Ichabod Ebenezer's Blog

The Bubble

https://pixabay.com/photos/belfry-tow.... Luhan was watching the read-out screen, surrounded by people just as excited as he was.

It was working! The bubble was stable. Another pulse was starting, which would bring them to peak levels and champagne o’clock when someone shouted, “Abort!”

“What?” he called, standing and looking for the source, even as the lighting dimmed and the generator whirred to a halt. “Why?”

Nervous anticipation silenced the room, replacing the exuberance that had been about to pop like the quantum bubble they’d built. The numbers had been perfect. Unlimited energy was within reach.

His gaze lighted on his assistant, Mertens, whose face had gone white. His shaking hand held a cell phone while his other was still pressing the abort button.

“Why?” Luhan repeated.

Mertens’ phone arm went slack. “You won’t believe it. I don’t believe it. I have to see.” He took off running, using the emergency exit. The alarm blared as he pushed through the doors, but he didn’t stop.

“Stay here,” Luhan said and ran after Mertens. He burst out onto an unfamiliar scene. Across the canal were a group of seventeenth century buildings, like some sort of movie set. Beyond that, where the Gruber building should stand, was the belfry of a Gothic church. Screams filled the air, and folks dressed in peasant clothing ran in every direction.

“A stable chronal displacement,” Luhan said in awe. “That means the energy we were tapping into was from—”

“They want to know if anyone here speaks Old Flemmish,” Mertens said, still on the phone.

“Are you kidding, I barely comprehend the Brugs dialect.” The ramifications were still settling in. “What happened to the people who were there?”

Mertens tugged on his sleeve. “Yeah, follow up question, wasn’t the Black Death rampant in the fourteenth century?”

~~~~~

If you enjoyed this story, check out Beyond the Rail and Other Nightmares. Thirteen tales of horror and dark fiction certain to keep you reading just one more.

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Absurd

Source: https://pixabay.com/illustrations/hom... Marty Dorset looked to be on the verge of tears, but Ms. Heidleman was unwilling to change her grade.

“I’m sorry, Marty. Your artwork shows talent beyond your grade level. The mountains and the lake are gorgeous. But the assignment was to paint your house, and I have to grade it based on that. We’ll cover surrealism and absurdism next semester, but for this work, I’m afraid your grade stands.”

Marty trudged out of the classroom, all the way to the bus. “You okay there, kid?” the bus driver asked, but Marty pushed past him.

He was dropped off, alone, at the final stop. He moped along the trail at the end of the road, through the forest, and down to the lake. Mr. Mouche was fly fishing, as usual.

“Bzz, bzz,” the old Muscanoid said, his proboscis bobbing.

“Sorry, Mr. Mouche. I’ll try not to affect the fish with my moping.”

Where the path entered the lake, an old Victrola sat on the back of a sunbathing terrapin. Marty cranked the flywheel and set the needle. When the music played, umbrellas flew from the bell. He caught one and rode it up to the massive stone hanging over the lake and the house perched on top of it. The umbrella popped as Marty stepped off.

“How was your day, Martin?” his mother asked. Her dress had a tabletop for a bustle, and his little sister sat atop it. Goldfish, hanging from tiny balloons, swum just out of reach, distracting her so that mother could spoon in mashed peas.

“Teacher called my painting absurd.”

“Why, of course it is!”

Mother didn’t understand. Martin rushed past her and into the house. “Dad!” he called.

Father turned in his chair, the green apple bobbing in front of his face to where all Martin could see was his bowler hat. “Yes, son?”

“Never mind.”

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If you enjoyed this story, check out Beyond the Rail and Other Nightmares. Thirteen tales of horror and dark fiction certain to keep you reading just one more.

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Study Session at Hermes House

Image by Sammy-Williams from Pixabay

Greek life was a mainstay of colleges across America, but at Olympia University, it was downright literal. The building architecture harkened to the Classical Period, and the dormitories were named for Greek gods. The main quad stood right between the Scylla Chemistry Building, and the Charybdis Sociology Wing.

In Hermes House, Bret, Phil, and Howard were getting a quick study session in before Organic Chemistry. Proctor Caduceus had threatened the class with fifty lashes if they failed this test, and no one was certain that he wasn’t entirely serious.

Phil looked up from his work. “Do you guys hear that?”

Bret took the bait. “Hear what?”

Howard was having none of it. “Focus, you two. Big test, remember?”

Phil stood up, going to the window. “There’s a girl out there, playing a guitar under that big tree. She’s really good.”

“You’ve got some ears on you. I can’t hear anything this far away.” Bret said, getting up to look.

“What’s that song? It sounds so familiar. And her voice…”

“Hello? Test?”

“Screw the test. We either know it or we don’t. I’m trying to hear Phil’s girlfriend out there.”

“Hey, look! There’s two other girls joining her. And their voices blend so well! I want to get closer. I need to know who they are.”

To Bret’s surprise, Phil ducked under the open window. He stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Dude, that’s three stories.”

Now Howard stood up to join them. “Bret, close the window…”

“What? Why?”

“Three women singing, enticing young men to their doom? Sound familiar?”

Howard shut the window and the three of them watched as a young man approached the old tree. The three women pounced on him, tearing him to shreds with their fingers.

Phil swallowed hard. “We should study.”

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If you enjoyed this story, check out Beyond the Rail and Other Nightmares. Thirteen tales of horror and dark fiction certain to keep you reading just one more.

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The Oculus

Image by brands amon from Pixabay

Tory stepped over a chunk of crumbling concrete, taking in her horrific surroundings. The devastation was complete. Not a soul could have survived this blast—not even a skeleton remained in the wrecked car ahead of her.

Twisted metal torn from ruined buildings poked out of the ground like a ribcage, the ends glowing a dull red and reminding Tory of the intense heat. There was no sign of fire though. The blast had consumed all the oxygen within miles of ground zero.

“We’re still too far forward,” Tory said, removing the VR goggles.

She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the envirochamber. Malcolm peered down at her from the observation booth above. “Only by a day or two though. Can we make a correction that fine?”

The sound system clicked on as Malcolm reached for the microphone. “Take a break. I need to discuss this with Dr. Peters. If we overshoot the other direction, you may have to spend a week in there.”

Tory placed the VR headset on the mannequin’s head next to the door. She’d sync up after a bio break and a protein shake.

Time travel wasn’t like in the movies from her youth. The opening to a wormhole was subatomic, so going through it would be fatal. However, it makes a fantastic oculus connecting their time to the past, and the VR headset of the same name painted a great picture.

It also held a laser microphone so Tory could hear what she was looking straight at.

She had faith in Dr. Peters and Malcolm. They’d get the time differential this time, then she’d find whoever was about to set off the device, and then they’d test the third function of the modified Oculus.

Tory would maser the bastard before he could decimate mankind.

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If you enjoyed this story, check out Beyond the Rail and Other Nightmares. Thirteen tales of horror and dark fiction certain to keep you reading just one more.

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The End of Ever

Image by Darkmoon_Art from Pixabay

I had the dream again.

The Church at the End of Ever, I called it.

It was the first time since I started therapy, but it was just like before. The parched landscape, the bitter wind, the lingering scent of long-dead fire. It was all so real, so palpable.

I knew I was dreaming, yet I had no agency. I longed to go inside the church and see if anything remained, but my feet plodded the same course as always. My footprints from previous dreams stretched ahead, deeper this time than last. I was pulled inexorably to the sparse graveyard next to it, and to the biggest headstone, bearing my name.

“I told Dr. Lans about the dreams,” I told Maggie over Saturday morning breakfast. “She said it means I subconsciously feel like I’m not in control of my own future.”

“Huh. Makes sense,” my wife responded between bites of her ranch-style eggs. “Did she tell you what you can do about it?”

“She said we should do something spontaneous. How do you feel about dinner and a movie tonight?”

“That’s your idea of spontaneous? How about we get away for the weekend? Just drive east until the sun sets and stop at the first motel we see.”

The idea felt freeing. I felt myself smiling. “What should I pack?”

Maggie pushed her chair back, leaving her plate on the table. “How about we don’t?”

So we drove, and somewhere west of Tonopah, we pulled into the Wagon Wheel motel. To prove my spontaneity further, I dropped a couple quarters in their slot machine. I didn’t win anything, but who cares? We were free, and no one chose our path.

Then we entered our room, and above the bed was a painting of that same church and graveyard from my dream.

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If you enjoyed this story, check out Beyond the Rail and Other Nightmares. Thirteen tales of horror and dark fiction certain to keep you reading just one more.

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The Gardener

Jamshid walked the rows of tables, taking in the smell of growing things. The shop lights suspended inches above the plants cast a purple umbra over the room.

He stopped to examine the curling leaf of a basil plant. Aphids. The bane of his existence. The infestation was advanced and he opted to pinch off the entire plant and spray its neighbors down with garlic water.

Light flickered behind him and he turned to see an entire bank of LED panels go out. “Armin!” he yelled and ran to the blacked-out section of the expansive crypt that housed their greenhouse. He yanked out a power cable and daisy-chained those lights to the next bank. The LEDs came back on, but the photometer beneath each read just 7,000 lux. Enough to survive, but not enough to produce the bounty they so needed. “Armin!”

Jamshid left the crypt, pulling shut the heavy iron door. Climbing the stairs, he heard the sound of prayers coming from above. Jummah. Prayer time. He dismissed the thought. This was more important. “Armin!” he called at the top of his lungs.

A short man in baggy tunic and pockmarked face came rushing down to meet him.

“Power-bank-three went out completely. Get up there and fix those windmills!”

“I am sorry, Jamshid, but this is a three-man job. Three! Even if we get Shahin’s hazmat suit patched, we still only have two working respirators!”

Jamshid was about to yell again when Banu rushing down the stairs, one of her students with her. “Jamshid! Come see what Safie found!”

Jamshid pushed past Armin, taking the stairs two at a time. Banu led him to the surface level, forbidden to all for years now. She pointed. A wooden door stood ajar. “What is it?” she asked, trying to hide the fear in her voice.

He walked to the door, then stepped through. He never thought he’d see it again, but he closed his eyes and felt what could only be sunlight on his skin.

Image by mostafa meraji from Pixabay

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If you enjoyed this story, check out Beyond the Rail and Other Nightmares. Thirteen tales of horror and dark fiction certain to keep you reading just one more.

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Distress Signal

Image by JCK5D from Pixabay

“Captain’s Log: At 0640 this morning, Duty Officer Rigby responded to a distress signal coming from a frozen world orbiting a white dwarf star. The atmosphere is largely methane, making any rescue difficult, but the real problem is that we are the first Earth ship to make it this far. Either the Chinese developed an Alcubierre drive in secret, or we’re about to meet our first aliens. And they use an S. O. S.”

Captain Welles leaned over the Coms station. “Has there been any response at all?”

“Nothing, Captain. Just the same S.O.S.”

Ensign Wyland joined them. “Geographical survey shows the signal is coming from a deep valley thirty kilometers ahead.”

Welles nodded. “Maintain course, though I suspect we’re on a recovery mission, not a rescue. Any theories on how the ship got here? And don’t say wormholes.”

He looked around at the silent room of experts. “Well, we’ll know in a minute.”

As they crested the ridgeline, a bright light became visible, pulsing in time with the signal.

“It’s coming from a cavern in the eastern wall.”

“How long will we have in viro-suits at this temperature?”

“Minutes.”

“Alright. Set down and send out the rover.”

The moment they set down, the ground rumbled. The walls of the valley closed overhead, and from the cavern to the east, and five others like it, liquid flooded in to fill the resulting bowl.

“Red alert, weapons hot. Rigby, burn a hole we can get out through. Samson, identify that liquid.”

Rigby turned in his seat. “Sir, that’s thirty meters of solid granite. I estimate it will take twenty minutes to burn through.”

“Sir, the liquid is methane, mixed with…” Rigby swallowed her words.

“Out with it, Ensign!”

“Mixed with digestive enzymes.”

“Hawkins preserve us. This planet is an angler fish.”

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If you enjoyed this story, check out Beyond the Rail and Other Nightmares. Thirteen tales of horror and dark fiction certain to keep you reading just one more.

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Our Town

Image by Royber99 from PixabayWe started running the moment we saw the wispy gray trails wafting over the town.

Fire could spread quickly and devastate the entire area. But it was Sean who first noticed it as we came around the bend.

No lick of flames stood out amid the houses and businesses, and the smoke wasn’t rising, because it wasn’t smoke.

Fog was a common enough sight, on autumn mornings along the river, and when it got cold enough it would creep into town and settle over the streets.

But this was a warm day in June, and late afternoon to boot.

We stopped running and watched the fog thicken, rolling in from the valley below.

And once we stopped, we heard the distant screams. “Oh, dear God, what is that?” Mary Margaret asked.

“It’s just fog,” Michael said quietly, almost pleadingly, as if he didn’t hear the screams, as if the Voice of Reason could dispel this vision before us.

The screams were replaced by the roar of… some animal. It sounded more like an elephant than a lion, but with that predatory anger of a hunter.

“What do we do? Should we go down there? Help?” Sean asked.

“Help how?” I asked. “Did your pa ever teach you to fight fog? Or whatever is in it?”

“We should run,” Mary Margaret said.

“My bike is in town. My wallet and my bus card—”

“We get it,” I snapped, then turned back to watch the gray blanket smother our home. “Our everything is there. Our everyone too.”

“We should run,” Mary Margaret repeated, more desperately this time. Yet I was rooted to the spot.

“Oh, God,” Sean said, pointing to our right.

A line of fog crested our hill and washed toward us.

“Run,” I said, and turned.

The rest of them were way ahead of me.

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If you enjoyed this story, check out Beyond the Rail and Other Nightmares. Thirteen tales of horror and dark fiction certain to keep you reading just one more.

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The Mooring Cleat

Image by SplitShire from PixabayI was not prepared for all the little things I had to do when my parents died.

Selling off their cabin on the lake was the worst of them.

My coworkers all thought I was crazy. I should keep the cabin, they all said. Of course, none of them had to live with the memory of what happened here.

I hired professionals to patch the odd hole and paint the exterior, but packing personal items was something only I could do.

As I taped up boxes and loaded them onto the rental truck, I wondered why they kept it all this time. Those summers spent at the cabin, with their days in the lake, and evenings around the fire. All my friends competing year after year for time at our cabin. Those could have been the greatest memories of childhood, if not for one moment.

One split-second that should have gone any other way.

I looked out the kitchen window, the last of the boxes in my arms. I’d avoided it for long enough.

As I trudged down the short trail to the dock, my eye went immediately to what was different. The mooring cleat was gone. That had been the game. The dare. Everyone who wanted to swim had to jump the cleat.

Jen took half the day to build up the courage. Me and my friends showed her how, running down the dock, taking that leap, and splashing heavily into the lake. The dock was slick with lake water when she finally tried. She slipped, bashed her head on the cleat, and sank lifeless into the lake.

My parents had spared me having to tell her parents what happened, but I could never come back here. I don’t understand how they kept it.

I wonder when they removed the mooring cleat.

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If you enjoyed this story, check out Beyond the Rail and Other Nightmares. Thirteen tales of horror and dark fiction certain to keep you reading just one more.

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Amy’s Stolen Smile

When Tim got home from work, he wanted nothing more than to collapse. But when he found his sister Amy crying on his couch, all thought of sleep evaporated.

“Harry?” Tim asked.

“I hate him so bad!” Amy said into the couch cushion.

“Let me guess. He slept with Susan again.”

“Martha!”

“Susan’s mom?” Tim did his best to suppress it, but a violent shiver ran through him. Amy went back to bawling loudly.

Tim sighed and sat down next to her, putting a hand on her heaving shoulder. Then he remembered the weather report. “I want to show you something I found out back.”

“Now?” she said, incredulous.

“Yes. In fact, we have to hurry.” He pulled her by the arm. After a moment’s resistance, she came willingly, wiping her face on her pullover.

Tim led her outside and wound through the trees. The sun had gone down, and with the low-hanging clouds, there was only the barest light filtering through the trees.

“I want to go back, Tim,” Amy said.

“It’s just a little further. I promise it will be worth it.”

She followed his lead, and soon enough he found the spot. His eyes hadn’t yet adjusted, but it wouldn’t be long. “We’re here,” he whispered, crouching low.

Amy joined him. “Why are we here?”

Thunder rumbled nearby.

“Just watch.”

“Watch what? I can’t see…” Her voice trailed off as she saw the mushrooms. The dim light of their bioluminescence seemed to grow stronger the longer they watched.

Image by Игорь Левченко from Pixabay

He watched her eyes, still wet from tears, but now full of wonder as she looked up, seeing all the butterflies crowding the trees, glowing in the light of the mushrooms.

“Wait for it…” he whispered.

The first raindrops fell. Spores puffed from impacted mushrooms. The butterflies took wing in a feeding frenzy.

Amy smiled again.

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If you enjoyed this story, check out Beyond the Rail and Other Nightmares. Thirteen tales of horror and dark fiction certain to keep you reading just one more.

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