Aaron Frale's Blog, page 18

Time Burrito

A cover is worth a thousand words.

On a night with nothing to do, I created a crowd funding campaign with no serious intent on it ever achieving more than just giving myself a laugh. It all started with just a thought: a guy traveling through time for the perfect food truck item. Then when I was searching the internet to make sure there were no other books named Time Burrito, I found this image: cat on a burrito flying through space. This was fate telling me this had to happen! I wrote up a chapter, posted it, and figure that giggling to myself would be the end of it.

Turns out other people want this story to exist too. People are purchasing pre-orders for this story, and not just my mother. People I don’t know. Folks who share a similar sense of humor as myself. Fate has reached out and slapped me aside the head and said “this story must exist.” I’m listening to fate. I’ve put my planned writing project for the later half of 2016 aside to make sure Time Burrito exists.

If you’d like Time Burrito to exist. There are a couple of ways you can help me out. The best way would be follow this link and pre-order a copy or click follow on the project for free. They also give you a $5 credit for signing up with the site, so it’s only $5 to support the project. If I get to 250 pre-orders, it will be published. If I get to 750 pre-orders, it will get the full treatment publishing, the kind the traditional publishers give it. Also, if you pre-order, you’ll get to read chapters as I write them. I’m already up to chapter 4.

Go here to get your copy.

Time Agency

Please nominate!

Hi everyone, I was going through some files the other day, and I found the first book that I wrote called Time Agency. I’m going to put it on Kindle Scout, and it will need to get nominations for chance at being published by Amazon. Nominators will get a free Kindle edition if I get published. It’s a win for both of us. Click here to nominate.

Here a short description of the book:

Roman woke on a busy city street. His memory gone. A well-dressed man approached him, and left a locked briefcase at Roman’s feet.

An agent named Nanette tracked Roman. Her agency captured and reprogrammed those who sought to alter the past. But Roman’s case was different than all the rest. Her well-dressed protégé gave Roman a briefcase. Capturing a person seeking to alter the past was routine, a fellow time agent altering the past was cause for panic.

Roman’s memory came slowly back as the technology in his body began to regenerate his neural pathways. Fragments of a past bubbled to his conscience. Roman wasn’t sure if his past was worth reliving. There was a blonde woman from his past, and she disappeared because she was curious about the future.

Roman was on the run because he asked a simple question. A child would ask the same question when learning about time travel in school. What’s the future like? There was so much information about the past. Historians would travel back, blend in, and record “real” history, but Roman was not allowed to travel to the future. Why was future travel restricted to some mysterious-agency division?

The well-dressed man knew the answer to Roman’s question and had the briefcase full the secrets to prove it.

I need your help

As many of you may have read in your email, Kindle Scout didn’t select my book, Atmospheric Pressure. However, I did get serious consideration as it took them a long time to decide, even after other books were rejected that ended at the same time as mine. If you’d still like a free copy please leave a comment with your Amazon email in this post, and I’ll get one over to you. However, if you could spare the $3 to buy the book that would really help me out. The first month of book sales are the most important in the life of a book. If it gets enough sales, it will appear on many Amazon lists and continue on its own. If it doesn’t, it disappears into obscurity. If you have a Kindle Unlimited account, all you need to do is download it for the sale to count.

Please think of the $3 as your contribution to an independent artist. And if you’d like to donate more than three, you can by gift copies for your friends and family. All you need is their email address. You can purchase the book here.

Atmospheric Pressure

My next book Atmospheric Pressure is ready to be shared with the world. And it has some awesome cover art by a buddy of mine named Philip Hughes. Before I unleash it on the world of Amazon, I have a request from all of you. Please nominate the book in Kindle Scout. I need nominations to get a publishing deal, and nominators get a free Kindle edition if I get published. It’s a win for both of us. Click here to nominate.

Here’s a short description of the book:

Olson lives in a city that has been sealed from the outside world. He’s an Eleven Year and close to citizenship. His life is upended when one of the few adults who cares about him commits suicide – or so it appears at first. While investigating, Olson meets a girl named Natalie snooping around his school. He soon learns that one of her friends died under similarly mysterious circumstances. Together, they start looking for answers, and end up discovering the city’s darkest secrets.

Kal’s Revenge (Teristaque Chronicles 4)

It’s been a while since I’ve updated this space. The 4th story in the Kal series is out, and I have a teaser below. The 5th story is still in the works and should come soon. I have some big exciting news that I will share pretty soon, but for now enjoy Kal’s Revenge.

One more item before the story, the Playlist of the Ancient Dead kindle edition is only a dollar right now, and it won’t be for long. I suggest getting it now rather than later.

Kal tapped the light display on her forearm. The countdown displayed 4:53. The seconds seemed to go down quicker when the cold vacuum of space threatened to devour her if the timing wasn’t perfect.

“Damn it, Hayden. Where are you?” She yelled at the airlock door between her and the void.

She stood on what would be considered the ceiling of a tiny airlock in the belly of a Tricore deep space mining vessel. However, ceiling was a relative term because she was in a Zero G zone, which was helpful because she was about to hand deliver several large crates a Teristaque Mech would struggle to carry. They were drifting in a carbon nanotube mesh sack that she had used to haul them to the airlock.

The vessel, a Tricore class A0C1H7, was almost entirely automated. It would travel through the most outer reaches of space with a solar sail on one side collecting starlight to power the ship. The other side of the sail collected space dust. Since almost every element floated through space from some long forgotten super nova explosion, the ship collected the raw materials that kept Tricore a leading supplier of replicator cartridges essential for every space faring culture.

The space dust caught on the collection end of the solar sail would eventually make its way down to the center through micro vibrations created from the interstellar wind. It was a genius design. In the center of the craft, an automated refinery separated the material into its elemental components. Then they were packed in to ready-to-be-used cartridges for small to medium sized spaceships. A nearby ship in desperate need of supply would dock and purchase a cartridge for a price a dying man would pay a warlord for water, and the A01CH7 would generate gobs of money for being one of the only deep space pit stops.

The crew of the Tricore vessel was only seven people, and four of them were advanced robotic repair crews who kept the refinery going. The other three would keep the ship from breaking down, and repaired the solar sail when the occasional asteroid would tear a hole in the thin material. They all acted as a flight crew. None of the men and women on board the long-term deep space vessel were responsible for security. In fact, there were no weapons on board. They had no reason for protection when they would never see the customers. A ship desperate enough to do business with a Tricore vessel, wouldn’t even see the crew as the transaction was entirely automated. The customers would dock, pay a fee, and find an airlock full of goods minutes later. Kal had no intention of paying for her goods.

It was an ideal target for a robbery had Tricore not been a Teristaque owned and operated company. The Teristaque, who called themselves humans, were one of the most brutal races in the galaxy. They enforced swift and decisive punishment, especially for deep space thieves. A pirate looking to score some replicator materials from an unarmed vessel would be on the wanted list of one of the largest armadas in the galaxy. Only the suicidal and the stupid robbed a Tricore vessel, especially because every approaching ship was carefully logged. The logs were then transmitted to the Teristaque network in the event a pirate’s reach be longer than their wit.

Six of the crates taking up most of the space in the airlock were Tricore Solution Number 3, a mix which supplied an average twenty person vessel with replicator supplies for about a month per crate. Kal’s vessel would use about half that, so the crates surrounded by her carbon mesh netting would last about year or so. However, six crates from an A0C1H7 was small in comparison to what she could have scored from the vessel, but a heist that could be misconstrued as inventory error was a much more desirable outcome than her vessel being tagged as an enemy of the Teristaque Empire, or as humans said (because humans under exaggerated their terror), The United Planets of Earth. Six crates would be enough to refuel with the five-finger discount, but not enough to do any more than confuse a crew and maybe earn one of them a chewing out from a superior. It was that seventh crate that was too intriguing to leave it in the possession of the Teristaques.

_______

A day before Kal found herself in an airlock waiting for Hayden. She found herself waiting for Hayden in a different capacity. Grannork, Seayolar, Maker, Haath-Nlo, and the couple other prisoners who decided to stay after their escape from the Fendpaake Asteroid Mining Prison were all waiting for Hayden. Grannork, who was an Orcandu with a foul temper like most Orcandus, was the first to vent his misgivings. “I will hoist Hayden by his entrails if he takes any longer.”

“Then you wouldn’t have any more of my delicious SPAM cakes,” Hayden said as he brought a steaming dish of canned meat products arranged as circular patties, stacked in a pyramid shape. He sent the tray down in the center of the mess hall table and everyone took a few patties, where as Grannork took a mound.

While the SPAM was decent considering they had run out of raw carbon for their replicator a week ago, it was nothing like a fresh banjer from back home. The memory of Kal’s village seemed like it was out of the distant past, even though it was a little less than two years ago. She had almost forgotten what her mother looked like. It didn’t happen overnight. It was subtle. During her months in prison and the year they had spent petty thieving in the stolen vessel of Dr. Feslerk, she thought about her mother less and less. Soon she forgot what it was like when her mother smiled, when she sang, and when she laughed. The only image that remained was her mother’s face contorted as she died under the fire of the Teristaque. She cried the morning when she couldn’t remember the sound of her mother’s song.

When they first broke free of the prison, they took inventory of the vessel. There was a lot of scientific equipment and experiments from the mad doctor. Since Haath-Nlo, her crippled insectiod cellmate from prison, had interspecies medical training, he was able to help them figure what they could sell and what they could keep. After they sold a bulk of the equipment, they cut the leaving prisoners their share and the rest decided to stay onboard.

Kal had found herself in command of the group not because she was qualified to lead a band of space pirates, but more because she was the one who always stepped up to make a decision when no one else would. She was also the one who had ideas when the fence who bought their medical equipment asked them about a job. She never called herself captain, but it was Maker who said it first, and the nickname stuck.

Ever since she fell into the role of captain, she reserved all her tears for the shower. In prison, she did everything to fight back tears. The inmates would serve her for all three meals if they saw her crying. Once she was out. It was like all the bottled emotion exploded from her. She mourned the loss of her village for the first time. However, she suffered in silence. To the rest of the crew, she was confident and capable. They didn’t know she was falling apart on the inside. She didn’t even talk with Hayden, who was human, and despite their feared reputation, seemed to always want to negotiate peace between the crew.

Hayden was the only Teristaque member of the crew. Through persistence, and grudging acceptance on Grannork’s part, he convinced the crew to start using the word human at least in reference to him. Since Grannork’s clan had been all but wiped out by the Teristaques, the hulking Orcandu seemed to have a personal quest to kill all humans on sight, Hayden being one of the only exceptions. Half of Hayden’s job, aside from piloting the ship was advocating on behalf of the humans. It was a little beyond most of the crew to discern the difference between a human who was a part of the corrupted government system bought and paid for by the interstellar corporations, and a human who was just trying to eke out a living for themselves.

Hayden also worked his way into Kal’s sleeping quarters. The attraction to Hayden wasn’t a surprise because of her half-human DNA. They both were attractive and liked each other. The surprise was that Kal had existed at all. Very few alien species were compatible sexually speaking. Even on the off chance that two species who evolved on different worlds had similar enough physiology for the desire for sex to occur, it was rare when a child could be conceived. Most interspecies couples used advance scientific methods to create offspring. A half human and half Nigramotoian natural birth was rare.

After breaking free from the prison, Kal had contemplated going to her homeworld of Nigramoto several times to gain insight into her origins, however, the trip would be a suicide mission since her planet had the largest army of Teristaques in the entire galaxy. The decrand coming from the planets core was worth more than half the UPE’s worth. Since everyone in her vessel were escapees from a Teristaque prison, going to Nigramoto was too risky for just information. Even though they had secured fake IDs and could dock on Teristaque stations, she couldn’t justify the trip. She had to hold out for a day when a job would lead her home.

Sarge, another escapee from the prison, who got her into this mess in the first place ended up on Nigramoto. Kal had a suspicion that he had information about her origin. It seemed like more than a coincidence that of all villages, he ended up skulking about hers. Both Hayden and Kal knew Sarge was up to something on the planet, but they didn’t know what and didn’t have time to find out. They had the more immediate concerns of running the ship. Which was why after a series of petty theft and small heists, Kal found herself plotting one over a casual SPAM dinner.

“I can make our ship disappear on their sensors,” Maker said. “I only need to plant the device on their array.”

Seayolar, a snouted alien with a raspy laugh said, “Then they’ll have already registered our S-ID by then. We spent a lot of money getting a stolen S-ID with a clean history from the Teristaques.”

“Ah that is why Grannork will fly me on a shuttle to purchase some supplies. I can attach myself to one of my space resistant bodies and ride on the outside of the craft. It will be a simple matter of floating to the array while Grannork completes the transaction.”

“What’s the point of stealing if we are going to pay for it?”

“The point,” Hayden interjected. “Is that we will be taking much more than we have bought. My friends used to do this back home. One of us distracted the clerk with a small purchase while the others leaned over the counter and stole the baseball cards.”

Seayolor roared with laughter. “You stole child cards!”

“Enough,” Kal interjected. “The point is that we can fly within their proximity sensors without being registered. Once Grannork and Maker fly away, the Tricore crew will not see anyone in the area unless they happen to be looking out the window. Meanwhile, one of us will go inside and secure a couple of crates.”

“Who’s going to be stupid enough to climb inside?” Seayolar interjected.

“Easy,” Kal said. “Me.”

To read more get the kindle edition here.

Footfalls on Creaking Floorboards – Part 7 #Horror #Fantasy

Author’s Note: As you may have already noticed, I’ve slowed down writing the Footfalls posts. Mainly because there are a couple of other projects taking priority at the moment. My second novel, Atmospheric Pressure, is very close to completion. The 4th story in the Kal series is also making a lot of headway. I will continue to write Footfalls, but I only have a limited amount of writing time. Until the books sales equal my paycheck, I’ll have squeeze it in when I have some time. In meantime, please enjoy installment 7:

“Ghost? What do you mean ghosts?” Luther said. His voice tuned up a notch or two when he got nervous. The shrill squeak of the word ghost almost made Angela want to have a serious conversation with him about why he never seemed to get a girlfriend. Aside from crushes on lesbians, he really spent too much of his time whining about his situation rather than doing anything about it. He would write these annoying tweets like “so and so didn’t even talk to me today, guess I’ll be single forever.”

Sometimes, she wanted to reach through the computer, slap him, and yell, “No wonder why you’re single!” Other times, she wanted to friend dump him. However, no matter how annoying he could be, there would always be a glimmer of hope. He would come through when she needed him. He picked her up from a friend’s house when she was too high to drive home and didn’t feel safe about staying. He stuck up for her when someone would pick on her for her sexuality. Most people would just stay quiet when bigots expressed their opinion about her “life choices.” Luther was never quiet. Despite the fact that everyday life seemed almost too much for Luther, he was there when she needed him. Right now she needed him. Hopefully, now wouldn’t be the time Luther would break.

“The little girl. She saw us,” Angela said. “But the father didn’t. And the clothes. They are definitely not from our time period. Look at this basement. It looks new.”

“So what are you saying? We time traveled?”

“It’s something more than that. The father didn’t even react to us.”

“Maybe strange people in his basement is a regular occurrence.”

“Would you just ignore the strangers talking to your little girl in your house?”

“Um… Ok. Right. So what do we do? Can’t we just draw the witch marks again and go back.”

“Not until we find my brother.”

“But what if there is a time limit? What if it doesn’t open?”

“Look, you can go back. I’m not stopping you, but my brother is back in this time, I just know it.”

Angela explained to Luther everything she had learned from Mr. Harrison’s photograph to her thoughts on the current situation. She drew the symbol on his sketch book, so he’d be able to draw it himself if he needed it. Afterwards, Luther decided to stay. Despite the fact that he could be annoying from time to time, he was always there when she needed him.

They decided to explore the rest of the house. If the only person in the house who could see them was the little girl, it would be pretty easy to have a look around. If Angela’s brother really had tagged a wall in the future and ended up discovering a tunnel to the past then there should be a sign of him somewhere within the house. They would also have to ask the girl when she was away from the adults.

They made their way up the stairs and opened the door to the kitchen. Everything looked new despite the fact that the appliances were very old. The oven looked like it was a polished antique with ornate legs like it was a piece of furniture out of a movie set. The refrigerator was nothing more than an icebox. The place was clean and didn’t have the musty smell that most old houses had.

They made their way into the dining room. The same table that seemed to stand as a monument to time looked completely new. The room was also bright and decorated. There were dishes on display in the built-ins. The girl and the dad were setting the table. The girl looked up at them when they came into the room. Angela smiled and put her finger over her lips. The girl nodded and continued to help her father.

A woman entered with a bag of groceries. She was wearing a turn of the century dress and bonnet. The shopping bag had a loaf of bread sticking out of the top. The scene looked exactly as one would expect from a historical drama. “I’m so sorry about the delay. You know how it can be in town. You get to talking and one thing leads to another…”

“It’s ok. I decided to make supper this evening for all of us,” the husband said with a cheery smile.

“It’s definitely not your average turn of the century family,” Luther whispered.

“Why are you whispering?” Angela said. “It’s not as if they can hear us.”

“She can!” Luther said.

“She’s agreed not to talk with us until her parents aren’t around. Nod if you understand me.” Angela said, and the girl nodded her acknowledgement. “So why would you say they aren’t average?”

“The dad is doing the cooking.”

“Plenty of father’s cook. Mine does for us every night.”

“But this is the 1900s! Didn’t women have to do whatever their husband wanted?”

“Quit being a misogynist.”

“Misogynist! I’m not the misogynist. They are! They didn’t even let women vote.”

Angela rolled her eyes and said. “Come on, let’s explore the rest of the house.”

Angela and Luther went through the house. It was what one would expect from a turn of the century farm house. The furniture that would be antique by their standards looked new. The decorations were out of a different era. There was even an old time phonograph that gleamed like it was new.

Throughout the house, they found no evidence of her brother. There wasn’t anything to suggest that travelers from her time period had ever been to the house. Once Angela was satisfied there were no rooms undiscovered or any clues missed, they turned their attention back to the family. The little girl had to know something. They decided to confront her after dinner.

They made their way back down the stairs and into the kitchen. The family had just finished eating when Angela and Luther stepped into the room. The woman began to pick up the plates. The husband stopped her and said in the same cheery tone. “No, I got it dear. You both relax. I’ll fix up some dessert.”

“I couldn’t really,” The woman protested.

“I insist. You’ll love it. It’s a French recipe.” The husband said and scooped up the dirty dishes. The woman sat back down and the daughter eyed both Luther and Angela. Luther turned to follow the husband into the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” Angela said.

“I’m curious,” Luther said. “I wonder if we can eat food from this time.”

“We are trapped in the past and all you can think about is dessert?”

“We can’t talk to her in front of her parents. Might as well make the most out of the time we are here. Besides, you never know when what we learn will come in handy.”

“In case we need to eat our way out of a situation?”

“I mean the manipulation of objects. Even poltergeist stories have some sort of truth to them.”

He did have a point. Angela followed Luther into the kitchen. The husband pulled out a bowl from the icebox that looked like chocolate pudding. He stirred the mixture and turned to look over his shoulder. Even though Angela knew he couldn’t see her, it looked as if he was staring right at her. He pulled a vial from his coat pocket. The vial had a skull and crossbones on it. Once he was satisfied that no one was watching, he poured the vial into the pudding and stirred it some more. A wicked grin appeared on his face as he poured the mixture into three serving bowls.

Footfalls on Creaking Floorboards – Part 6 #Horror #Serial

After the screams died down, Angela knelt to check on Luther. She didn’t know anything about what to do with a feinting victim, so she felt for breath and a heart beat. They both seemed to be there, so she turned her attention to the girl at the top of the stairs. The girl watched Angela check on her friend and must have thought that these strangers weren’t all bad. The girl walked down the stairs towards Angela.

“You should put his head on a pillow and fan him. That’s what my daddy does when mommy passes out,” The girl said.

“Thanks,” Angela said as she used his messenger bag for a pillow. “But I don’t seem to have either at the moment.”

“I can go ask my daddy for one.”

“That’s ok,” Angela said. It was probably best if the girl didn’t run and find her parents just yet. A kid could handle the existence of strange people in her basement, but an adult would be less forgiving. If Angela’s theory about what happened was true, alerting the girl’s parents right away would only put herself on the wrong end of a shot gun.

From the newness of the basement items like the furnace and all the equipment, the girl’s period dress, and the witch marks carved into a beam by her brother before he was born, she knew that she had time traveled. Angela had seen way too many Dr. Who episodes to not easily put it together. The tunnel opened by the witch marks took her and Luther to the past when the Wellington House was new.

“So what’s your name?” Angela asked the girl.

“My daddy says that I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”

“I’m Angela, and this is Luther. There, we aren’t strangers anymore.”

The kid seemed to accept this as an answer and said, “I’m Gretchen.”

“Nice to meet you Gretchen. Say Gretchen, have you seen a man pass through here? He looks kind of like me, maybe a little taller, and with brown hair?”

“Come through my basement?” The girl said, confused.

“I’m afraid so. It looks like where I come from is somehow connected to your basement.”

“You’re the first people I’ve ever seen come through the basement. We have a front door. Most visitors use the front door.”

“Who are you talking too honey?” A male voice said at the top of the stairs.

Startled, Angela jumped up. There was a man coming down the stairs. He too had clothes from the early 1900’s. He was also dirty and sunburned, like he had been working the fields all day. She was about to apologize to the man when she noticed something odd. He didn’t seem to notice her at all. He passed her and Luther and scooped up his daughter.

“I’m talking to my new friends, Luther and Angela,” the girl said.

“Oh?” The father said. “Well you better tell them that its time to wash up for supper. You’re mother will be home with the shopping any minute now.”

The father took the girl up the stairs while she proceeded to tell him all about Angela and Luther. He listened like a father would when his daughter told him about an imaginary friend. Angela became light headed, and sunk to her knees. She sat down next to Luther least she pass out herself. The father flicked the light when he left leaving them in the darkness.

Luther stirred and opened his eyes. He leaned up and looked around. “What happened? I remember a quake, and then I had this strange dream about a tunnel and a girl.”

“It wasn’t a dream.” Angela said.

“What happened?”

“I think we might be ghosts.”

Footfalls on Creaking Floorboards – Part 5 #Horror #Halloween

Both Angela and Luther turned toward each other and then looked back at the stone arch. There was a passageway beyond that seemed to angle downward and was obscured by inky darkness. Angela walked towards the phenomena, when Luther held her back. “Wait! You don’t know what’s down there!”

“That’s exactly what I intend to find out,” Angela broke free from his grasp.

“I’m not even going to pretend to know what is going on here, but that thing wasn’t here a second ago. What if it disappears the moment you step inside?”

“There is only one way to find out.”

Angela walked towards the archway. She touched the stones with her hands. They were cool, nothing out of the ordinary for a basement in October. Heeding some of Luther’s caution, she decided to test the portal. She tossed a stone inside and heard the clatter of it down the passage. The next test involved poking one of the metal fence posts past the threshold. Nothing happened. After they exhausted all the other options, Angela had no choice but to go inside.

Before she went, she turned to Luther, “You don’t need to follow me. If it does disappear, tell Brenda that I love her, and my parents too.”

“Um… OK.” Luther said.

Before he could devise another reason why she shouldn’t go, she crossed the threshold. She turned towards Luther who was dumbly shaking in his boots. She stepped back out again and smiled, “See. It’s not trapping me in some other world.”

Angela turned back down the passageway. After some deliberation, Luther rushed forward to follow her. The passageway was a narrow stone tunnel with an arched ceiling. It seemed to have an infinite blackness beyond the reach of light generated by Angela’s phone. Luther kept making glances back to make sure the entrance to the basement was still there.

They walked for what seemed like hours, but in reality was only about thirty minutes when they finally saw light up ahead. The basement had disappeared into the darkness, so Luther pushed them forward towards the exit. When they finally got close to the end, they could see that there was definitely a room up ahead. By the time they could make out the details of the room, they were almost upon it.

They stepped out of a stone arch similar to the one they had entered. The room looked like the basement they had just left with the exception that everything looked new. The octopus furnace had gleaming metal like it was freshly installed. All the farming equipment looked new like it had yet to collect the rust from the ages. There was even fresh soil on some of it. The basement was clean and well organized, and there were no witch marks on the beam in the ceiling.

While Angela was exploring the surroundings, awed by the change the basement had gone through, Luther tugged her sleeve. “Look,” he said. She could hear the fear in his voice.

She turned toward the wall where the archway should have been. It was no longer there. It was a wall like any other part of the basement. She turned to Luther and saw that his gaze was not fixed on the wall, but rather the top of the stairs. He didn’t seem to notice the missing archway or else that would have surely sent him into a panic. Whatever was at the top of the stairs was making her uncomfortable as she could see him begin to shake.

Angela turned her gaze to the top of the stairs, and there was a little girl of no more than nine-years-old. She had blond ringlets and was wearing an early 1900’s dress. Both Luther and the girl screamed. Angela was so startled that she began to scream too. Their voices blended into a cacophony of terror that was punctuated by Luther passing out.

Author’s Note: I thought I’d be done with this story by Halloween, but it’s taken a life of its own and went in a way unexpected to even me. Please follow for more installments.

Footfalls on Creaking Floorboards – Part 4 #SpookyStories #Halloween

“Angela?” A barely masculine voice squeaked out the “ah” sound at the end of her name.

Angela rolled her eyes and jumped up from her hiding spot. She hit her head on the octopus furnace and a loud clang echoed in the darkness of the basement. There was a commotion at the top of the stairs as the person jumped backward. Angela swore and cursed.

“Asshole, Luther, get down here!” She yelled.

Luther appeared at the top of the stairs. He was a skinny and tall kid, much taller than her, with a brown mop of hair, hipster messenger bag, and glasses. He navigated by the light of his phone. He was a late bloomer a couple of grades below her. He had the hots for her and wouldn’t let it go even when she clearly outlined that she had zero sexual attraction for boys. Even though he wanted to live in the world of unrequited love, he had a good heart, so she was never mean above and beyond brutal honesty. He was like a lost puppy, and she had a soft spot for strays.

His phone went into sleep mode halfway down the stairs, and he futzed around with the finger print identification. Angela could hear the buzz, buzz, as it rejected each swipe of his thumb. He finally got the phone on again and continued down the stairs. When the phone timed out a second time, Angela was ready with her flashlight app, “If you’re going to use the screen as a flashlight, download an app, or at the very least turn off sleep mode!”

“I wasn’t intending on going inside,” Luther said in is crackeling not-quite a man voice. “But then I saw your car and figured you may need some help.”

Angela knew she should have not parked in such a noticeable location. She was hoping the trip would be quick. She’d take a couple of pictures, maybe find some evidence that her brother had been at the Wellington House, and then leave. However, there were no tags in the house. Her brother would have left his mark somewhere, especially if the witch marks inspired his signature.

The more she thought about it, the lack of graffiti in an old abandoned house was odd. People should have left some evidence of occupation behind. While the house was old and worn, there was no indication that anyone had left their mark aside from the beam in the basement. Angela found it hard to believe because the police had problems with vagrancy in the house. Various people tried to get it torn down over the years, but they were always blocked by a historical society that seemed to like protesting more than restoring houses. Someone should have left something behind, even if it was just a harmless tagger, or a doodle. Every other abandoned building in town was covered with graffiti. Why wasn’t the Wellington house?

Angela turned her phone light towards the walls of the basement. She explored every inch, and there was no evidence of any graffiti. Luther was confused by her actions. She ignored his questions, and continued to sweep for clues. There was junk, but anything useful had been picked clean years ago. The rest was rusting farm equipment that looked as if hadn’t been used since World War II.

“At least let me help,” Luther said and pulled out his phone. After two buzzes of failed attempts, he unlocked the phone. “What are we looking for?”

“Anything drawn, written, painted, on the walls,” She said as she searched.

“Um, OK. Mind telling me why?”

“Have you noticed any graffiti since you’ve been here?”

“Um… no… I don’t see.”

“That’s exactly it. This house has been abandoned for how long now?”

“I believe it’s been…”

“I don’t need the exact number. Suffice to say that don’t you find it odd that there hasn’t been a single tagger? Not one street artist in the entire history of the house?”

“Maybe the tags have been painted over?”

“Have you seen the condition of the paint? I don’t think this place has been repainted since hipster beards were just beards.”

“Maybe taggers don’t come here. The abandoned warehouse seems to offer more space….”

“Or maybe they did… and…”

“What?”

Angela stopped in front of a grey, blank basement wall. It was craggy and old, but not so much as to prevent a young street artist from painting a mural. There wasn’t any form of human marking on the wall. Angela turned to Luther, “Do you have your sketch book?”

“Yeah, but I don’t see…”

“Do you have the charcoal? Could I get a piece?”

Luther shrugged and dug through his messenger bag. He pulled out a piece of charcoal he used for sketching. Angela took the piece and walked up to the wall. She drew a circle. Even though she was definitely rubbing charcoal on the wall, nothing seemed to leave a mark.

“Maybe it’s resistant to charcoal?” Luther suggested and handed her a marker.

She tried another circle. The marker left no indication that it had contact with the wall even though she pressed as hard as she could. She switched to the charcoal and instead of doing a circle, she drew a straight line, violently rubbing the piece as hard as she could.

“Um… Angela,” Luther said while she grunted and toiled.

“What?”

“You better come look at this.”

Angela walked over to the foot of the stairs. One of the lines that composed the witch marks on the beam was glowing. The wall directly behind the witch mark had a charcoal line that mirrored the one that was glowing. Angela ran to the wall and drew another line that mirrored another one from the witch mark. The line appear on the back wall, and the equivalent line on the beam began to glow as well.

Angela didn’t need to look at the beam. She had seen her brother draw the markings so many times. She had it memorized. Each time she drew a line, the corresponding line on the witch mark would glow. She completed the lines including the hidden, k, y, l, and e. As soon as she finished the design on the back wall, the house began to shake.

“We should get out of here!” Luther yelled and ran towards the stairs. The shaking increased and Luther tripped on the bottom step and tumbled past the stairs. The octopus furnace clanged and groaned as the tremors rippled through the pipes. A bundle of metal fence posts fell to the ground. The shutter was accompanied by a low pitch rumbling noise that seemed far away in the beginning. The noise became louder and louder until it was almost deafening.

Just as it felt as if the house would collapse around them, the rumbling stopped. The basement was in a state of disarray. The rusting equipment was scattered. A pipe from the furnace collapsed. The witch marks on the back wall had turned into a passageway with a stone arch signifying the entrance.

Footfalls on Creaking Floorboards – Part 3 #GhostStory #Halloween

The inky blackness enveloped Angela as she went down the stairs. She could hear the groan of the wood as she stepped further into the darkness of the basement. She clutched the rail as she stepped down. The creak of her footfalls seemed to echo into the nothingness around her. After she was sure that she was no longer at street level. She brought out her phone, and flipped a switch on her flashlight app.

The house on Wellington was watched by the police. If they saw flashlights coming from the house, they would burst inside and arrest the trespassers. Since the house was a hotbed for ghost hunters, thrill seekers, and the occasional drug addict or two, the sheriff decided to press charges first and ask questions later. Angela needed to take the risk of using her phone. She had to see the witch marks for herself.

When the flash on her phone lit up the basement with a bright white light, she was startled by an old octopus furnace that looked like a being with tentacles lurking outside her vision. Once she was satisfied that it was just a normal object in a forgotten basement, she turned the light up towards the ceiling. There was a beam that ran across the ceiling from the landing to the depths beyond the furnace. A crisscross pattern etched into the beam was visible near the landing.

The crisscross would look like a random pattern to most people, but Angela had seen it many times before. Hidden in the overall pattern were the letters, k, y, l, and e. It was her brother Kyle’s tag that he created to identify his work. He was a graffiti artist. The angular lines were distinctive of his style. The signature was carved into the wood like many witch marks, so Angela could understand why no one noticed the word Kyle hidden in the markings.

The weird part was that the photograph Mr. Harrison showed the class was from the late seventies. Well before either Kyle or Angela were even born. In order for Kyle’s signature to appear etched in wood to later appear in a fraudulent photograph, he would have carved it himself, which was impossible. The other more likely possibility was that Kyle saw this carving and adopted it for himself. Regardless of how the carving came about, Angela knew that the key to his disappearance was in this house.

Angela took a few photographs of the markings for herself. She was about to turn back when she heard the whine of a rusty hinge from upstairs. Then she heard footfalls on the creaking floorboards of the living room. Angela ducked down near the furnace and turned off the light on her phone.

The blackness of the basement enshrouded her. She could only hear the sound of her shallow, tight, breath. Her imagination ran wild with the lights off, and she did everything in her power to remain calm. She pulled her thoughts from what could be lurking in the darkness to thoughts of her brother.

She remembered sitting under a tree during a sunny summer day. She was in a park with a concrete storm ditch that ran the length of the green space. The tree was right up against the side of the waterway. She was eleven-years-old. Her brother, who was sixteen at the time, was in the ditch with his hoodie pulled over his head. He was spray painting a clunky drawing that he would soon perfect in subsequent years.

“Can I come down now?” Angela poked her head over the side.

“No,” Kyle said. “You’re supposed to be the lookout. Now sit against the tree.”

“But no one is coming! I want to help.”

“Fine, come on. Hurry, before someone sees you.”

Angela remembered Kyle helping her into the ditch. He taught her all about graffiti, the lines, the form, and the technique. His skill wasn’t quite there yet, but it was better than the blob she had made. It was one of the best days she could remember, just her and her brother. She tried to hold on to the memory, so she wouldn’t think about the dark basement around her.

The footfalls came closer. She could hear each step. Each thud was followed by cracks from the aging wood. They came closer and closer. Angela held her breath and sat perfectly still. The hinges squeaked as the door at the top of the steps opened.