Michelle Scott's Blog, page 9

Review – It Will Just Be Us by Jo Kaplan — Coffee Shop Book Reviews

Sam Wakefield’s ancestral home, a decaying mansion built on the edge of a swamp, isn’t a place for children. Its labyrinthine halls, built by her mad ancestors, are filled with echoes of the past: ghosts and memories knotted together as one. In the presence of phantoms, it’s all Sam can do to disentangle past from…

via Review – It Will Just Be Us by Jo Kaplan — Coffee Shop Book Reviews

Review – Survival Instincts by Jen Waite — Coffee Shop Book Reviews

FOURTEEN YEARS BEFORE THE CABIN: Twenty-something Anne meets the man of her dreams right out of college, but after they get married, Anne notices that her husband begins acting differently. Why is Ethan suddenly so moody? And will their marriage endure? A WEEK BEFORE THE CABIN: Ten years later, Anne and her twelve-year-old daughter, Thea,…

via Review – Survival Instincts by Jen Waite — Coffee Shop Book Reviews

Music for a Horror Writer

[image error]I like my music like I like my weather: gloomy, stormy, and dramatic. This is especially true when I’m writing. I like to create a soundtrack for my books because it puts me in a creative mood.

In light of that, I’ve compiled a horror writer’s playlist to share with you all. Some of the songs, such as music from the movie The Shining, are from some of my favorite chilling soundtracks. Others, like the haunting music of Ann von Hausswolff, I’ve run across by getting recommendations from friends and family. One of my favorites, Symphonia Antartica by Ralph Vaughan Williams, remind me of favorite horror movies (in that case, it’s John Carpenter’s The Thing.) I swear every time I listen to it, I feel like I’m standing in a howling storm.

If you’re currently deep in a scary book, or if you simply like a little musical drama, this music should suit you. I hope you enjoy it!

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Get The Soulless on Amazon for only $.99. FREE on KU.

Bicycling Among the Wild Flowers

[image error]It’s been a few weeks since I used my bike, so now that the weather is back to cooperating, I took the opportunity to go for a ride. To my surprise, the path was alive with colors! With all this rain, the wild flowers are out in full force.

We had flowers in the city too, of course, but those usually came from the local box store or garden center. It’s wonderful to see wild flowers hidden among the trees.

I’ll never get over how quiet and peaceful it is here. The path had a few walkers on it, but mostly I had it to myself. Riding along it and listening to the birds never fails to put me in a peaceful frame of mind.[image error]

Spooky Michigan – A Trip to the Hippie Tree in Traverse City

[image error]Picture courtesy of The Quasar and Atlas Obscura

I was warned away from the hippie tree by one local who literally shuddered when I mentioned the place. “You do not want to go there,” she told me.  I found this surprising since she was a very sensible-looking woman who ran a boutique in a galleria which had once been a mental asylum. I worried more about the spirits of former mental patients haunting the galleria rather than some old tree in the woods. Yet, when I asked her why I shouldn’t visit the hippie tree, she shuddered again. “There’s nothing but bad energy there.”

Of course, I had to see it.

The hippie tree isn’t easy to find. To get there, you have to hike across the old state hospital grounds, then find your way down a mostly-obscured path that skirts a woods. When I went, the place was full of other tourists all looking for the same thing. Apparently, nothing draws a crowd like the possibility of bad energy.[image error]

I didn’t travel the path alone. I had dragged three friends with me…just in case. I’m an admitted skeptic, but it doesn’t hurt to be cautious. Especially when the locals are nervous.

I’ll admit that I was prepared to be disappointed, but as it turns out, the hippie tree is so frickin’ cool. It’s deep in the woods, and alive with color. Generations of people have covered the tree with messages and artwork. It’s also fun to climb on, even for adults.

But was there bad energy? If there was, I’m afraid that I didn’t notice it. In fact, I found the place rather peaceful. Which makes me wonder. Does the hippie tree pretend to be docile, only to lay in wait when you let your guard down? Will its bad energy rub off on you if you dare to linger too long? All I can say is that, while I was fine with visiting during the day, I’d be cautious about going there are night. Just in case.

To read more about the hippie tree and why it’s considered haunted, visit Atlas Obscura.

The Nightmare – A Horror Short by Michelle Scott

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Bruce’s son, Justin, is lost in a hell of his own making. Bruce will do anything, including entering a nightmare world, to get him back.

Don’t have time to read The Nightmare now? Download it here to read it on your tablet, phone, or computer.

The concrete walls and locked security doors did little to muffle the frantic barking. Bruce stood in the reception area, his hands jammed into the pockets of his windbreaker, listening to the yelps and yaps and howls coming from the kennel. He imagined the dogs throwing themselves against their chain link enclosures, as desperate to escape their prison as condemned men on death row.

The room in which he waited was small and dingy. The floor smelled strongly of antiseptic with an undercurrent of piss, and a pair of stuttering fluorescent fixtures shed reluctant light. On one wall hung a faded poster reading: ‘Caring for Your New Puppy’, a slogan that was far too cheerful for such a bleak place.

The young woman who had been helping him came back through the pair of doors. Bruce had hoped that she would bring out his dog, but instead she cradled a clipboard against her flat chest. “You said he was a black and white border collie, right?”

Bruce nodded.

“And that he was wearing a red collar with a silver ID tag?”

Bruce’s spirits sank. When he heard the telephone that morning, he’d grabbed it on the first ring, and had been overjoyed to hear that animal control had found his son’s dog. But the look on the woman’s face told him that not everything was fine.

“You don’t have him, do you?” He felt pressure building up against his eyes and steeled himself against it.

“No, we have him all right.” She came closer, and regarded him with worried brown eyes. “And you can see him, but…” She bit her lower lip.

“But?”

“Most of the time, dogs are snatched so that they can be trained to fight. Either that, or they’re used to bait the fighting dogs.” Her expression hardened, suddenly making her look much older. “The fighting dogs are starved and beaten, then another dog – usually a little fluff ball thing who can’t defend itself – is tossed in with it. The idea is to build blood lust in the fighting dog. You understand?”

“Blood lust,” Bruce repeated numbly. From the moment he’d seen a white panel van pull up in front of his house and lure Mo-Jo inside, he’d felt a deep sense of dread. But the news that his son’s dog – the happy-go-lucky Mo-Jo who loved everyone the moment he met him – had been used as some kind of pre-game entertainment for a dog fight was worse than anything he had imagined. He felt a little sick.

“I tried to stop them from taking him,” he said, needing to explain himself to this woman. “I was upstairs when it happened, and I opened the window and yelled at the dog to come back, but he wouldn’t.” Moe hadn’t so much as turned his head when Bruce was calling him. Though he’d been living with Bruce and Justin since he was four months old, he’d hopped into the van as willingly as a little kid who’s lured into a stranger’s car with the promise of candy.

The woman was nodding, her eyes fixed on his, but despite her bland expression, Bruce thought he detected a hint of skepticism and – he was sure he saw it – reproach. After all, why had he allowed his dog to be in the front yard unattended? What kind of dog owner was he?

“He gets out of the back yard all the time,” Bruce continued, “especially this time of year. Springtime, what can I say? It’s really my son’s job to make sure that Moe stays inside the fence, but my son hasn’t been feeling too great lately. But seeing Moe again will really perk him up.” He knew he was rambling, but felt helpless to stop it. The need to apologize was just too strong. He was desperate to be understood. To be pardoned.

The woman looked puzzled, as if stunned by his confession. “Well, it’s a terrible thing that’s happened.” She consulted the clipboard. “Your dog’s… Mo-Jo’s… temperament is quite aggressive, but he hasn’t bit anyone.” Though unspoken, the word ‘yet’ hovered at the end of her sentence.

“So what are you saying?”

It was her turn to look discomfited. “Sometimes dogs like Mo-Jo, dogs who have been abused like that, are too…damaged…to make good pets.” And when Bruce continued to look at her blankly, she averted her gaze. “Sometimes the best thing to do is put them down.”

Put them down. A polite little euphemism for what really took place. “Look, I don’t care what you think. I want my dog back,” Bruce said. He clenched his hands into fists as if preparing for a fight. “Probably to you Moe’s just another dog, but he’s my son’s pet, okay? The reason my son isn’t doing too good is because his mother died five and a half months ago, and if he was to lose his dog on top of that, well…” Bruce swallowed hard, unable to go on.

The woman had taken a step back and her mouth had firmed into a straight line. “I’m sorry,” she said, though she didn’t sound it. “I just wanted to warn you, that’s all.”

“Okay, you’ve warned me. Now get the dog.”

The woman disappeared through the doors, and when she returned with a dog on a rope leash, Bruce felt a cold spot in the pit of his stomach. This couldn’t be Justin’s dog. Mo-Jo was goofy and fun-loving. A kind of canine comedian who loved nothing more than to steal a sock or a slipper and run away with it just to be chased. A dog that could actually laugh. Mo-Jo was a glutton for attention and would sit with his head in Justin’s lap for hours, his eyes half-closed in ecstasy when his ears were scratched.

The dog that slunk in behind the woman was none of these things. Its coat was dull and filthy, matted with blood. The tail, one held up proudly, hung so low that it brushed the ground. Both his right ear and right eye were missing. But it was what Bruce saw in Mo-Jo’s remaining eye that chilled him the most. He’d never seen a dog wear an expression like that; until now he hadn’t thought it was possible. It was the hardened look of a survivor: smoldering rage coupled with suspicion and, underlying that, deep pain. That look struck Bruce with the force of a blow.

“Mo-Jo?” he said, and when the dog didn’t respond, Bruce crouched down. “Moe?”

The woman looked from dog to master and back again. “I don’t know if taking him home is such a good idea.”

“He’ll get over it,” Bruce said. “Dogs always do.” Hadn’t he heard that a dog was the only animal who would lick the hand of its abuser? Dogs were blessed with a short memory. They forgot easily. They moved on. They forgave. It was one of the things he admired about them. “Once he gets home and sees Justin, he’ll be fine.” He reached for the leash. After a moment of hesitation, the woman gave it to him.

When Bruce got home, he immediately went to his son’s bedroom door. He knocked tentatively and opened it. Though it was two o’clock in the afternoon, the blinds were drawn, giving the room an underwater gloominess. “Hey, Jus, guess who’s come back home?”

A motionless lump, covered with a quilt, lay on the bed. Bruce stepped into the room. “Justin?”

His son groaned.

“Moe’s back safe and sound.” Bruce shifted from one foot to the other. “Isn’t that great?”

“Yeah.”

Bruce’s temper flared, but he squashed it. He’d been hoping for – no, ­longing for – an enthusiastic reaction from his son. “You want to say hello?” He waited two seconds. Five. Ten. “Justin? You want to say hello?”

The lump on the bed shifted slightly. “That’s not Moe.”

Bruce’s hands tightened into fists. “Course it’s Moe. I know he looks kind of rough, but…”

“It’s not Moe.”

He fought to keep his voice level. “Look, you need to get up. Walk the dog, why don’t you? It’s a nice day out and I’m sure Moe would like to go to the park. What do you say?”

The lump didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Bruce looked down at Mo-Jo who was standing in the bedroom doorway and growling deep in his throat. “It’s Justin,” Bruce said. “You remember Jus, right?” Christ, the dog had only been gone four days, he couldn’t have forgotten his family already, could he? “Go get the lazy kid out of bed.” Though he fought to make his voice light and teasing, it came out petulant. “Lick his face and say hello, why don’t you?”

Moe barked once, sharply, then turned around and left, and Bruce clenched his fists so hard that his nails dug into his palms. “Look,” he said to the lump on the bed, “I didn’t go into work today just so I could go downtown get your goddamned dog. So get out of bed already and play with him. It’s past noon.” Bruce was yelling now, but didn’t care. “You can’t lay around all day even if it is the weekend.” He tore the covers from the bed. “Get up off your lazy ass and go outside. Just snap out of it already!”

Without a word, Justin sat up, snatched the quilt back and laid down once more. Bruce, trembling with rage and frustration, left the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. God-damned lazy kid. For weeks now he’d done nothing but lay in his bed, unmoving, barely speaking. He went to school because every morning Bruce wrestled him out the door and into the car, a humiliating, physically exhausting process that took every ounce of energy he had and left him feeling drained the rest of the day.

Bruce stalked into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of milk. Justin hadn’t been doing his homework and had been neglecting his chores. And Bruce, furious by his son’s behavior, had refused to play maid. If Justin didn’t care, then neither did he. As a result, the house was a wreck: filthy dishes were stacked in unstable towers on the sticky counter tops, trash erupted from the can and onto the kitchen floor, the bathroom stunk like a truck stop urinal, and unread newspapers piled up on the porch. Bruce’s wife – had she been alive to see it – would have been horrified. In fact, Bruce could see her standing in the middle of the kitchen – her hands on her hips, her lower lip jutting out unhappily – as she surveyed the wreck. “I’ve only been gone a few months, and look at the place,” Karen would say, giving him an accusing look. “Can’t you two manage without me?”

No, we can’t, Bruce thought. We need you back. But that, of course, was impossible. His wife was no longer around. She was unreachable. Just like Justin.

 

Bruce considered taking Mo-Jo to the groomers, but then – thinking that the animal had been through enough trauma – decided to bathe Moe himself. But when he tried to put the dog into the bathtub, Moe growled savagely, and the fur along his spine rose.

Bruce, shaken, held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, I got it. No bath.”

Already he regretted his decision to bring Moe home. Not only had the dog done nothing to improve his son’s mood, he seemed every bit aggressive as the woman at the pound had said he would be. He paced from window to window, refusing to eat or drink, peering through the windows and growling at nothing. When Bruce tried to pet him, Mo-Jo snapped at his hand, his teeth narrowly missing his thumb. Mo-Jo – ­his Mo-Jo, the Mo-Jo he remembered – had always slept most of the day, only moving to reposition himself more comfortably on his bed. But this dog was in constant motion, and his restless activity put Bruce on edge. Why hadn’t that woman tried harder to stop me, he wondered. Why hadn’t she insisted that Mo be put down?

Bruce had the unsettling feeling that he was housing a pair of dangerous strangers. It was as if the dog and the boy had been whisked away and been replaced with inferior copies. Bruce wandered aimlessly from room to room, peering in on Justin, watching Moe, and feeling lost in his own house.

Daylight dimmed and became night. Man and dog – two anxious bachelors with little to do but fret – spent the evening in apprehensive silence. At one point, Bruce heard the creak of a loose floorboard overhead and the flush of the upstairs toilet. Then nothing. Silence. Finally, long past midnight, Bruce went to bed. Mo-Jo followed at a distance then stood in the bedroom doorway, glaring. Bruce lay back on his pillow and drifted into an uneasy sleep.

 

In the dream, he and Mo-Jo walked down an empty street guarded by vacant buildings whose broken windows bared jagged glass teeth. A leaden sky stretched overhead. Weeds grew alongside parking meters, and trash blew like tumbleweeds past the hollowed out fire hydrants. It seemed that the rest of the world had moved on and left this place behind long ago.

He found his surroundings startlingly familiar, and as he walked, he recognized certain landmarks: a flaking mural of a beach scene on the side of a low brick building, a rusted hulk of a car resting on concrete blocks, an abandoned shopping cart, a cluster of naked, armless mannequins in a store window.

It was a terrible, desolate land that he and the dog traveled. A place of isolation and despair. Somewhere so empty that even its ghosts had vanished and its memories had died. He stopped walking, filled his lungs, and screamed “Hello!” at the top of his voice. But the sound was flat and hardly seemed to carry beyond the tips of his shoes. And even if it had, he knew that there was no one to hear around to hear it.

He felt a surge of panic and knew that if he didn’t leave, he’d never find his way out. A single step forward would trap him here forever. Up ahead, Moe barked encouragingly, but Bruce shook his head. “No! I can’t go on!” He turned around and ran.

 

Bruce woke and found Mo-Jo on the bed next to him. Though the dog lay still, he remained alert, his head up, a growl wedged in his throat like a bone. Bruce, who had frequently smacked the puppy Mo-Jo with a rolled-up newspaper to keep him off the furniture, was furious. He shoved the dog off, and Moe bit his hand. Though he didn’t draw blood, his teeth left deep impressions that began to bruise almost immediately.

“Goddamn you!” Bruce yelled. “That’s the thanks I get for bringing you home? I could have let them put you down, but I didn’t.” He rubbed his hand, the pain making his eyes sting with tears. “So just get over it already. You’re home. What more do you want?”

Moe stood in the hallway, his tail held low, his single eye smoldering with resentment, and growled.

 

Like Mo-Jo’s teeth marks in his hand, the nightmare didn’t fade the next day. Instead, it grew more and more focused, so that every detail – the fading mural on the brick wall, the blank-faced mannequins in the store window – crystallized in Bruce’s mind. At work, he tried to exorcise the memory by working. He added rows of figures. He gave terse responses to the e-mails he received. He sharpened his pencils. He threw himself completely into these little tasks so that, when he left for the day, he felt as if he’d accomplished something.

When came home, Mo-Jo raced to the entryway, barking furiously, the fur along his spine raised in a stiff crest. Bruce, terrified, backed out of the front door, holding up his briefcase like a shield. “It’s me, boy,” he said. “It’s only me.” Mo-Jo paced a few times, barked once more, then retreated, and Bruce – shaken – went inside.

He went to Justin’s room and found the boy lying on his back, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. Bruce remembered the staring eyes of the mannequins in his dream and shuddered. “I’m home,” he said. “Did you get your homework done?”

“Later,” Justin said.

“You let the dog out?”

“Yes.”

Bruce lingered, wishing he could say more. He longed to connect with his son, but he knew from experience that if he tried to force a conversation, he’d only end up yelling. He’d call Justin “lazy” or “stubborn” or even “asshole”, and Justin would either lie there quietly or else tears would silently leak out of the corners of his eyes. So instead Bruce left.

Mo-Jo’s food dish was filled to the brim, just as Bruce had left it the previous day.  Bruce, worried, tried to tempt him with some cold pizza. Moe refused it, something Bruce had never seen him do before. “You’ve got to eat sometime,” Bruce said, speaking loudly so that Justin might hear. “You need to keep up your energy.” But neither dog nor boy responded. So, as if to prove his own point, Bruce forced himself to eat the pizza. He considered having a beer as well, but fought off the urge, for one would lead to two which would lead to nine or ten, and a call into work in the morning, begging for yet another sick day, something he couldn’t afford. Instead, he sat in his recliner and stared at the flickering light of the television until the clock said it was time to go to sleep.

After brushing his teeth, Bruce sat on the edge of his bed. Though it wasn’t much past midnight, the neighborhood was completely dark; not a single light shone in any of the houses. He felt like the only man on earth.

Mo-Jo came to the bedroom door and stood there expectantly.

“What?” Bruce asked.

The dog huffed, a kind of snorting half-bark, and approached the bed. “No,” Bruce said firmly. Moe growled, his lips lifting in a snarl. “Don’t you dare,” Bruce said, standing. “Don’t you fucking dare.” He grabbed the telephone from the nightstand. The phone was an old-fashioned bakelite thing, heavy as a club, something Karen had bought at a yard sale. Bruce brandished it like a weapon. “You bite me again, and you’ll be sorry.”

Moe didn’t back down, but barked angrily.

“Go sleep with your boy,” Bruce said, “You two will really make a team. A great pair of lunatics.” Moe lunged. Bruce threw the phone squarely at the dog’s head, missing him but putting a dent in the hardwood floor and cracking the handset. “Get out of here!” he yelled.

The dog backed away, his remaining eye glaring, then went down the stairs. Bruce was panting. He picked up the phone, fingering the divot it had made in the wood floor. He was sorry for Moe’s pain, he really was. But the dog would get over it. That was one thing he’d really admired about Mo-Jo. When Karen didn’t come home, Mo had wandered around the house for a few days looking puzzled, but that was it. Within a week, Moe was back to his old self: enjoying a game of fetch, chasing squirrels, digging in the trash for food. It was like Karen had never even been a part of his life. If only I could get over her absence so easily, Bruce had thought. If only Justin could. Now, nearly six months later, Bruce was coping. He was at least going to work. Paying the bills. Going through the motions. But with Moe acting so strangely, Bruce thought he was losing ground. God help him, he thought he might be turning into Justin.

Bruce, fully clothed, lay down in bed and closed his eyes. Within moments, he was in a twilight sleep: distantly aware of what was happening around him – that the dog had once more entered his bedroom and jumped onto the bed, and that the ripe smell of Moe’s filthy coat was permeating his nostrils – while at the same time seeing that deserted street once more. Together he and the dog went past the rusting car on the concrete blocks and the family of mannequins. While walking, Bruce could not shake the feeling that he knew this place. He’d spent some time here, he was sure of it. But where was here? Was he in his own city, or another place? Was he even in the same country? He tried to read one of the bent street signs, but the sky was caught in the grayness between night and day, making it impossible.

Once more he was suffused with a sense of dread. He was sure that if he continued on, he’d become hopelessly lost. He’d spend the rest of his life there. And yet he knew that he _had_ to continue on. There was something buried in the desolate neighborhood. Something terribly important that he needed to find. Something he couldn’t live without.

He went to the window where the armless mannequins stood staring blankly out at the street. Something rustled behind them, stirring up odors of mildewed newspapers and dust. Bruce knew that he should enter that place – that what he needed to find lay beyond in the dark – but he didn’t have the courage. If he went into the store, he might never return. He might never survive. If only the thing would come to him! Yet instinctively he knew it wouldn’t. So he stood on the sidewalk, longing to go inside yet too terrified to do so, and trembled.

Mo-Jo barked sharply. Alarmed, Bruce sat up, a strangled cry on his lips, and turned on the bedside lamp. The dog was staring at him, his single eye full of intent.

“What?” Bruce asked.

Mo-Jo woofed again, a soft chuffing sound, and went to the bedroom door. He looked over his shoulder at Bruce, then left the room and went down the stairs. Bruce followed and found Mo-Jo waiting at the front door. Once again, the dog stared at him intently.

Bruce felt a wave of dizziness and put his hand against the door frame to steady himself. Something seemed to have shifted, as if the earth had hiccuped while in rotation and had not settled completely back on its axis. Though he’d lived in the same house for nearly thirty years, his living room was unfamiliar. He felt strange, as if he was wide-awake, yet dreaming at the same time. Dizziness struck him again and once more he clutched at the doorframe. Panicked, he thought he might be having a heart attack.

“Justin?” he called. Then he yelled it, “Justin!” But the house remained silent.

Mo-Jo barked, this time with greater force, and pawed at the door.

Feeling like he was two people – the man acting and the man watching the action – Bruce opened the door. Mo-Jo walked out and looked over his shoulder, clearing asking Bruce to follow.

Bruce’s mouth was dry, and he licked his lips. He was not a man to believe in the spiritual realm. Even after his wife died, he had not credited the idea of heaven or hell. Concepts like that were too distant from his ordinary life of bill paying and car maintenance and lawn mowing. But now he was standing in a world beyond his; he was sure of it. Feeling strange, he said, “Where are you going?”

The dog barked and gave him another piercing look.

“I’m not leaving until you tell me where,” Bruce said. Talking to the dog made no sense, but – then again – since his wife had died and Justin had become – well, a living dead man – not much made sense.

Moe simply stared at him and Bruce had an image of weedy sidewalks and the flaking remains of a beach scene painted on a brick wall. Alarmed, he took a step backwards. “No. No way. I’m not going there.” But the dream’s sense of urgency returned. There was something in that God-forsaken place that he needed to find. Something important that he’d left there. He sighed as if his very soul was deflating. “Okay, I’ll go with you.”

Without hesitating, Moe left the room and went downstairs, Bruce trailing reluctantly in his wake.

 

Moe moved so quickly that Bruce was nearly jogging in order to keep up. Every house on the block was dark and empty. It had rained recently, and the black asphalt of the street was so shiny that the red and green lights of the corner traffic signal were reflected in its slick surface. The main road was as deserted as the neighborhood had been; not a single car moved along it. This, if nothing else, convinced Bruce that he and the dog had left the real world behind. They were traveling in some interstitial space, like the infinitesimal blank spot between frames in a movie reel.

They walked for blocks and blocks, turning first in one direction, then in another. Bruce quickly became lost. Though he’d lived in this city all his life, nothing looked familiar. He tried to read the street signs they passed, but the words were strangely formed and as impossible to decipher as Cyrillic. When they crossed a trestle bridge that stretched over an expanse of churning water flecked with foam – a structure that was not a part of the city he knew – he felt a thrill of panic and picked up his pace. If he lost sight of the dog, he’d never find his way either to Justin or back to his own house.

Moe seemed to know where he was going, but he was clearly anxious. He traveled the streets as if crossing enemy territory, suddenly shying from steam that rose from an open sewer grate, growling at a dark doorway, circling a trashcan and whining. The dog’s antics did nothing to put Bruce at ease. “I don’t think that this was such a good idea after all,” he said. He thought about Justin. If the boy woke in the middle of the night and went looking for him, he’d be worried.

“Let’s go back,” Bruce said. He stopped walking. “C’mon, Mo-Jo. Let’s head home.”

When the dog ignored him, Bruce reversed direction, looking for landmarks that might guide him back. He saw the trestle bridge in the distance and headed towards it. Behind him, Moe barked frantically, but Bruce kept walking. He’d had enough of this terrible, empty place.

The sound of a car engine stopped him in his tracks. Already he’d grown accustomed to the stifling silence of this world, and the motor’s rumble was unnatural. The hair on the back of his neck stood up.

Moe ran up and stood next to him. His remaining ear was cocked, his tail held stiffly behind him. A crest of fur rose up along his spine and he growled. Bruce felt his own heart thumping in his chest, and he searched for a place for the two of them to hide. But before he could decide where that might be, a white van rumbled up the street, its headlights blindingly bright as it approached.

The van traveled on the wrong side of the road and when it reached Bruce, it drove onto the sidewalk. The driver’s side window glided down revealing a man wearing a leather jacket and – though it was dark outside – sunglasses. A toothpick was tucked into the corner of his mouth. “I see you found my dog.”

The white van. Bruce recognized it now, remembering how it had pulled up to the curb and how Moe had jumped inside. But what was it doing here? “That’s not your dog,” Bruce said, backing up. Moe ran around behind him.

The man gave a half laugh and leaned out of the window for a better look at Moe. Bruce could see the glint of an earring in his lobe. “That’s my dog all right. He came to me looking for a ride, then he took off. Isn’t that right, Mo-Jo?”

The dog whined, and Bruce smelled the sharp odor of piss as Moe made a puddle on the ground. Bruce realized he was terrified as well. His entire body shook. But it wasn’t the man himself – the leather jacket or the toothpick or the sunglasses – that scared him, but the knowledge – the deep, instinctive gut feeling – that the man belonged in this nightmarish place. He lived here. He was a part of it. The very idea made Bruce’s bowels feel liquid. “What do you mean, he wanted a ride?” His voice was tremulous.

The man looked at Bruce over the tops of his sunglasses and for one terrible moment, Bruce saw the glint of his eyes. “I mean, he wanted a ride. He wanted to come down here. Just like you wanted to come down here.”

“I didn’t want…” Bruce started to protest, then realized that he had wanted to come here. There was something here he need to find. And he never would known it if it hadn’t been for Moe. “Anyway, he’s still my dog.”

“Was. Was your dog. He came with me, so he’s mine now.” The back door of the vehicle swung open. “Mo-Jo, get in there,” the man demanded. “Get in. Now!”

To Bruce’s horror, the dog crept towards the van, his tail behind his legs. It was a terrible replay of what had happened before. “No, wait! Mo-Jo, get back here,” he said. But the dog ignored him. “Moe, what are you doing?” Bruce reached down to snag the dog’s collar, but Moe deftly shied away so that Bruce’s fingers caught nothing but air. Moe jumped into the van. Bruce, terrified, sprinted towards the open back door, adrenaline giving him a burst of extra speed. He caught the dog’s tail in his fist, and was momentarily triumphant. But the appendage dissolved like mist in his hand.

That’s when he saw the second Mo-Jo in the back of the van. This was his Moe, the one he remembered. The real Moe. The dog was cowering in a corner of the van, but when he saw Bruce, he yelped with joy and leapt forward, his nails scrabbling against the metal floor. Bruce leaned in and grabbed his collar, hauling him outside. At that moment, the van started forward with startling speed. A second later, it was halfway down the block. But just as Bruce, relieved, drew in a deep breath, the van made a careening U-turn.

Oh, shit, Bruce thought and then he was running, Mo-Jo ahead of him. The dog darted down an alley and wedged himself through a narrow gap between two boards in a rotting wooden fence. When Bruce reached the fence, he pulled desperately at the boards to widen the space. On the other side, Moe barked frantically. The van’s blinding headlights swung into the alley. Terrified, Bruce used all of his strength to yank on the boards. He felt a twang in the muscles of his upper back, then a sharp spasm of pain. But he managed to open a space wide enough for him to tumble through.

Once on the other side, all he could do was lie on his back and pant until the muscles gradually relaxed. Mo-Jo whined, licked his face, and nuzzled the palm of his hand. Bruce’s eyes were clamped shut. He listened for the screech of brakes or the roar of an engine, but heard nothing. Finally, when the crisis seemed to have passed, he risked sitting up and looking around.

He and the dog were in the place he’d dreamed of. It was a different world than they had just been traveling. No less deserted and forsaken, but less fearsome. A place dreadful, but familiar. And after the streets they had just been walking down, this place more manageable.

Moe was standing by him looking worried. “You took a ride with that guy just to get down here?” Bruce asked.

Moe wagged his tail.

“Why?” But even as he asked the question, he knew. Moe had been looking for Justin. Not the lump in the bed, the real Justin. The Justin who was locked away in his own sad prison. The unreachable Justin. And the only way to get to hell was to follow someone who had been there already.

Bruce put his arms around the dog’s neck and hugged him while Moe tried to lick his face. “Let’s go get him,” Bruce said.

Travel was slow and painful. Bruce’s muscles locked up every time he made a sudden move. He lumbered along like Frankenstein’s monster, doing his best to keep himself steady. Slowly they passed the empty stores, the weedy lots, the junked-out car on the concrete blocks.  Once again Bruce was struck with the familiarity of his surroundings though he still didn’t understand it. He’d never lived in such a place. Never traveled there.

When they reached the broken display window and the cluster of armless mannequins, Bruce felt a thrill of anticipation. His son was just inside. He pushed open the door and entered the empty shop. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw a huddled shape in the corner of the room. He carefully knelt down next to it, wincing at the tension in his back, and gently touched it. “Justin?”

But it wasn’t Justin who turned to look up at him. Startled, Bruce saw his own hollow face and empty, staring eyes. When he recognized himself, a look of relief spread across his face. With the desperate strength of a prisoner grasping the hand of his liberator, he clutched at his own arm. Bruce felt himself fading. Dissolving, as Moe had, into mist. But a moment before he went, he heard the sweetest sound: the voice of his son calling, “Dad?”

 

“I told you Moe would come for us,” Justin said as he supported his father. “I knew he would.” Together they walked away from the abandoned buildings.

Bruce, feeling both himself and not himself could say nothing. He was one man with two memories. For while he remembered seeing the lump in Justin’s bed, rescuing Mo-Jo from the animal control, and the terrifying walk to this place, he also recalled being stranded – alone and forgotten – in the back of the empty shop, locked in his grief over the loss of his wife, and waiting to be rescued. He remembered Justin coming for him and how the boy couldn’t find his way back to the real world. He remembered the two of them stranded there, praying to be found.

Moe trotted ahead, happily sniffing at the fire hydrants and lifting his leg against a teetering lamppost. Dogs, Bruce thought as he watched him. How easily they forget. How quickly they move on. He gave his son a squeeze and the two of them followed the dog out of the place.

The Nightmare by Michelle Scott. Copyright 5/19/2020. All rights reserved.

Want your own copy of The Nightmare? Or would you like to send it to a friend? Follow this link to download a copy.  

Skullcrusher’s Campaign – or a Trip to the Necromancer’s Lair

[image error]If you’ve been keeping up with the story, my character Skullcrusher the half-orc barbarian has been sent on a quest with his eight companions. The details of the mission are sketchy, but none of us trusts the Duke who hired us to end the infestation of the countryside.

When we reached a cave, we knew we were finally getting into the thick of things. As someone new to Dungeons and Dragons, I had no idea what traps awaited. I should also mention we have a dungeon master with a wicked sense of humor.

At first, things went smoothly. We took down a cave troll without breaking a sweat, and were rewarded with healing potions and 30 platinum pieces. There was great rejoicing; although our rogue tried to steal some coins out from under our noses. Skullcrusher threatened to cut off her hand, but the others decided to not split the money with her.

After besting the cave troll, we were getting pretty cocky. Then we entered a room full of skeletons. Bloodstained wooden tables held bone saws, skulls, and metal tongs. Even with the magical light gifted to us by our wizard, the vast space was terrifying. Even for Skullcrusher.

[image error]Immediately upon entering the necromancer’s lair, four disembodied hands attacked us. The skeletons rattled their chains. With great effort, we demolished the skeletal remains. Skullcrusher was finally able to live up to his name when he crushed one of the reanimated skulls, reducing it to shards.

That’s when we saw the mirror. Ten feet wide and ten feet tall, it took up one wall of the lair. We attempted to break it, but it did no good. Idozin the ranger shot an arrow into it, but the arrow disappeared. Was it a portal? Or something more deadly?

We decided to investigate. Our rogue, who is either smarter or wimpier than the rest of us, hung behind while the rest of us entered the mirror. Beyond the reflective surface lay a dusty dining room. Wooden eating utensils, dirty from years of disuse, lay alongside plates of half-eaten food. Whoever had been living there was long gone. Yet, the traps remained.

As we soon learned, danger came come from anywhere. When three members of the group stepped on a pressure plate, a cage fell from the ceiling, trapping them. Only a brute like Skullcrusher (and a really lucky roll of the die) kept them from being trapped forever.

The cave beckons us onward. Who knows what the next installment of the game will bring.

Speaking of necromancy, my Restless Spirits series is on sale for only $.99 .

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Christmas in May – or Trying to Get a Jump on the Holidays

Yes, I get that it’s May, and that I should be looking forward to Memorial Day rather than Christmas. But here’s the thing: as a crafter, I need to start planning for Christmas, like, yesterday.

[image error]It’s a little limp right now, but I’ll be starching it.

Every year I fall into the same trap. November rolls around, and I realize that I haven’t made whatever it is I’d been planning on making. Then in December, I’m frantically trying to knit/crochet/sew projects that I never complete.

This year I swear it will be different, and that’s why I’m crocheting snowflakes now.  I’m using a pattern by Maggie Weldon called simply ‘snowflake Christmas ornament’ (.) Although I plan to use other designs as well. Ultimately, I’d like to make several garlands to decorate my tree and windows as well as give away a few as gifts to friends and family.

I have other holiday projects in the works, too, such as a needlepoint Christmas stocking.  Big plans, I know! Still, these little snowflakes are easy to crochet and small enough to take anywhere. I will have snowflake garland by December. I will, I tell you!

Ginger Snaps – A Girls’ Coming of Age Horror Movie

[image error]I wouldn’t say that there aren’t any coming of age stories that follow a girl’s transition into womanhood, but I will say there are very few good ones, especially in the horror genre. Mostly, movies like Stand by Me (which I realize isn’t horror, but it’s still hard to ignore) are aimed to boys/men. Even in movie like It, Beverly is more like a token character. Ginger Snaps, however, is definitely a rare ‘girls growing up’ story. Yes, it’s horror, but it deals with what young women go through when they’re trying to find their way in the world of adults.

For example, I love the way this movie deals with periods. If you ever want a down-and-dirty look at what women face during their menses, watch the school nurse scene in Ginger Snaps. The movie’s humor is spot on here, and the looks of horror on Ginger’s and Brigitte’s faces when they hear the gory details made me laugh.

In the movie, becoming a werewolf ties in very well with adolescence, even for the guys. It’s messy and frightening. Emotions are off the charts. Sexual activity comes into play as does aggression. Honestly, lycanthropy is one of the best metaphors I’ve run across for puberty.[image error]

I also liked the dynamics between the characters. Even though sisters Ginger and Brigitte’s relationship grows strained as Ginger becomes more and more of a wolf, the two of them ultimately have each other’s backs. Whatever experiences they’re going through, they’re doing to together. At least until the end.

So it hits the mark as a coming of age story, but does it succeed as a horror movie? My vote is ‘yes.’  As a werewolf movie, it’s not entirely novel (my favorite will always be American Werewolf in London), but the tension is real. At the end of the movie, I was riveted. I’m not big into blood and gore, but I was able to watch without fast-forwarding through the yuck. In fact, up until the very end, I thought the movie was quite tame.

Bottom line – Ginger Snaps is a win for me. Great characters, great plot, funny in places, scary in others – I loved it.

 

Everyday Mysteries – The Painted Rocks of Saranac

[image error]Last week, while on a nature walk, I saw that someone had painted this alien face on a rock and left it in a hollow of an old tree. About a half a mile away, I spotted another one at the base of a mailbox.

Someone in my tiny village is painting and hiding rocks!

Now, every time I leave the house, I look for more of these gems. I’ve found them hidden in the guardrail by the creek and alongside a fence. This morning, I spotted another one on my walk. I have no idea who’s hiding them, but I smile every time I see one.

I’m also thinking of incorporating this phenomena into a story. Only instead of rocks, the person leaves behind little totems that bring a wish (or a curse) to anyone who finds them. I’m still mulling over the details, but I’m intrigued.[image error]

Did you know that there is a website devoted to painting and hiding rocks? It’s Paintedrocklife.com . If you find a rock, you can post it on their Facebook page. I’m not sure why this thrills me so much. I guess I’m suffering from too much Covid lock down. But I certainly appreciate the smiles.