually, it gets so bad that, like that night a week ago, I couldn't work up much gumption to get angry at him as I rode home, even as I was making myself just late enough to provoke a reaction. It's like, in the back of my head, even as I was trying to make him mad, I knew there was no point. He wouldn't get mad and yell. So why bother?"

The young man paused. Father Ward sensed the boy wanted to continue and was searching for the right words, so he held his peace, waiting patiently. After several more minutes, the boy continued.

"I guess that's why I want to hate him. He's so calm and rational all the time. He just sucks the life right out of me. Maybe if I hated him...if I could get angry and stay angry at him...maybe I could stay riled up and say what I want to say, finally. That's pretty bad of me, ain't it Father? To want to hate my Dad."

Father Ward released a sigh of his own. "Hate is inside all of us, son. Whatever faith a person holds - or even if they hold no faith - it's part of human nature to hate. And the fact that you want to hate, and find that you can't, and you feel conflicted over that? That makes you human, just like all the rest of us. But, I suppose an important question to ask is this: Do you hate your father?"

The boy's reply came quicker than Father Ward thought it would. "No. I want to, because it would make it easier to fight him, but I can't. And honestly, after this whole week, I don't think I can hate him at all, anymore. There's only one thing I feel for him now, Father - after what he's done, or tried to do. Somehow? That's even worse."

"And what do you feel for him now?"

"Pity, Father. I pity him. And somehow, that seems like the worst thing of all."

*

After I stowed my bike behind the garage, I went in around back, not attempting to be quiet, because there wasn't any point in trying to fool Dad. He may have a really early curfew for me, but he's always up late reading his Bible, studying and taking notes, trying to figure out all the perfect rules for making God happy, or whatever.

Even if for some weird reason he wasn’t at the kitchen table or in his den studying, and had gone to bed - which he's only ever done once or twice after I've missed curfew - he wouldn't be sleeping, anyway. He'd be lying awake in his bed, waiting for me to come home. He'd wait until I got up to my room, wait until it looked like I'd snuck in...and then knock on my door. That was always worse, so honestly I was a little relieved when I walked into the kitchen to see him sitting at the small table, head bent over his old and weathered family Bible, studying.

"You're late," he said, in that monotone voice of his, without once looking up from whatever passage he was reading and underlining. "Curfew is at eight-thirty."

And damn it all (sorry again) if his flat tone didn't just tire me out, so I wanted to go to sleep, right then and there. I'd already been pretty resigned to not fighting with him, but he's always like a negative charge, draining me even further than I'd already thought I was drained. "Sorry," I said, opening the hanging cabinet next to the fridge and searching for a glass. "Brian and I got talking. Lost track of time."

It sounded like a lame excuse to him, I'm sure, even though it was the truth. "And where were you and Brian this late at night?"

That right there probably would've set anyone else off - 8:30 not being all that late for a Saturday night, especially when you're seventeen - and it annoyed me, but like always, his bland, unemotional voice blunted any annoyance I felt at first. I found a glass, finally, went to the sink and started filling it with cold water. "Raedeker Park. We were just killing some time at the zoo."

Even though I was looking out the kitchen window into our dark backyard and couldn't see him, I swear, Father, I could HEAR his raised eyebrows as he said "Killing time? There was nothing more productive to do? Homework? Your devotions? Some reading?"

I took a drink, swallowed and said, my voice sounding eerily flat and dead like his, "Math I got done after school yesterday. Only thing left to do is a chapter and summaries for History, and I'm going to do that tomorrow, after church."

Again, with the raised-eyebrow-slightly-surprised-and-disappointed voice. "Homework, on the Lord's appointed Day of Rest?"

(That's how he said it, Father, all important, like the first letters of day and rest should be capitalized).

"So that's what shiftless 'killing time' leads to. Violating your curfew, and finishing the rest of your school work up on the Lord's Day, which should be devoted to contemplating things of His purpose." He paused, and than said - almost slyly, like he wanted me to say yes - "Was it Brian? Did your good Catholic friend convince you to violate curfew?"

Yeah, I hate to say it, Father...dad's not so big on Catholics. Not a big fan of the pope, he isn't. Honestly, if he knew I was here right now, he'd probably blow a gasket. In his quiet, boring sort of way, of course.

Anyhow, that's probably what prompted me into opening my big mouth. I hated the way he talked about Brian (again, in his so calm and rational and dead way) and about Catholics, hinting they were too liberal, and that would be my downfall and all, so I wanted to defend Brian, y'know?

But to be honest, it was probably also just more passive-aggressive provoking on my part when I turned around, leaned back against the sink and said, "Nope. It's not Brian's fault at all. In fact, he left soon as we were done, probably around 8. I stayed because I thought I heard someone singing at the amphitheater, so I went and checked it out."

Now, this doesn't make me feel so great about myself, Father, but I felt kinda happy when he froze, his pen stopping, and he got all kinds of still. Was like I finally got a shot past his defences and made him react to something, for a change. He sat there for several seconds, staring at his Bible, not moving, until he looked up at me, face blank as always, but his eyes wide and curious, and maybe even...

Afraid.

That's what it was. He looked afraid. I had no idea at the time why he would be afraid, but again, I'm not gonna lie, even though it makes me look like a pretty bad guy...that scared look in his eyes?

Made me feel pretty good, honestly.

Doesn't say much nice about me, does it?

That afraid look didn't stay there very long. Pretty quickly, his eyes got flat and empty like aways. His voice sounded like he was asking about the weather. "Singing. You heard singing at the amphitheater?"

I shrugged. "Thought I did. Nobody was over there, though, so I must've imagined it. Or maybe someone was driving by with their car radio really loud, with the windows down or something."

Dad stared at me for several more seconds. For just a moment, that scared light in his eyes flickered. But all he did was press his lips together, look back down to his Bible and say, "You are to stay away from Raedeker Park, son. I don't want you going there. And I expect to be minded."

I chugged the last bit of water in my glass, swallowed and said (again, probably hoping to get some sort of rise out of him), "Why? You find a new Bible verse saying zoos are evil? Though shalt not keep kangaroos in cages?"

Yeah, that was a pretty snarky thing to say, but as usual, he didn't rise to it. Without looking up at me, he said calmy, "Not the zoo. The amphitheater. I want you to stay away from there. If you're not part of a performance scheduled, you're not to be messing around there. A town ordinance, as you know very well."

Now, I didn't know that very well at all. Kids are always hanging around on the amphitheater's stage without permission. But like always, his dead tone of voice stole any mood I had to disagree.

Still, for some reason, I couldn't let it go. I wasn't about to argue the town ordinance thing, but I was also in no mood, for once, to just walk away. "Why, Dad? For once, explain to me why, instead of ordering me around like I'm some sort of indentured servant."

That finally scored a hit. He closed his eyes, shoulders going rigid, and he squeezed his pencil so hard, I thought he'd snap it in two. But he got control back pretty quickly. He breathed once, shoulders and fist relaxing. He opened his eyes and, without looking up from his Bible, said in a voice both sharper and harder than I've ever heard: "Do not defy me. You will stay away from the ampitheater at Raedeker Park until further notice. Am I understood?"

I'd gotten what I wanted: A rise from Dad. But the underlying steel in his voice sent shivers down my spine, and I instantly regretted it. "Yeah Dad. Understood."

"Very good. Get to bed. Make sure you do your devotions for the night, before going to sleep, like Christ's disciples did in the Garden of Gethsemane, right before he died for them."

I nodded (which didn't matter, of course, because he wasn't looking at me), and left for my bedroom without saying another word. I'd been dismissed for the night, and I knew he'd have no more to say.

ZooTown #3

Recap from last week….

Nothing. Full on quiet.

And that's when I heard her singing.

I wasn't even sure what I was hearing, at first. My first thought was someone had switched the carousel calliope back on, but straight away I could tell it was words, someone was SINGING. I almost thought maybe a car radio somewhere was turned up, but the parking lot was empty. Also - this was a voice singing without any music. I stood there on my bike, LISTENING.

It was a young woman.

Maybe a teenage girl my age. I couldn't make out any words that night, Father...but it sounded beautiful. Beautiful, and somehow...sad. But not crying sad, like when someone you love has died, or anything like that. More like...lonely. Or regretful, like how you'd feel if you had to leave behind a friend or someone you loved, even though you had to, but didn't want to.

Yeah, that's right, Father. Meloncholic. That's the word. I couldn't quite make out what she was singing, but that girl's voice vibrated with this power that sorta made your insides tingle. But it wasn't LOUD singing, Father. It wasn't like she was belting out these tunes with all her breath. It was something in the her melody. In the tone. There was power there, enough to almost make you feel sad too, but it was gentle, all the same.

My next thought was: Someone’s rehearsing on the ampitheater stage. I hadn't heard about any concerts coming up, nor had I seen any flyers around town or anything like that. Of course, that didn't mean there WASN'T a concert of some kind. Maybe someone was practicing.

Thing is, you can tell the difference between someone singing over a microphone and through speakers, or on their own. Through speakers, there's this kinda hum or reverb sound. But this didn't sound like that, Father. Crazy as it sounds, this was someone singing on their own.

So I hopped on my bike and instead of heading out onto Samara Hill, I turned right and pedaled past the concessions stand to the amphitheater. Skidded my bike to a stop at the amphitheater's top row of benches, and looked down onto the stage, and you know what?

*

"I think I know," Father Ward answered with a small smile, "but go ahead and tell me anyway."

"Empty," came the young man's voice in a breathless rush, "the stage was empty. Nobody around. And soon as my bike stopped, so did the singing."

A GHOST STORY ON ALL HALLOW'S EVE, Father Ward thought, HOW WONDERFULLY APPROPRIATE. And, given his own experiences in the past few years, not unbelievable at all.

However, he was determined to play the skeptic and suppress his enthusiasm, again not wishing to lead the young man in any on direction. "And you're sure no one was playing a car radio, or someone hadn't been there singing and then left before you got there?"

A pause, feet shuffling, and Father Ward imagined the boy shrugging. "No cars, that's for sure. Up in that parking lot, anyway. The zoo staff’s parking lot is on the other side of the park, and I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have heard a car radio from there. Too far away. As for leaving the stage right before I got there?"

Another pause, and then, "Well...you know how the stage looks - right, Father? With the amphitheater benches all round, leading down the stage, and how behind the stage, there's several smaller platforms for bands to prep, or when they're doing plays, for props and stage exits?"

"I haven't been out there since I came home," Father Ward confessed, "but I remember, yes."

"Well you know, then, about how there's only a few ways down to the stage. There's three aisles running through the benches down to the stage. There's a wooden walkway to the far right - which is used by bands and actors and such - that loops behind some trees and bushes, and leads to the main stage and support stages from behind. If it was summer and the trees full of leaves, maybe whoever - honestly, it sounded like a she, Father - was singing could've been hiding on that wooden walkway behind the trees, but all the leaves are down now, father. Could see right through them, and I didn't see anyone.

"But I don't know. Maybe I missed them, though I don't know why anyone would go hiding like that after they were singing. Only thing I could think of is maybe they weren't supposed to be on that platform, and were afraid of getting in trouble or something, which doesn't make a whole lot of sense, because while they lock up the gates to the zoo, they don't lock the amphitheater’s gates. I dunno. Anyway...that was just the start of it, Father. Lot more happened after which explained some things, but also made more questions."

Father Ward couldn't help but smile. "In my experience, the best and most worthwhile answers always raise more questions, son. What did you do next?"

"Well, I couldn't help but sit there just a little longer and look around. I'm weird that way, Father. Not only do I like to sit and listen, I like to look and SEE, y'know? I mean, REALLY see..."

*

...so I sat there for a minute and really looked at the amphitheater for a few minutes, to see what I could see. I think looking and REALLY seeing things is a lot like really listening and HEARING, Father. We don't really take the time to do it, anymore. Just too busy going places, I suppose. Ever read DANDELION WINE, by Ray Bradbury? Yeah, I love it, too. Wish things still moved as slow as they did back when that novel was set.

Anyway, I sat there, straddling my bike, taking it all in. The gray and weathered wooden benches, aisles, and the stage itself. The big green spread of the forest behind it. The darkening night sky.

It was there I first sensed it, Father. What I've sensed more and more this whole week. That I was looking right at something I couldn't quite see, if that makes any sense. Like something that flickers in the corner of your eye, and when you turn and look for it...nothing's there. Or maybe a picture that's been overdeveloped, and it looks like there's a picture right beneath the one you're looking at, but you just can't quite see...

But it started getting dark, fast. Don't know if I was just caught up looking at things and trying to see whatever was there, of if maybe I was hoping that singing would start in again. Whichever, I figured it had been twenty minutes since Brian took off, which meant it was about seven-twenty, and it'd take me at least fifteen minutes to bike home to the parsonage next to the Baptist Church, where Dad and I live. Which meant I probably wouldn't get there until around 7:45, and then Dad would let me have for it staying out near to dark, the night before church, of all nights.

And by "let me have it" I mean lecture me in a dry, monotone voice until I was ready to cry "Uncle." Dad did everything quiet, sternly, with this real strict sense of...what's the word, Father? How people act and talk, how the carry themselves? Right, decorum. That's real big with Dad. He's always under control, y'know? Never yells or screams, just always lectures in that same tone of voice. Never seems to get excited about anything, or even really happy, honestly. Actually, the only time I've seen him happy, lately? When he's planning one of his big faith revivals.

You haven't heard about those? How long have you been home? Oh, about three years. That makes sense, I suppose. Dad's last revival - about not drinking and all - got lots of folks riled up, so the Town Board basically told him to cool it. Don't know if they threatened to give him the boot, but he quieted up a lot, hasn't talked about a revival since then.

Until this year, that is. Guess what's got a bug up his ass this year? Yep, his old standby, Halloween. The Devil's Night. The whole month of October, he's been talking about it. How he was going to hold a special Halloween service. How he was bringing in special "experts on debunking the pagan holiday that's become a national pastime."

Honest to God, Father - and I'm not taking the Lord's name in vain, I hope, cause I'm serious about being honest to God - I think I've seen him smile more in the past month than I have in the past year, all because he's decided this year he's throwing down with Halloween. It makes me feel so mixed up inside, y'know? One minute, I'm sorta happy to see him smiling, instead of looking all somber and sad like he does most the time. The next, I realize he's smiling because he’s planning on preaching against Halloween and all its "tempting evils," and then I get to feeling mean inside.

Of course, I was a bit wrong about his plans, Father. Thinking he was just gonna whip up some holy brimstone and hellfire and preach about the evils of trick or treating and wearing costumes and celebrating Halloween. Turns out, he had way more planned than just a Halloween night sermon.

Way more.

Friday Free Fiction

Recap from Last Week:

….before Father Ward could add anything in, the young man continued. "It started last week. Last Saturday night. I was tooling around Raedeker Park, near closing time, when I first heard this girl singing...

I was tooling around Raedeker Park, near closing time, when I first heard this girl singing. My friend Brian and I had just come from the zoo. You ever been there, Father? You have, huh? Oh, so you grew up here as a kid.

Well, you know, then. It's not a bad little zoo, I guess. I mean it's got animals in cages, and it IS pretty awesome about the new lion and all, all the way out here in the Adirondacks. Course, I don't really LIKE looking at that lion, honestly. It's in a pretty strong-looking cage with thick bars and all, but there's something about it...I dunno. I've been to other zoos, Father - Burnett Park in Syracuse, for one - and their lions don't look anything like this one. They looked normal; the way lions normally look in zoos, all tired and lazy, like they could care less if we were there.

This new lion at Raedeker Park? That one kinda looks at you through these narrow eyes that're all bright and hungry. I figure if those bars weren't there, I'd be a dead chew toy in the space of a heartbeat.

What's that? Ain't been a lion at Raedeker Park since the last one ate its caretaker a whole bunch of years ago? Don't know anything about that, Father. This one just came, apparently. But the way this one looks at people...yeah, if it decides to snag itself a nice person-snack in the next few years, I wouldn't be surprised one bit.

Anyway, the zoo's a blast until you're about ten or eleven. After that, it's nice for a distraction every now and then if you've got the spare pocket change, but that's about it. The carousel's pretty cool. I've always liked those. Be cooler, I suppose, if the mini-train was still running. Guess there used to be a train ride - a half-size train and cars on tracks and everything - that ran all through the zoo, like the one at Enchanted Forest Water Park, over in Old Forge.

But I guess it jumped the track once too often and too many people got hurt, and it kept acting up so they had to close it down, and now all that's left are rusted rails running all over the zoo.

Was the train running when you were a kid, Father? Oh, they weren't even back then? That's too bad. Thing must've busted down FOREVER ago.

Anyway, Brian and had I wandered through the zoo, rode around the carousel a few times, talking about the usual. Girls, grades, movies and such. Actually, Brian kept pestering me the whole time to play varsity basketball this winter. See, I've been playing forever, but lately I haven't been feeling it. Brian, he's the star, so of course he's gonna play, come hell or high water.

Me? I'm all arms and legs and that's about it. Figured I'd take a break from ball for awhile, but Brian wasn't having any of it. Spent the whole night trying to convince me to play. I dunno. I still might. Anything to keep my mind off...

Well. Guess I’ll get to that in a minute.

Anyway, in the parking lot we said our goodbyes, hopped on our bikes to peddle home. Most kids our age had cars or trucks, but Dad's pastor salary covers the bills and that's about it, and Brian's dad works at the lumber mill, and while that's a solid, steady job, he ain't pulling down the big bucks either. So it's bikes for both of us, right now.

Anyway, Brian said "Later" and pushed off right away, pedaling out Raedeker Park's front gate and down Samara Hill toward town.

Me? Well, I wasn't in a big hurry to get home, I suppose. Guess you can tell by now Dad and I aren't on great terms. It's not like he's...awful to me, or anything. He doesn't treat me badly, or lock me up in my room, or beat me, or do anything like that.

He doesn't even really shout or yell or anything like that. Sure, I get all the lectures about how evil the world is, how Halloween is the devil's holiday, how comic books are evil, and so are those black and white monster movies they play on the amphitheater stage Wednesday nights.

Wow. Your dad not only let you go to those, he sometimes went with you? That sounds fantastic, Father. That's one awesome preacher-Dad you had. I'm definitely not planning on being a preacher or minister or anything like that, but if for some weird reason I DO become a pastor, I want to be the kid who takes his kid to monster movies, for sure.

As you probably get, I wasn't in a hurry to get home. So I just sat there on my bike and...well, I LISTENED.

You ever do that, Father? Just go outside and sit real still and listen to the world? Some of my friends think I'm weird and all, but honestly? When I'm not in a good mood, I like sit in different places and LISTEN.

Like on the shore of Clifton Lake, and listen to the water lapping against the rocks, or the docks, the boats rocking against them. I like to walk along the railroad tracks running behind my house and through the woods, listening to birds and the wind in the trees. Sit under Black Creek Bridge against the abutment, and listen to cars rumble over the wood slats, or the creek bubbling along.

You know about old Bassler House, Father? Folks around here are convinced its haunted, but I don't think so. I've been in there half a dozen times since I was a kid, and...I don't know how to put this...it doesn't SOUND haunted. Just sounds and feels old and empty, and lonely.

I also like to sit on the benches along Main Street. Listen to the cars and trucks cruise along, people talking. If it's a nice day, music coming out of shops' open front doors. Everything on Main Street all mixes together into a nice, busy HUM.

Sometimes I think if my Dad went outside and LISTENED - anywhere, really - and just got out of his study at home or his office at the church, actually put his Bible down (no disrespect, Father, not trying to be blasphemous or anything) and go outside and LISTEN to the world around him, maybe he wouldn't be so...stony, all the time. So hard and cold.

Anyway, it was six in the evening last Saturday, and the sky was just starting to turn all dark purple. You know how the night comes on fast in the Fall around here. The sun had just gone down, and it was so quiet.

It was kind of an Indian Summer, wasn't it, Father? Those cicadas kept humming and the peppers kept singing clear on into September. They've been done for awhile now, but the deep quiet still surprises me, for some reason. I'll get used to it by December, but it still catches me off guard, and it did that night.

After Brian pushed off and as his bike chain sorta hummed down Samara Hill and faded away, the quiet sort of snuck up on me. One minute, I was chatting with Brian, the calliope in the carousel right outside the zoo was warbling away, and cars were pulling out of the park...and the next minute, BAM.

Nothing. Full on quiet.

And that's when I heard her singing.