Walt Trizna's Blog, page 45

FICTION SEEKING TRUTH, A FREE HORROR STORY

 Fiction Seeking Truth was accepted for publication by Bewildering Stories in July 2008. Of course, this is fiction, but it was inspired by a living author and an incident in his life.

                                           FICTION SEEKING TRUTH

Stewart Kingman was a very successful writer of horror stories.

After an exhausting day of writing, he popped a brew and said to his wife, Talia, “Babe, you know my method for developing a story.  I take some glimmer of truth and twist it into a tale of horror.  What if some of the unworldly situations I create could exist?  People read my books to escape to a world that scares the hell out of them, and they enjoy that world because they can always close the book to escape the horror.  What if some of the horror existed outside the book?  That’s the reason JAWS was so popular – the book was frightening but possible.  You could close the book and jump in the ocean and fiction could suddenly become reality and your ass is shark bait.

“Sure, Dracula had his roots in Vlad the Impaler, but old Vlad was just a weird dude, nothing supernatural, but the public craves the unexplainable, needs it.  I think I’m going to take a lesson from my old friend Houdini and look for the truth behind the fiction.”

Kingman was fascinated by the life of Harry Houdini, living a public life spent creating illusions and a private life seeking the truth behind the illusion, performing as an escape artist and at the same time a debunker of charlatans claiming to be able to communicate with the dead.  Houdini constantly tried to communicate with his dead mother and his efforts only resulted in exposing one fake after another.  As he was dying, he told his wife he would beckon to her from the grave but as far as anyone knew, he never succeeded.

Stewart did not discuss his theory of the truth behind fiction any further with Talia, but she knew that he was doing research on the topic.  He had a vast library of folklore he used to give him ideas for his stories.  He was now spending a great deal of time rereading some of his favorite volumes.

He decided to post a message on his website saying, has anyone had an experience that they feel defies natural law?  This opened the floodgates.

“What a bunch of nonesense,” he said as he scrolled through his email.

The message he was searching for arrived late that spring.

Dear Mr. Kingman,

I read the question on your website – about having a strange experience.  My life has changed since I had a brush with the hereafter.  I can’t explain it, but I seem to be able to control the future.  I’m not a nut.  I just thought I’d respond to your question.

                                          Yours truly,

                                           Frank Talbot

Kingman emailed Talbot requesting more detail.  A few days later Talbot replied.

Dear Mr. Kingman,

It took me a long time to sit down and write this letter.  On one hand, I can’t believe I’m corresponding with you, on the other hand, you’ll think I’m nuts.

I’m a lineman in Massachusetts and last winter we had the ice storm from hell.  I was up on a pole, after working I don’t know how many hours, when I wasn’t careful and touched a live wire.  My work crew told the rest of the details to me.  They lowered me from the pole and I wasn’t breathing.  They took turns doing CPR and got me going again.  The ambulance came, and on the way to the hospital I tried to leave this world again.  The ambulance driver gave me a jolt with the defibrillator, and I returned to the living once more.

Now comes the weird part that you might not believe but I swear it’s true.

I was off from work for a couple of weeks, and it’s during this time that strange things began to happen.  I was sitting in the living room thinking about my kid brother who’s in the army stationed in Iraq and how great it would be to see him. I blacked out for a minute or two after thinking about my brother.  That’s when the TV suddenly came on.  On the TV was a news special and the guy reading the news looked like living death, definitely a strange looking dude.  Then this guy on the TV, looking like an extra from Dawn of the Living Dead says the 85th armor division is coming home – my brother’s outfit.  The screen then went blank.

A month later, my brother came home.

Here’s the really creepy part; the TV wasn’t plugged in.  So now you’re sure I’m nuts, but I swear it’s the truth.  It’s happened a few times since.  I think about something, black out as I’m sitting in front of the TV when Mr. Death Warmed Over comes on the air and makes an announcement, making my thoughts reality.  I don’t know where the broadcasts come from and I don’t know how the TV got unplugged.  Maybe I had some sort of seizure and unplugged it before the broadcast began.  I don’t know.

Anyway, I’ve included my telephone number if you want to call me.

                                                        Yours truly,

                                                         Frank Talbot

Kingman reread the email.  It had a different feeling than all the other he received.  Here was an ordinary guy, not full of self-importance, who could not explain what was happening to him.  He decided to give Talbot a call.

“Hello, Frank Talbot here.”

“Mr. Talbot, this is Stewart Kingman.  I’m intrigued by your experience.  I’d like to meet with you and talk about the phenomenon you describe.”

There was a pause, and then Talbot said, “I guess that would be okay, Mr. Kingman.”  Talbot gave directions to his house and set up a date for Kingman to come see him.  After he hung up, he wondered if Kingman would really believe him; then a smile crossed his lips.

On a pleasant May morning, Kingman set out for Frank Talbot’s house.  He drove onto I-95 planning to take the interstate into Massachusetts.  The traffic was unusually light, and as he approached the Massachusetts boarder, Kingman found that the only vehicle other than his was a tractor-trailer hauling a sailboat, shrink – wrapped in blue plastic down the highway in front of him.

Kingman had the cruise control set on his SUV and the tunes playing. He was slightly daydreaming when the daydream became a nightmare.  The sailboat somehow fell off the trailer and was pin wheeling down the highway heading straight for him.  The weight of the rudder caused the boat to spin faster and faster.   What followed was pure luck.  He swerved to the far-left lane of the three-lane highway with the spinning boat rapidly approaching him.  When he was sure he was going to die, the mast swept over his SUV inches above the roof.  If the boat had been a little smaller and the mast closer to the ground as the boat lay on its side, he would have become a giant Kingman kabob.  He pulled onto the shoulder and sat there until his shaking hands could again grip the steering wheel.  The rest of the trip was uneventful.

He found Talbot’s house without much trouble and pulled into the driveway of a modest ranch.  He was about to knock when the door opened and there stood Frank Talbot, an average looking guy about thirty years of age.  Before Kingman could say hello, Talbot said, “Glad the sailboat missed you.”  This caught Kingman totally by surprise.

“How in the hell did you know about the boat?” but Kingman instantly knew the answer to his own question.  “You saw it on TV.”

Talbot replied, “I had to find a way to convince you that what I was experiencing was real.  I thought that the encounter with the sailboat would get your attention.  I caught Mr. Death’s broadcast just before you pulled into my driveway.”

“You definitely got my attention.  I nearly messed my pants,” Kingman said.  The two men then sat and talked for hours, and when Kingman left he already had the outline for a book, deciding it would be fiction but with an introduction dealing with the fact behind the fiction.  Kingman began writing.

It was late summer, and the writing was progressing well.  Kingman loved walking the country roads near his property.  On an August evening, he set out walking and thinking of the day’s writing and what he would put down on paper next.  He never heard the approaching van.

Kingman awoke in the hospital with more pain than he had ever experienced in his life.  A young doctor told him of his multiple fractures but reassured him that he would walk again.  The doctor also told him that his heart had stopped twice in the ambulance due to the trauma his body had endured.  “They defibrillated you,” the doctor said.

Kingman’s recovery took a long time and rehabilitation was painful.  Shortly after the accident he learned that the driver of the van, already cited twice for reckless driving, blamed Kingman for the accident.  He said that Kingman shouldn’t have been walking on the road.  Kingman felt a rage he had never felt before.  His pain was excruciating.  The painkillers destroyed his writing.  He spent hours just dwelling on the accident, the insane accusations of the van driver and how the whole thing had changed his life.

Fall arrived, the changing leaves brightened the countryside, and Kingman took his first steps with the use of two canes.  Every step delivered agony, but now he knew he would walk again.  He hated the driver that struck him but suppressed it as he tried to overcome the pain and hoped he could be able to write soon.

The trees were now bare; fall was setting the landscape for winter.  Kingman still could not write.  He would spend hours thinking of plots and characters, but when he sat down to put words to paper, nothing would come.

Late one afternoon, as the shadows lengthened, Kingman sat alone in his family room – thinking.  A short walk had left him exhausted, and his legs were screaming with pain.  Suddenly, the TV lit the room.  On the screen, an announcer looking near death related the news of a suicide and produced a picture.  It was a picture of the driver that struck him.  Kingman glanced at the TV’s plug and a slight smile crossed his lips.

                                                               THE END   

YOU KNOW YOU’RE GETTING OLD WHEN . . .

You remember what an iron lung is and what it was for.

YOU KNOW YOU’RE GETTING OLD WHEN . . .

You remember a slide rule, your first calculator.

UNHOLY GROUND, A GHOST STORY

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This is a ghost story with a few twists I hope you enjoy. It is reproduced here, with some minor editing, as it was accepted for publication by Books To Go Now in February 2011.

                 Unholy Ground

                  Walt Trizna

Copyright 2011-Books to Go Now

For information on the cover illustration and design, contact bookstogonow@gmail.com

First eBook Edition –January 2011

Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without momentary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.

                UNHOLY GROUND

                  Zeke Young

 Shaking his head, John Taylor said to newcomer Zeke Young, “I wouldn’t build on this land if I was you.”

Zeke was a lean man, his face weathered from years of working someone else’s property.  Now he would have a farm of his own.  The year was 1754, early spring, and the men were standing deep in the western Pennsylvania woods.  Zeke was not a man to be easily dissuaded.  He fixed John Taylor with a hard stare, and asked, “Why would you say that?”

“Heard tell of strange things happening here on this land at night.  People have seen a kind of glow in the trees, a moving glow.  Them that seen the glow heard ungodly sounds too.  Like a kind of moaning.  People say this place is damned.

“Even the savages that live in these parts avoid this ground.  They say it’s cursed, always has been.  They speak of the Ancients, a tribe of demons that live here underground.  These devils come to the surface to take those that violate their land.  The Indians avoid this area like the plague.  I would steer clear of it too if I was you.”

Zeke Young responded, “Sounds like just the place I’m looking for.  Snooping neighbors and Indian raiding parties will pass me by.  I recon, in the wilderness, a man needs help to survive, but I like my privacy.  I’ll offer help when asked, but I’ll not pass the time of day in idle talk.  Indians, I can do without.”

John Taylor warned again, “Don’t take it so lightly, Zeke.  I tell you the Indians say there are devils living in this here ground.  They say that sometimes if you put your ear to the ground, you can here the devils moan.  I wouldn’t settle my family in this place.”

“You might not,” Zeke said, “but I sure as hell will.”

                    * * *

Zeke, his wife Martha, and two sons – Jake age eight and Thomas age twelve – cleared the land.  Martha, five years younger than Zeke, had a rugged beauty.  Her sons were the image of their father.  As they worked the homestead they did, in fact, hear strange sounds.  In the depths of the woods there were sounds of unknown origin magnified by the quiet.  Sounds that would set the hair on the back of your neck standing, but of course the noise had to be natural, and the source someday discovered.

But Zeke had also seen strange apparitions in the woods.  He chose not to tell his family of the ghostly figures he caught glimpses of at night amongst the trees.  Once, just before retiring, he left the tent the Youngs were now calling home and set out [DJR3] to ensure that all was secured for the night.  In the distance he saw one of the ghostly figures wandering among the trees.  Suddenly, the figure jumped into the air and ascended toward the canopy of the forest.  As he made his way back to the tent, Zeke found he was bathed in a cold sweat.  John Taylor’s warning echoed in his brain.

While constructing his barn, another ominous sign brought to the surface Zeke’s realization that all was not right with this land.

Zeke marked out the placement of the barn.  Before the barn was built, he would dig the root cellar.  Most mornings found Zeke digging, but one day he changed his routine.  It was after supper when he told his wife, “Martha, the root cellar is almost done.  I’m going to finish it tonight and then tomorrow I’ll start getting help to build the barn.” 

The forest was strangely quiet as Zeke approached the area where the barn would stand.  He climbed into the hole that was to be the root cellar and began to dig.  As the shadows of the trees lengthened and the sun dipped below the hills, Zeke became unusually anxious.  With darkness came a heavy fog shrouding the forest with a ghostly haze.  His fears grew until he could no longer work.  He gathered up his tools and began walking back to the tent when he happened to glance back to the root cellar pit.  An eerie red glow filtered through the trees from the hole and something moved within the misty crimson light.

Men from the area helped Zeke raise his barn.  The Young family now lived in it while a house was constructed.  With the barn in place the family could now work to establish a farm in this hostile environment.  Food would be grown and their future more secure.  The barn was a two-story structure with a loft to store hay and three stalls on each side of the main level.  The root cellar was under the rear of the barn.  It provided storage and a hiding place in case of an Indian attack.  But John Taylor was right; Indians steered clear of Zeke’s land.  Jake and Thomas made their bed in the rear of the barn while Zeke and Martha slept near the stalls up front.

It was mid-summer when Zeke made a major purchase in establishing his farm.  He called out as he approached his property, “Martha, boys, come see the new member of our family.  Zeke led a roan mare toward the barn.  The boys were excited at the prospect of a horse to ride, until Zeke said, “This mare will make the farm more productive and release the boys to do more chores.  Hopefully, she will also fill some of these empty stalls with her foals.”

As Zeke approached the entrance to the barn the horse reared, a wild look in her eyes replaced the calm demeanor she had exhibited up until then.  He tried for all his worth but could not get the horse to enter the structure.  In frustration he tied the frightened animal to a tree and let her graze.

That night Martha told Zeke, “At times I feel a strange presence in the barn, like I’m being watched.”

“Nonsense,” said Zeke, “now get to sleep.”  The confidence in his voice belied the growing fear in his heart.

                   * * *

Months later, John Taylor saw Zeke working in his fields preparing for fall planting.  He decided to stop and see how his neighbor was doing.  “How’s it going, Zeke?”

The sight of Taylor caused Zeke to recall the man’s warning which he had to admit was constantly on his mind.  Zeke did not want to reveal the strange occurrences on his land.  He pulled his horse to a stop and laid down his plow.  “Going well enough, John.  The only problem is this damn horse.  She won’t go into the barn.  I’ve tried everything but she stays outside, even in the rain.  I figure when the weather turns cold, she’ll smarten up.”

Taylor asked, “Notice anything strange on your property?”

“Can’t say I have,” answered Zeke, already thinking that he had said too much.  “Sure, there’s the occasional strange sound but when you’re deep in the woods and all’s quiet, lots of normal sounds seem strange.”  Zeke kept his sinister observations to himself.  He feared the ridicule and scorn his fears might provoke.

Taylor nodded in agreement. “You’re right there, Zeke.  Spent some time camping in the deep woods myself.  Heard some weird things.

“That sure is a fine-looking barn you got, Zeke.  Going to start the house soon?”

“The farm’s keeping me pretty busy right now.  Reckon I’ll start the house after fall harvest.”

The two men said their good-byes. 

John Taylor never saw Zeke Young again.

                    * * *

Jake approached his mother one afternoon as she was preparing dinner.  He wanted to talk to her before his father came home, sure that his father would call him a baby for the fears that were on his mind.  “Mom, can’t I sleep toward the front of the barn with you and dad?”

Martha looked at her youngest.  She knew how little Zeke would enjoy company in their bed.  He wanted more sons to work the land and Jake’s presence wouldn’t help in that matter.  “What is wrong with the back of the barn, Jake?”

Jake struggled with what he wanted to say.  Finally, in a quiet voice he said, “I’m afraid when I’m back there at night.”

Martha knew Jake had a vivid imagination.  “There’s nothing to be frightened about, Jake.  You have your brother for company.  Nothing will harm you.”

Jake struggled again to explain his fear.  “There are people in the root cellar.”

Now Martha was sure the problem was Jake’s imagination.  “You saw people in the root cellar?”

“I didn’t see them, Mom.  I heard them.  They said they were coming and that I was on their land.”

She could see that Jake was trembling and wanted to comfort him.  She hugged him, but at the same time knew that Zeke would not tolerate talk like this.  “It’s just your imagination, Jake.  You’ll have to sleep in the back of the barn with Thomas.  We’ll talk tomorrow if you are still worried.”

That night, before going to bed, Martha said, “Zeke, Jake is afraid to sleep in the barn.  Maybe we could let him sleep in the tent?”

Zeke suddenly became angry, “Damn it, woman.  There’s nothing wrong with this barn.  I’ll make no allowances for Jake.”

Zeke seemed so on edge lately.  Martha decided to drop the subject – for now.

                     * * *

That night Jake heard the voices again, but they had now grown louder.  Unable to sleep, he waited for them to begin moaning and calling to him.

“Come join us,” shouted the haunting voices.

There was a new horror this night.  The outline of the door of the root cellar took on a blood-red glow, as if the entrance of hell had opened up beneath the barn.

Jake screamed, “Thomas, Thomas, wake up!”

Thomas stirred from a sound sleep.  “Quiet, Jake!”  What is wrong with you?” he shouted.  But his eyes and ears quickly determined the source of Jake’s fear.  He heard malevolent voices and saw the glow coming from the cellar door.

Before the boys’ unbelieving eyes, the seam along the double doors brightened as they were lifted from below.  The slow creak of the doors intensified as the barn began to fill with the eerie light ushering up from the root cellar.  Long, sinewy arms slowly parted the double doors.  A ghastly face of gray-green flesh came into view.  The two boys screamed for all they were worth.  Zeke and Martha came running toward the rear of the barn seeing the glow and fearing that the barn was on fire.  They stopped dead in their tracks and confronted the horrible visage of the monster rising from the root cellar.

“Boys, come to me!” shouted Martha.

The family huddled together near the stalls, unable to take their eyes off the demon rising from the cellar.  The horror now stood in the barn.  It smiled, revealing pointed teeth, and spoke.  “You have violated the ground of the Ancients.  For this you shall spend eternity guarding the entrance to our domain.”

Suddenly, a host of ethereal figures emerged from the cellar.  They flew to the heights of the rafters and descended upon the family.  One by one the spirits penetrated each member.  As the spirit emerged, the victim fell; their bodies grew indistinct and then disappeared as the phantom they now were shown with intense light.  Zeke was the last to fall victim to the spirits.  His last earthly thoughts were the warnings and signs he refused to heed.

The Young family flew among the rafters, then into the cellar to begin their eternal vigil.

                     * * *

John Taylor woke during the night to make his water.  His eyes were drawn in the direction of Zeke’s place.  A small hill stood between the two properties and beyond the hill a red glow filled the sky.  John was sure that Zeke’s barn was ablaze.  But as he watched, the glow diminished, and then disappeared.  No need to go to the Young place tonight, he thought.  Tomorrow he would visit Zeke to ask him about the light and make sure there was no problem.

                      * * *

The sentries posted by the Indians living in the area observed the red glow in the distance and woke the elder of the tribe.  He came out of his lodge and looked to where the sentries pointed.  His weary eyes saw the distant glow.  Shaking his head, he said, “The Ancients are awake and walk the Earth.  They have claimed new victims to protect their sacred ground.  We must hold council and speak of this matter.”

                      * * *

The following morning John Taylor paid a call to Zeke Young’s place.  As he approached the barn, he was relieved to see that it stood undamaged.  He was sure he would find some member of the family within and knocked on the closed door.

There was no reply.

John slowly opened the door, hoping to find no sign of tragedy.  The barn was empty save for a heavy sulfurous odor.  John left the barn and called out Zeke’s name, still no response.  He walked Zeke’s fields and was unable to find him or any member of his family.  The four had vanished without a trace.  The roan, still tied to a tree, was dead with her eyes wide open, a mask of fear and agony.

                      * * *

Two sentries from the tribe were sent to observe the white man’s barn built on unholy ground.  The usually brave warriors were terrified.  They knew this was land possessed by demons.  On the second night of their vigil, they saw four images, glowing with an unholy light, emerge from the structure.  Then, before the sentries’ startled eyes, the two adult figures took flight and came towards the cowering Indians who fled for their lives. 

No further braves were dispatched to this blasphemous ground.

                      * * *

John Taylor’s son, Simon, age eight, heard his father tell his mother of the mysterious disappearance of the Young family.  “They are simply gone.  They left behind everything.  All their tools, clothes – everything is still in the barn.”

Simon had spent some time in the Young’s barn playing with Jake.  He remembered a ball that Jake had.  I wonder if that ball is still there, Simon thought.  His excitement over finding the ball overshadowed any bad feelings he had for the disappearance of his friend.  He decided that that night he would sneak out of his room and visit the barn.

It was two in the morning when Simon climbed through his window and headed for the Young homestead.  The full moon made finding his way easy.  As he came within sight of the barn Simon realized that his father had been mistaken.  There, before the barn, stood Zeke Young.  Zeke studied his property, and then suddenly focused on the spot where Simon stood.  Simon noticed that Zeke appeared to glow, brighter than the moonlit countryside.  Then Zeke jumped into the air and began to fly directly at Simon.  The boy screamed and ran for all he was worth, stumbling over bramble and bushes, daring not to look back.  After running a good distance, he finally found the courage to look in the direction of the barn.  There, hovering above the building was the glowing specter.  Simon never set foot on that property again.

                    Chris Walters

Zeke Young’s barn stood as a sentinel in the dense forest for two hundred years, pristine, untouched by time or the elements.  Over the years there had been disappearances of those who thought the haunted barn a legend and chose to investigate.  It had been one hundred years since the demons occupying the unholy ground claimed their last victim.  The stories of the property became myths, part of the legend of the area, one that none of the locals dared test. 

Development had yet to march through these rolling hills of Pennsylvania, leaving the countryside spotted with farms and stands of virgin forest.  The surrounding communities shared the legend of the barn from generation to generation.  There was talk of mysterious light and phantoms flying through the sky.  Each generation produced boys seeking to test the legend and dare each other to visit the barn.  Those that made the pilgrimage experienced a strange presence as they approached the structure.  And no matter how brave and daring they felt before they reached the site, none would walk up to the barn, and they never ventured there after dark.  The barn was left alone for years, that is, until Chris Walters moved into a neighboring farm community with his family.

                    * * *

Chris Walters, fourteen, was a recent arrival to the rural town of Pinebrook.  His dad, Bob, and mom, Rachel, were originally from the area.  Shortly after they were married, they decided to move to Philadelphia and start a new life.  They created a new life; his name was Chris.  In the meantime, their dreams of a life in the city were in shambles.  They both had high school degrees but found their education lacking and the city unforgiving.  Bob stumbled from one job to another.  And being the most recent hire, whenever there was a layoff, he was the first to go.

Rachel found work as a secretary, until Chris came along, then the cost of daycare was more than she earned, so she quit her job and became a stay-at-home mom.

Then Bob’s father died unexpectedly.

After Bob received the news, he sat with Rachel in their tiny kitchen and discussed their future.  “You know, Rach,” Bob said as he put down his coffee cup, “we’re not living the life I thought we would.  I’ve got to be honest.  We’re not making it here.”

    Rachel responded, “You are your dad’s only living relative.  His farm will go to you.  With the money we should get for it, we could build that better life.”

“Rachel, the money won’t last long.  Then we’d be back to where we are now.  I don’t want to sell the farm.  I want to work it.  The land is good, and I helped my dad enough years that I could manage it and make it pay.”

There were many more discussions about their future, and gradually Rachel weakened.  In reality, she was not all that fond of Philadelphia.  And Bob was right.  The money would not mean much of a change to their long-term future in the city.  The more they talked, the more she discovered how much she missed her family and friends.  One night, as they lay next to each other, Rachel said, “It’s hard to admit defeat, but maybe we should move back to Pinebrook.  I think the move would do us good and it would be good for Chris too.  He’s been spending time with some bad company lately and I don’t like the direction he’s heading.”

Bob smiled at his wife, and then caressed her.  “We’ll tell Chris in the morning,” Bob said.

They made love as a full moon illuminated the bedroom.

                    * * *

“Bullshit,” Chris screamed when his parents told him of their plan to move to the country.  “Philadelphia is my home.  I don’t want to live with a bunch of hayseeds that get their kicks watching corn grow or whatever the hell they grow out there.”

Chris was tall and lean with a shock of red hair and a face full of freckles.  He resembled his dad and had his dad’s forward manner.  Bob was irritated at how much his son was like him, especially in ways he wanted to change in himself.

“Now listen here,” Bob said.  “The decision is made, so you might as well accept it.  And watch your language.  The attitude you’ve taken lately is one of the reasons we made this decision.

“And furthermore, I’d rather see you keep company with hayseeds than those hoodlums you call your friends.  I did not enjoy picking you up at the police station after you and your friends were caught spraying graffiti on that old warehouse.”

Chris said sarcastically, “We were just being artistic.”

“Well son, your form of art is considered vandalism.  No two ways about it.  We’re moving to Pinebrook to make a new start.”

Chris grumbled up to, during and after the move was completed.  His attitude improved when he met Junior Dawson.  Junior had a talent for getting into trouble and nothing scared him.  Well, almost nothing.

                    * * *

In his fifteen years, Junior Dawson had never strayed far from Pinebrook.  For vacations, his family would seek out campgrounds in nearby Pennsylvania state parks.  He seldom visited a big city.  When Chris moved to Pinebrook, he brought Junior a window to a world he barely knew.

Junior liked Chris’ swagger, his whole attitude.  No one in Pinebrook had an attitude, that is if you didn’t count old-man Alexander, who was perpetually pissed off.  In Pinebrook there was no reason to have an attitude.  People just lived their lives and accepted what came their way.

The two boys were neighbors, but with the size of the farms, their houses were not within sight of one another.  Although they were in different classes at school, they became fast friends.  One lazy Saturday afternoon, Chris asked Junior, “What do you do for kicks around this place?”

“Oh, we hike and fish.  And when it gets warm, we swim in the lake.”

“Shit, John-Boy, I’m talking fun, not Boy Scout camp.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Junior replied.  “There’s not much to do around here.”

“No shit,” answered Chris.

“Listen, when I lived in the city, me and some of my pals used to get cans of spray paint and decorate the walls of some vacant and not so vacant buildings.  Then you could walk by anytime you wanted and look at your artwork.”

Junior said, “I know what graffiti is but what are you going to paint around her’, the trees?  All the farms are busy places.  You can’t even sneak up on them at night for all the dogs.  There aren’t any vacant buildings except…                                         ‘

“Except what?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit!  Except what?”

“Well, there’s this old barn.  Sits all by itself in the middle of the woods about a mile or so from here.  People around here don’t talk about it much.  It’s a strange place.  I’ve been to it once and don’t want to go back there again.”

“Man, it sounds perfect.  What could be so strange about an old barn in the middle of nowhere?  I bet it’s just screaming for a paint job.”

“No, it’s not, Chris. Believe me, it’s not.  No one knows how old the barn is, but it looks like it was built yesterday.  And although no one tends to it, the forest just grows up to about twenty feet from the barn and stops.”

“Oh, that sounds scary,” Chris said with all the sarcasm he could muster.

Junior said, “I’ve been there once, with a couple of friends during the day.  The place gave me the creeps; a strange feeling like someone was watching me.  Like someone was about to yell at me.  We all high-tailed it outa there.  We all felt the same thing and it didn’t feel good.”

“Now you’re really getting me scared, Junior.  There’s an old, abandoned barn in the middle of the woods that everyone around here is afraid to visit.  Shit, it sounds perfect.  We can paint to our heart’s content, and no one will ever disturb our work.  Maybe we could make it into a kind of clubhouse, a kind of drinking and smoking clubhouse.

“I don’t think it’s such a good idea, Chris,” Junior said.

“I do.  Let’s go.”

After more arguing, Junior finally gave in.  The boys headed down the dirt road that separated their properties.  Fields of wheat and corn bordered the road, with an occasional stand of trees.  The air was full of the smell of a country afternoon and insects, which the boys would swat away.  Once past their farms, Junior slowed and began looking for a trail that would lead off to the right.  He finally found what he was looking for.

“Here’s the trail to the barn.”

“You call that a trail.”

“I told you no one comes out here.  We shouldn’t be here either.”

“Don’t pussy-out on me now, Junior.  Take me to your scary barn.”

Following the path was not easy.

“I can’t believe how dense this forest is.” said Chris.

“You want to turn back?”

Chris shoved Junior in the back and said, “Keep going.”

They walked for half an hour, crossing streams and glancing up at the giant canopy of trees blocking the sky.  If anything, the trees became denser as they walked making the going extremely difficult.

“Oh, Junior, this place is so scary even the bugs won’t come here,” Chris said.

This only added to Junior’s fears because the bugs really were gone.

Suddenly, up ahead there appeared a clearing.  In the middle of the clearing stood a barn, painted white.  The doors and shutters surrounding the window of the loft were painted black and closed.

“You are sure this barn is old, Junior?  It looks brand new.”

“I told you this was a strange place. And I’m sure it’s old.  My grandpa said his grandpa told him about it.”

Chris immediately observed how clear the area was around the building, and asked, “Who keeps the area around the barn free of trees?”

“No one,” answered Junior.  “I told you.  It just stays clear on its own.”

The boys stood at the edge of the trees. 

“Can you feel it, Chris?  Like we’re being watched.  Like we’re not alone.”

Looking off, Chris pointed to a figure emerging from behind the barn and said, “We’re not alone.”

                Old-man Alexander

 “Get the hell out of here,” came a shout.

“Shit,” said Junior.  “It’s old-man Alexander.”

“What the hell is he doing here?  I thought this place was sooo scary.”

“I don’t know,” said Junior.  “Let’s get out of here.”

Chris replied, “This is turning into a regular convention.  I want to know what he’s doing out here.”

The old man stumbled toward the boys dressed in his standard uniform.  Years ago, the sweatshirt he wore had been gray; now it was a mottled camouflage of grime.  His worn stained bib overalls completed the outfit.  As he approached, he took sips from a large bottle.  The boys could see that his eyes were glazed, and they could smell the alcohol on his breath as he weaved toward them.

“I said what the hell are you doing here?”

“What the hell are you doing here?” asked Chris.

This stopped the old man; his withered face formed a grizzled smile.  Swaying, he said, “I like places where no one else is.  I likes my privacy, my drinking privacy.”

                      * * *

As a teenager, Kermit Alexander had few friends.  He was a loner, kept to himself and was already making his way down the road to alcoholism.  He was sometimes teased, “Go out to that old barn in the woods.  No one will bother you there.”

That’s what he decided to do.  He had heard strange stories about the barn.  None of which he believed.  Kermit decided to trek out there and check things out for himself.

He had trouble finding the structure.  He eventually stumbled into a clearing and there it stood, looking like it had just been built.  As soon as he entered the clearing, he felt strange, frightened.  He couldn’t figure out why.  Kermit’s fear became so intense he ran back into the trees.  “Shit,” he said to himself, “What the hell is wrong with me?”

Kermit had recently developed a taste for wine.  “Next time, I’ll fortify myself on the way through the woods.”

From then on, during his journeys to the barn, his fear was replaced by numbness, a numbness he would maintain for the rest of his life.

                    * * *

Aren’t you afraid to be out here alone?” asked Junior.  “Doesn’t this place give you the creeps?”

“Nope,” said Alexander.  He held up his bottle and said, “I bring along my courage.”  The old man mellowed as he began to talk about his past to the boys.

“Started coming out here when I was about you boys’ age.  Matter of fact started drinking about that time too.  First couple of times I come out here I was sort of scared; don’t honestly know why.  Then I started priming the pump as I walked through the woods.  By the time I reached the clearing, I wasn’t scared of nothin’.  ‘Cept one time had a little too much courage.  Fell asleep.  Voices woke me up.”

“What voices?” asked the boys in unison.

“Don’t rightly know.  It was near dusk.  The voices were coming from the barn, strange voices.  They were calling me.  Got my ass out of there fast.  Never stayed late again.”

Chris asked, “Sure you weren’t hearing things, old man?”

“Don’t shit with me, punk.  I know the stories about this place.  Damn barn sits on unholy ground, Injun ground.  No one comes out here at night no matter how much courage they had.”

“Let’s go home,” said Junior.  “I’ve still got chores to do.”

The boys turned and left.  Behind them, they could hear old-man Alexander laughing.

Once they were deep into the forest, Junior remarked, “I told you that was a scary place.”

“Right,” Chris said sarcastically.  He was pissed that the old man was laughing as they left.  It only made him more determined to revisit the barn.  Chris could not get those pristine white walls out of his mind.  Those walls were just screaming to him to be decorated.  And now that he knew they were protected during the day, so daytime visits were out.  He also knew that no one would be there at night.

“What do you say we visit the barn at night?” Chris asked Junior.

“Are you crazy?  I’m not going there at night!”

“You’re going to let the stories of an old drunk scare you?  Didn’t you hear how he was laughing?  He was laughing because he thinks he frightened us away.  Let’s check out the barn at night and see what’s really going on inside.”

Junior replied, “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“I do,” said Chris.  “I’ll meet you on the dirt road tonight.  Bring a flashlight.”

Junior shook his head and turned for home knowing he could not let his friend down.

                  The Barn

 Moonlight illuminated the night.  A full moon hovered over the rolling Pennsylvania hills as Chris and Junior snuck out of their houses to carry out Chris’ artistic callings.  As Chris made his way down the road, he could see Junior up ahead.  Finding the barn by daylight was difficult enough, at night, if Chris was alone, it would be impossible.

“How’s it going, Junior?  Ready to do a little painting?”

“I’m telling you, Chris, this is not a good idea.”

Junior could see the determination in his friend’s eyes.  Armed with five cans of spray paint and flashlights, they made their way down the dirt road toward the barn.

Initially, the boys let the moonlight guide them.  Crickets filled the night with their song, joined by the occasional frog.  When they were farther along, they illuminated the forest to their right with their flashlights.  Chris knew it would be difficult to find where the path branched off the road.  Junior told him, “There are two tall maple trees, one on either side of the path.  Keep a lookout for those trees.”

The walk seemed longer than the last time to Chris.  Maybe it was the night or maybe it was doing something that Junior and old-man Alexander warned him against.

Junior found the two maples.  Now their flashlights have become a necessity.  The dense forest blocked the moonlight just as it did the sun.  The nighttime forest had an intensified air of mystery, more sinister than during the day.  The soft rustlings on either side of the path only served to increase the sense of dread.  More than once, Chris considered turning back.  But he could not, would not give in to the seeds of fear planted by the locals.  As he walked next to Junior, he sensed a tension in the forest, something he had not felt during his daytime visit.  He also knew Junior was terrified.  At one point his friend was actually whimpering.  Then the boys thought they heard distant voices.

“You hear that, Chris?  Let’s turn back.”

Chris shoved him in the back.  “Keep going,” he said.

Up ahead, Chris saw a moonlit area through the trees.  He knew he was approaching the clearing and the barn.  The boys stepped out of the forest.

Chris walked up to the barn.  Junior hung behind shaking with fear.  From his backpack, Chris produced the cans of spray paint and began to deface one side of the wooden structure.  He laughed as he painted his name in outlandish letters and added a multitude of designs.  The painting went on until the cans ran dry.

He turned to Junior.  “Now that is what I call art.”

Junior’s response was, “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

                     * * *

For the next week all Chris could think about was how great it felt to spread his graffiti over the white walls of the barn.  With the image of the three remaining virgin walls in his mind, he decided to purchase more paint and complete the project.  He approached Junior and asked, “What do you say we decorate the barn a little more?  I’ll let you share bragging rights when we go back to school.  I’ll meet you tonight.”  Chris turned, not giving Junior a chance to reply.

The boys met on the road.  This time the moon was only a sliver and they had to use their flashlights much earlier.

“This will be awesome,” Chris told Junior.  He could see his friend shaking with fear while he experienced an adrenaline rush.

The boys made it to the clearing and the barn.  Junior elected to remain amongst the trees while Chris approached the barn.  “Shit, what the hell?” Chris said.  He looked in disbelief.  There wasn’t a sign of the painting he had done.  The wall of the barn glowed a pristine white.

Then he heard voices coming from within.  He could see blood-red light through the joints in the wall.  He wanted to confront whoever spoiled his artwork.  Something was taking place in the lower confines of the building.  Suddenly, the place just didn’t feel right.  Chris’ courage dissolved in a need for flight.  That’s when his eye caught a figure standing before him where none had been a moment ago.

It was a boy dressed in an odd costume – old fashioned.  Even more peculiar was that the boy glowed from within.

“My name is Thomas Young.  My family and I have been waiting for a visitor, someone to help us protect this ground”

Junior shouted, “Chris, run!”  But Chris was frozen to the spot.

The boy continued, “I welcome you to the land of the Ancients.  You have angered them, and it is with them that you will dwell forever.”

The glowing youth stepped closer.  Soon the boys stood face to face.  As Chris stood stark still, the boy took another step and went through Chris.  He suddenly felt cold; falling to the ground he underwent the conversion to a sentry of the Ancients. 

“You are one of us now.  You will dwell in this barn and guard the land.  To leave this clearing is to enter oblivion.”  Thomas turned and walked through the barn wall.

Chris stood alone in the moonlight, unable to comprehend what had happened.  He looked toward the welcoming forest, and in an instant, felt the loss of his life and his future, feared the existence that awaited him.

Junior ran back into the forest, never to enter the territory of the Ancients again.

                      * * *

Junior never told anyone about the incident at the barn, even when the police questioned him about his friend’s disappearance.  Never said a word until one day his grandson asked, “Gramps, do you know about the haunted barn?”

                      THE END

YOU KNOW YOU’RE GETTING OLD WHEN . . .

You remember a comedian, at the end of his show, saying, “Good night, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are.

AND THEN HE RESTED, A SHORT STORY

And Then He Rested was accepted for publication by Bewildering Stories in December 2007. The story has definite religious overtones and I thought this might be a problem. It wasn’t.

                                       AND THEN HE RESTED

David Roser, a twenty-two-year-old graduate student, was summoned to Dr. Smithfield’s office one bleak winter afternoon.  David was enrolled at M.I.T. in the Astronomy Department.  He chose this field for it provided the opportunity to dwell on concrete observations, but also gave him a chance to dream, to ponder the vastness of space and the possibilities of what might exist out there.

He was also in awe of Dr. Springfield.

Springfield had won a Nobel Prize in physics for his study of the cosmos.  To work under the guidance of Dr. Springfield went well beyond an honor.  It allowed him to tread the sacred ground of the universe.

To be summoned to Springfield’s office was a rare pleasure David savored for the man truly had the characteristics of the absent-minded genius.  When thinking, he constantly smoked his pipe, and a wave of aromatic smoke followed him.  All the buildings on campus were smoke-free, but no one had the nerve to tell Dr. Springfield to extinguish his pipe.  To add to the dilemma, he was hard of hearing and anyone daring to reprimand him would have brought attention to someone shouting at a Nobel Prize winning laureate.

David knocked loudly on Dr. Smithfield’s office door.

“Come in,” came a preoccupied voice far louder than normal.

David opened the door to see Dr. Springfield seated at his cluttered desk, his head wreathed in a cloud of smoke as he puffed furiously at his pipe.

“David, thank you so much for coming.  Have a seat.”

Smithfield motioned to the only chair in the office.  It was piled high with books, which David carefully removed and stacked on the floor.  As he waited for the professor to complete his work, David drank in the atmosphere of the room.  Most of the wall space was taken up with bookshelves piled haphazardly with books and stacks of papers.  On the little wall space available hung framed photos taken by famous astronomers.  There were pictures taken using the Hubble telescope of distant galaxies and images of the planets taken from some of the most famous observatories on Earth.  They were all taken by world-famous astronomers and given to Dr. Springfield.  All the photos had been taken by former pupils.

Smithfield’s desk was huge, taking up a third of the room.  The surface was overflowing with books, papers and star charts.  So although the desk was massive, the work area was minimal.

After a few minutes had passed, David loudly cleared his throat, not sure if Springfield remembered that he was there.  Because of the professor’s hearing all communication had to be done quite aggressively.  His deafness also accounted for his booming voice.

“David, there’s been an important discovery.  I’m sure you have heard about the cloud of matter found revolving around a distant star in the Cancer system.  The cloud is approximately the same distance the Earth is from our sun, and the star around which it travels is very similar to our own.”

“Yes, professor.  The news is full of the discovery.”

Smithfield continued, “What makes this find truly exciting is that it is a window to the formation of our own planet.  It will take billions of years, but someday this mass of debris may form another Earth.  What is also so exciting is that, because of the distance of this system, we will be observing a planet form at approximately at the very time our own came into existence, give or take a few million years.

“The reason I wanted to see you, David, was that I want you to be involved in taking some of the initial measurements to determine the characteristics of this mass.  Yours will be some of the first data recorded.  For unknown generations, scientists will follow this planet’s development.  It will be an important view to our past.”

David said, “I feel honored that you want me to do this work, but will it lead to a project for my degree?”

“I’m afraid not.  We’ll only have about two weeks to record the initial data, then that area of the sky won’t be visible for observation for another hundred years.  But who knows, with the advancement of space-based telescopes, we may be able to gather more data before that.”

                                                 * * *

David made his observations over the next week, and they were truly amazing.  He was sure his measurements were incorrect, so he did not inform Dr. Springfield of his findings.  He did, however, consult with other astronomers after five days.  David found he was one among many who did not believe their results.

On the seventh day after David began his observations, the hallways of M.I.T. were in an uproar.  The astronomy building had lost its mantle of reserve and discipline.

Springfield did not hear the shouts echoing through the corridors.  Beyond his office it was pandemonium.

A bewildered David Rosen knocked on Springfield’s door.

“Come in,” boomed the professor’s voice.

David was upset, mystified and euphoric all at the same moment.  He was on the brink of tears as he walked into Springfield’s office.

“David, what is the matter?  You look like something is terribly wrong, son.”

“Professor, I’ve finished the project.”

Smithfield said, “I thought we could observe the mass for at least two weeks.  Did you make the necessary measurements before you lost it?”

With a laugh that was almost mad, David said, “No professor, the project is finished.  The debris is now a planet.”

Smithfield looked puzzled, “How could that be?” he asked.  “There must be some mistake.”

“No, professor, there is no mistake.  I’ve checked with other observatories.  There is now a planet there.  It took six days!”

                                                 THE END 

YOU KNOW YOU’RE GETTING OLD WHEN . . .

You remember rabbit-ears atop the TV. If you remember what rabbit-ears are.

MANSION OF NIGHTMARES, A GHOST STORY

Mansion of Nightmares was accepted for publication in the print anthology, Spellbound, by Mélange Books in June 2011.

             MANSION OF NIGHTMARES

My name is Patrick Brodie, and I fear I am going mad.  Let me change that; I am going mad with the fear of my death.  I have lived all my twenty years in a small town in southeast Pennsylvania, and located in the boundaries of this town is where my problem began.  I fear this shadow hanging over my life may never end, or perhaps it is over.  I shall never know for sure.

I fear sleep, more specifically, dreaming.  I am in dread of what might happen during a dream – my destruction.  I know I can escape the horror in my dream, but what if some day, I can’t.

Ever since I was quite young, I was intrigued by an old, abandoned mansion not far from my home.  I would ask my dad, as we drove by the forlorn estate, “Dad, what is that place?”

“Patrick,” he would answer, “I don’t know.  I’ve heard stories about it, but they make little sense.  Tell you the truth, I’ve often wondered about the true story of that place myself.  Someday, when you’re older, why don’t you trace the property’s history?  It shouldn’t be that difficult.  Maybe the local historical society would be a good place to start.”

If I had only taken my dad’s advice before I decided to investigate the mansion with my friend, Brian, I might have discovered the legend and Brian might still be alive.  But what’s done is done.  There is no going back.  If I am unfortunate to return to the mansion in my dreams, I may join Brian in what, I fear, is a never – ending hell.

The mansion that is the center of this horror sat at the intersection of two major thoroughfares at the edge of the small hometown.  The place was far removed from either road by maybe a thousand feet.  For those who drive by it is practically invisible, hidden by towering trees and overgrown with vines.  The entrance to the deteriorating road leading to the house was framed by two brick columns with peeling plaster, between the columns hung a heavy chain blocking the entrance.

The mansion was enormous, the largest construction in the area, and surely one of the oldest.  The exterior, which once was white, had turned a mottled gray.  The two-storied structure contained many additions.  Several gables occupied the roof, along with four massive chimneys. The roof was now sagging, a testament of neglect, as columns still supported the entrance with its massive doors.

The property was enormous; I had no idea how large.  The area had experienced a rapid increase in construction, yet no Mc Mansions sprung up like mushrooms as they did these days in almost every empty tract of land.

I wanted to explore this fascinating structure, but not alone.

It was a fall sunny Saturday, when I approached my friend, Brian Jacobs, to join me on my adventure.  I said to Brian, “You know that old house?”  And then I went on to describe it.

“Sure, Pat, that place gives me the creeps every time I pass it.  I guess every town has a haunted house, if there’s one in this town, that’s it.”

“Brian, I want you to go with me and explore it.”

“Are you nuts?”  He answered.  “We’ve both lived here for eighteen years and how many times have you heard of someone talk about going into that creepy place?”

“Well,” I said, “never.”

“Right.  So maybe there’s a reason.”  

“Like what?” I asked.

Brian answered, “Like you might not come out.  I don’t know.”

“Exactly,” I answered, “you don’t know.  We could be the first.  Where’s your spirit of adventure?  What could happen?”

I could not put into words because I was drawn to explore the old mansion, I just was.  After I made many derogatory remarks about his manhood, Brian reluctantly agreed.  He’s, my buddy.

“Okay genius, how do we get in with no one seeing us?” he asked.

I had already thought about how we would approach the mansion, “Some Saturday we’ll walk over.  We only live about a fifteen-minute walk away.  I’ll meet you about noon and we’ll go explore.”

“Oh, now I see,” Brian said.  “We just stroll past the ‘Do Not Trespass’ signs, duck under the chain keeping everyone out, while we are on a major busy street in the area, and casually saunter up the long drive.  Sounds like fool-proof plan to me, fool”.

“That’s not what we’re going to do smart-ass.  We’ll approach it from the rear.  I’m sure we’ll be able to get in with nobody seeing us.”

                    * * *

A month or so later we finally had a Saturday when we would both be free for the afternoon.  We met and walked through the wild area of trees and brambles to approach the mansion from the rear.  As we walked closer to the structure, I was overwhelmed by a feeling of uncertainty.  Seeing the building up close lent an entirely new perspective than when viewed at distance from the road.  It certainly had the air of neglect, but it still radiated the feeling of a strength not found in this day and age.

Like commandos, we stealthily made our way to the front entrance.  This wasn’t necessary for the tall oak trees that surrounded the mansion, to say nothing of the massive number of vines the covered not only the trees, but the house itself, hid any view of the entrance from the road. 

As we approached the entrance, I found what I expected; the huge doors were chained and secured with a massive padlock.

“Okay, what do we do now?” Brian asked.

I answered, “No problem.  Didn’t you notice all the tall broken windows that we walked past on the first floor?  We just break them a little more, and we’re in.”

I could read a great deal of apprehension in Brian.  I felt the same, but I was also the one who started this whole thing, and I was determined to see it through.  Looking back, you might say good sense was replaced by pride.

We walked around the structure, and before long, found a window destroyed by a fallen branch.  We cleared the debris away from the window, and there was our entrance.

The gloom was overpowering, even though it was day.  A feeling of dread overcame me, but I had to go on, I was the one that initiated this adventure.  Dust lay heavy on the floor and every other surface. 

Brian whispered, as if he were in a church or a library, “Pat, this just doesn’t feel right.  I don’t think we should be here.”

I answered, “Brian, it’s the middle of the day.  Bad things happen only at night, and that’s in the movies.  This is real.  Let’s go explore.”

We had entered through the dining room, and soon found a massive wooden staircase, decrepit but for the most part intact, leading to the upper levels.  Along the way we left our tracks in the dust.  It was obvious that no one had been in this house for a very long time.  I’m not sure if this allayed or enforced our feeling of discomfort upon entering the structure.

We carefully crept up the staircase, singularly, testing each step before applying our full weight.  Surprisingly, the stairs were in good condition, having no trouble accepting our tread, which seemed unusual at the time, but later the reason would become crystal clear.

The landing on the second floor was also intact, along with the long hallway containing six closed doors.  Upon trying the doors, we discovered the bedrooms beyond were just a mass of rotten floors and collapsed ceilings.  It was evident, also, that many of the gabled rooms and roofs had completely deteriorated, collapsed onto the bedrooms, yet mysteriously, the structure maintained some integrity.  As I mentioned earlier the first five bedrooms, we examined were all but destroyed with the above gabled rooms and roof collapsing in on them and becoming victims of the elements.  Then we opened the door to the sixth bedroom, and much to our surprise, found the room to be dust covered but intact.

Somehow, the last bedroom we entered had escaped the ravages of time.  The walls, although lined with rotting bookcases, appeared strong as well as the floor.  This room must have contained a massive library.  I could only imagine the magnificent books these now decrepit shelves must have contained.  The wall opposite the window contained a massive fireplace, still appeared to be able to welcome a warming fire.  Dust was heavy on the floor, but the room was unusually sound.  Neither one of us could understand how this room had survived while the others had become decayed. 

Brian said, “This place gives me the creeps.  Why is this room okay?  What is that all about?  Let’s get the hell out of here, I’ve seen enough.”

“Okay, Brian, I guess we’ve seen enough up here.  Let’s go back downstairs and explore the first floor.  That should be much safer and less scary.”

We made our way down and began to explore, I must say, with a great deal more confidence.  The only room we had examined so far was what we thought to be the dining room, which when we exited, allowed a view of the staircase.  Directly off from the dining room, we entered a large room that must have been the kitchen.  A wing off the dining room contained a room lined with decaying bookshelves, which we assumed was a library or study.  Another door of the dining room led toward the front of the mansion.  That was where we found a massive room, which we imagined must have been the living room where a multitude of guests could be entertained.  It was also there that we made a discovery that will haunt me all the days of my life, and I’m sure, cost Brian his.

Brian whispered, although there was no need to, “I’m getting out of here.  This place is way beyond creepy.”

I assured Brian we would leave soon, but for some reason, I wanted to explore this room.  The room, of course, was empty upon first inspection.  Then we noticed a massive fireplace that nearly filled one wall, and above the mantle was a portrait.  This was the only remnant of decoration or furniture that remained. 

Above the fireplace was the portrait of a young woman.  She appeared to be in her early twenties and of rare beauty.  She had raven hair made-up in an extreme hairdo of bygone times.  Severe was her dress, a dress buttoned high up to her slim neck, but none of these trappings could conceal her beauty.  We were both drawn to the painting.

In the painting, the girl stood to the left, while to the right, in the distance, was the very mansion we were now in as it appeared in its glory days.  Between the girl and the mansion was a great looming storm.  Massive grey clouds swirled through the sky, yet the girl appeared unconcerned.  The storm gave the painting an ominous feeling.

Brian said, “She must have been so hot.  Who do you think she was?”

I studied the painting, and said, “I’m sure she was important to the owner.”

As we made a closer inspection of the painting, we found that it was not hung over the fireplace, but rather, attached to the wall.  We both tried to move it without success.

Brian again whispered, “Shit man, this is beyond creepy.  This place has been gutted, for who knows how long, of everything but this picture.  What’s that about?”

I answered, but not with a valid explanation, “For the obvious reason, asshole.  You can’t get it off the wall.  The important question is: why can’t we get it off the wall?”

We left the mansion the same way we entered.  But the image of that beautiful girl was hauntingly burned into my mind.  Later, I would find she had also made a lasting impression on Brian.

I went home thinking of the mansion and the beautiful girl I had seen in the painting.  Perhaps I thought about her a bit too much.  For that night, I had a dream that would become the nightmare of my life.

In my dream, I returned to the mansion, but it appeared as it had existed in the past.  The structure was gleaming white and not overgrown with vines.  The roof was intact and not crumbling in on itself. It was solid and secure. There was a large fence made of iron stances separating the property from a dirt road.  The massive expanse between the house and the road was a magnificent green.  Then before my eyes night rapidly fell.  The mansion was dark with the exception of one room on the second floor, one of the bedrooms.  I knew from the location of the light that it was the very room that Brian and I found to be somehow preserved.  I soon discovered the reason it was so immaculately intact, but not why.

I suddenly found myself in the bedroom I observed light from the lawn.  The fireplace contained a welcoming fire.  All around the room candles were lit, offering a mellow glow and the feeling of peace.  Opposite the fireplace was a large, canopied bed with the covers turned down.  The remainder of the room was filled with what I considered antique furniture.  But what do I know. 

From a door to the right of the canopied bed, a door slowly opened.  I cannot describe the fear I felt at that moment, even though it was just a dream.

From the opened door stepped the young woman from the portrait hanging below.  She was barefoot and wore a diaphanous nightgown.  Her raven hair was down around her shoulders.  Clear were her beautiful breasts and rose-red nipples.  My eyes traveled down the gossamer fabric to the black thatch of hair between her legs.

She beckoned me with lovely, outstretched arms and an alluring smile.  I felt myself become hard and could not wait to enter those welcoming arms.

As I stepped forward eagerly, my feet tangled, and I fell to the carpeted floor.  That act of clumsiness saved my life, but for how long I don’t know.

Before my eyes, the air around the beautiful girl wavered; before my eyes stood a monster backed by time.  If there is a hell, this demon was one of its residents.  Her delicate hands grew talons, and her body became an obscene visage.  I backpedaled out of the room, and once clear of the door, ran for my life.

That was when the dream ended.

I awoke the next morning with a start, tangled in my sheets, fully remembering the wonderful dream that soon became a nightmare.  The welcoming sight of my bedroom offered the feeling of safety and security.  Those sensations were fleeting, for I immediately knew something was terribly wrong.  My feet ached.

Upon inspection, I found that they were blackened, bruised and cut.  A cold chill went through my body as I realized the dream was perhaps not a dream.  I knew what I had to do.

                    * * *

I dressed and had a quick breakfast, and then set out for the local historical society.  Our town isn’t very large, and the mansion stood on such a large piece of property that I was certain there some knowledge of the place’s history must be recorded.

As I entered the research section, I was approached by a woman who appeared to be in her thirties.  Otherwise, the area was empty.  She said, “I’m Marjorie Factor, head of research for the most part, I am research.  How can I help you?”

I told her about the mansion.  “I’m curious about the history of the place.  And why the property was never sold.”  To my surprise, she knew exactly the piece of property I was talking about.

“You’re talking about the old Brewster place.  We do have information on the history of the place.  It was quite a magnificent piece of property, in its time.  I’ll show you where to find the documents, but after you have studied them and want more information, I suggest you return them tomorrow.  That’s when our volunteer, Elizabeth McConnell, will be working here.  She is in her late eighties and knows more about the area than anyone I’ve met around here.  She can fill you in about the Brewster Manor legend.  She was told about the legend by her mother, who lived into her nineties.  Her mother, Florence, worked as a maid for Nathaniel Brewster.  Florence was present when the seeds of the legend were sown.

“I’ll show you what records we have, but if you’re interested, I strongly suggest you come back tomorrow and speak to Elizabeth.  Depending on how much detail you want, she can tell you things that have never been recorded.”

Marjorie led me to a basement room lined with file cabinets.  She said, “Our material is referenced by year and subject.  I suggest you begin with the name, Brewster.  Enjoy your research.”  She then left me to my work.

I quickly found a heavy file with the heading, Brewster.  I brought the file to one of the tables provided, sat down with my pad and pen, and began reading.

Nathaniel Brewster made a fortune in building railroads.  There was a long article about his background published in 1869, when he moved to this area.  He was then in his forties and a bachelor.  Brewster said, in an interview, that he was married to his work.  But the next article indicated that was about to change.  The article was an engagement announcement of Mr. Nathaniel Brewster to Miss Amy Douglas. The article was accompanied by a picture of the couple.

Brewster looked like a man who was accustomed to being the one in control.  He appeared intense, with piercing eyes, not one you would want to cross.  Amy was a beauty.  She had black hair and looked to be in her early twenties.  She strongly resembled the girl in the portrait we discovered in the mansion.  Could she be the same woman in the painting? 

Further article described Brewster’s business success.  Then, in an article dated 1871, there was a piece talking about the beginning of construction on Brewster Manor, designed by a famous architect.  The building of Brewster Manor was apparently a major point of interest in the community.

I soon came to nearly the end of the file when I discovered a shocking piece of information about the Brewsters.  At the back of the file were three small articles, folded, that could easily be missed.  One was a birth announcement, and one an obituary filed on the same day.  Amy had died giving birth to her daughter, Sarah.

The final article was the obituary of Nathaniel Brewster.  He lived more than twenty years after his wife, Amy, died.  His wife was mentioned in the obit, but there was no mention of a daughter.  I felt this was very strange and was certain I would return tomorrow to learn the Legend of Brewster Manor and try to make some sense of my mysterious dream.

After gathering my notes and returning the Brewster file, I went to find Marjorie.  She was stationed at her desk; she looked up and asked, “Did you find what you wanted?”

I answered, “Yes and no.  I would really like to talk to your volunteer about the legend of the mansion.  When will she be in?”

“Come tomorrow after ten.  I’ll let her know if you want to talk to her.  I’ll tell you; I think she would be anxious to talk to you about the residence.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” I said.  “Thanks for your help.”

                                                           * * *

The next morning, while I sat eating breakfast, my mom received a phone call.  She turned to me while she held the phone, “Its Brian’s father.  Brian’s parents are frantic.  He went to sleep last night, and everything appeared normal.  Now he’s gone.  They haven’t a clue as to where he may have gone. 

“Do you know anything about where he may have gone?  Did he say anything?”

“I haven’t seen Brian for a few days,” I answered.  “And the last time I did see him he was fine.”  But as I talked to my mother, I could not help but wonder if Brian had had the same dream.  What had I set in motion with my curiosity?

My mother was still on the phone when I left for the historical society.  It was not ten yet, I just needed to leave the house and be alone with my thoughts.  I thought about prospects that were unbelievable, unthinkable, that couldn’t possibly happen.

I entered the historical society a little after ten and proceeded to Marjorie’s desk.  Sitting next to Marjorie was a frail old woman, whom, I was sure, was the volunteer that would answer my many questions.

As I came closer, I heard Marjorie say, “This is the young man I was telling you about, Elizabeth.  He was researching the old Brewster place, and I told him you could give him more detail, and about the legend.”

The old woman stood and came around the desk to shake my hand.  At first sight, she appeared frail, but that was deceiving, for she had a firm grip and pale blue eyes that twinkled as those of a younger woman.  With a determined walk she led me down to the research area.

As we walked, she said, “It’s most unusual that anyone is still interested in Brewster Manor, especially such a young man as you.  May I ask why you want to know about the place?”

“Well,” I said, “I’ve noticed the place since I was a small kid.  I just wanted to know more about it.”

Elizabeth suddenly stopped.  “You haven’t been in there have you, son?”

My silence answered the question.

“Oh dear,” Elizabeth said, “This is not good.  This is trouble.  I’m probably the only one who knows the legend of Brewster Manor, and surely the only one that knows it is more than a legend.”

We approached a reference table and sat opposite each other.  The concern on the old lady’s face sent a chill down my spine.  She began speaking quietly and would eventfully answer my questions and confirm my worst fears.

“As I’m sure you know, Brewster Manor was built by Nathaniel Brewster.  He was a wealthy man and somewhat of a loner, that is, until he met his future wife, Amy. 

“The local papers were full of their marriage and then the building of the mansion.  Once the mansion was built, they hired a small army of servants, one of which was my mother.  My mother’s name was Florence, and she was there when talk of the legend began.  She, however, knew that at least some of it was not legend, but truth.

“Nathaniel and Amy moved into the manor.  They were so happy.  Nathaniel worshiped his wife.  My mother overheard him tell Amy over and over how much she had changed his life and made him more human.  In a short time, Amy became pregnant, and the couple could not be happier.  Nathaniel looked forward to filling the mansion with children and having heirs to pass on his wealth.  Those were the happiest days poor Nathaniel would ever have.

“Amy was a petite woman, and the baby grew to be quite large.  This was the 1870’s and medical knowledge was not it is today.  Amy died giving birth to her daughter, Sarah.

“Nathaniel Brewster was devastated, to say the least.  A dark curtain settled over the entire household; one that would never lift.

“I don’t know if Nathaniel ever held his daughter.  Her care was left to the servants.  Nathaniel Brewster once again sought refuge in work, and as my mother told me, at nights in drink.  He appeared, to my mother, to hate the baby.  He held the infant responsible for his wife’s death.

Nathaniel kept the child a virtual prisoner in the mansion.  She was not allowed to leave unless supervised.  And it came to a point that she was not allowed to leave at all.  Her teachers were brought in.  They became her only window to the world.  She became an avid reader and devoured books.”

“I found rotting bookshelves in what must have been her bedroom.”

 After a nod, Elizabeth continued, “Baby Sarah went from infant, to toddler, to child with little input from her father.  Then a strange change occurred.  As Sarah reached her teenage years, Nathaniel took a sudden interest in his daughter, for she became the image of her mother.  Nathaniel developed a love-hate relationship with her.  In his twisted mind, he hated Sarah because she had robbed him of his wife, but he loved the image of his wife that Sarah had become.

“As Sarah approached her late teens, the resemblance she had to her mother was more than remarkable; it was eerie.  Nathaniel had his daughter sit for a portrait.  That painting was hung over the mantle in the main room.

“Then one night, things went horribly wrong.  My mother said that Nathaniel was up late one night drinking, as was usually the case.  She watched him stagger upstairs, and instead of going to his bedroom, he entered his daughter’s. 

“No one knows exactly what happened that fateful night, but a terrible scream was heard throughout the house.  In a few moments, Sarah came running down the stairs, her clothes in disarray.  She ran out the front door and into the forest as Nathaniel Brewster shouted, ‘Damn you to hell.  You took my wife and now offer me no pleasure.’

“Sarah was never seen again.”

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair.  This story was beyond horrible.  So that’s whose portrait hung over the fireplace.  “But that doesn’t seem to be much of a legend,” I said.  “It’s just a horrible truth.”

“There you are right, young man; now the facts become legend.  Nathaniel Brewster became a man existing on the border of insanity.  He lived for two years after the incident with his daughter.  His decline was rapid after those two years, alcohol was the most likely culprit.  As finally he lay dying, the servants gathered around him.  He had no close family. 

“My mother was present when he shouted with his dying breath, “Sarah, protect my home.”

“Suddenly my mother, and all the rest of the servants, heard a loud thud that shook the entire mansion.  No one could imagine what had happened.  The next morning it was discovered that the portrait of Sarah Brewster no longer hung over the mantle but was attached to the wall.  No matter how hard the servants tried, it was impossible to move.

“Distant relatives were located.  They ordered the contents and the property sold.  The only item remaining in the mansion was the portrait of Sarah Brewster.  No one wanted to damage the wall while the mansion was for sale, and so it remained.  I am told that it remains there to this day.”

The old woman was silent, looking at me intently.  Finally, I answered, “It still does.”

Elizabeth shook her head, and said, “I was afraid it was still there, and that you saw it.  This is where the legend begins.

“Many buyers expressed an interest to purchase the mansion, primarily for the property.  The house had fallen into disrepair the twenty odd years since Amy’s death.  Nathaniel showed no interest in preserving it while he lived there.  The building was not worth the asking price, but the property was of great value.  But the property was never sold.

“All the serious buyers just disappeared.”

Elizabeth sat quietly, and then said, “They all disappeared after examining the mansion, and the portrait of Sarah Brewster over the fireplace.  The legend developed that somehow the mansion did not want to be sold; that Sarah protected it.  Some of the locals think that it had something to do with the portrait and Nathaniel beckoning his daughter to protect his property.  Eventually, buyers no longer came forward and all the locals in the area stayed clear of the mansion.  The legend of the portrait was forgotten, and then you came along.  I should mention that some have reported seeing a light in the upper floor.  But that was surely a reflection of headlights, or the moon.

“Anything strange happen to you since you went exploring, son?”

I remained silent, and then told her about my dream and Brian’s disappearance.

Now it was Elizabeth’s turn to remain silent.  She finally said, “I don’t know what you’ve started or where your friend is, but I don’t think you will see him again.”

She rose and made her way out of the room leaving me with my thoughts and fears.

                    * * *

Full of terror and doubts of the unknown I left for home. 

It took me some time to muster my strength, but I decided that I must return to the mansion.  No matter what the danger, I had to see the portrait of Sarah Brewster one more time.

Taking the same route as before, I once again stood gazing at the painting. I stared at the same lovely face in the foreground, but sudden movement drew my attention to the left of the figure.  The gray storm clouds between the woman and the mansion to the right in the background began to stir.

I rubbed my eyes, hoping to remove the moving image, yet the clouds continued to swirl.  Before my horrified eyes, images began to take shape within the clouds.  Gray faces began to emerge.  The closest to Sarah, over her left shoulder, was that of Brian.  His visage was one of intense horror.  Slowly, other faces were revealed in ever decreasing size leading to the mansion.  Could these be the potential buyers that disappeared? 

I shook my head in disbelief, and then noticed yet another change.  Now Sarah was smiling, a smile that possessed an intense evil.

How could I ever explain what happened to Brian?  Who would believe that he now resided in this torturous painting?  I ran from the mansion knowing that in my dream, if I had not stumbled, my horrified image would be there too.

                  * * *

It’s been years now since I decided to explore that horrible structure.  We’ve had heavy snow of late, and the weight of the snow has caved in the mansion’s roof.  The mansion is dying.  Perhaps once it is gone, those poor souls trapped will be freed.  In the meantime, I fear my dreams.

                                                     THE END

YOU KNOW YOU’RE GETTING OLD WHEN . . .

You remember TV stations, at midnight, playing the national anthem then signing off and broadcasting a test pattern.

SECOND CHANCE, A SHORT STORY

The inspiration for writing this short story, Second Chance, was from hearing those questioning the value of space exploration. They say, “Why send all that money into space?” If these folks are pure in their belief, they must reject all that our investment into space has provided. They probably don’t use cell phones, watch news broadcast from around the world, or watch weather reports. And don’t forget, space travel has given us Tang.

 Second Chance was accepted for publication by Books To Go Now in November 2011, and by Separate Worlds in December 2013.

                Second Chance

Richard Walsh, 95, relaxed in his backyard beach chair.  The air was crystal clear; this was highly unusual for the smog, blown in from the coastal cities, often obscured the sky. He enjoyed this rare moment and felt at peace as he gazed at a host of constellations.  Richard prided himself on being able to identify everyone visible in his piece of the sky.  He chose to live in the desert, much to the dismay of his wife Molly, 80, to fulfil his passion for the universe. 

They had married forty years ago and were beginning to feel their age.  “Why can’t we live closer to Debbie?” Molly constantly asked.

He would answer, “We can fly to visit her and be there in less than two hours.  I need the night sky for my studies.  I need to be far away from the maddening city lights, but even here, the smog is a problem.”  Secretly, he wished they could move farther from the pollution, but they were too old to begin life again in a new location.

Richard was a science writer and worked from home.  As he gazed up at the stars, he would mutter, “Someday, man will make journeys into space that I cannot even imagine.  That is where our future lies.”

                    ###

Voyages eventually were made to the world’s moon, but Richard died before they were accomplished. The exploration of the moon was as far as space travel went.  There were too many problems to tend to on the planet as the population continued to grow and resources were devoured.

GENERATIONS LATER

Dr. Gregor Adomski, with his bushy eyebrows and lion’s mane of gray hair, was an astronomer.  At age seventy-three, he had never lost his child-like amazement with the universe.  He was an advocate of space exploration.  However, there wasn’t a government on the planet that would spend the money to make the jump into space.  For generations man pondered the end of their world, the fact that their world would someday cease to exist was known.  Scientists could predict cosmic events, but they had little influence on how the information was incorporated in future practices of governments.  Those decisions were more of a political nature and science had no place in politics.

Adomski also noted a growing trend.  Due to the planet’s growing population, weather conditions had deteriorated during the last fifty years.  These changes resulted in massive crop failures and a ‘once in a century’ storm became a common occurrence.  Turning to his assistant, Dr. Jeff Farber, Adomski said, “Our world cannot continue on this course.  Civilization is on a downward spiral.  We still have time to take action to ensure the survival of our society, but will we?  Man was meant to explore the universe, to push the limits of his existence.  Perhaps future generations can reach distant planets of solar systems that have yet to be discovered.  Time is of the essence.  We must act now or accept our fate.”

Jeff shared Adomski’s concern.  The planet’s doom loomed in the distant future.  Yet, most of the planet’s inhabitants were too occupied in their daily lives to care about an event that would not occur for thousands of generations.  The average person thought, Why should I care about what happens in the distant future when I need to feed my family now?

Satellites were launched. Their purpose was to monitor weather and improve communications of the planet, not as stepping stones for space travel.  Jeff hoped that someday space exploration would begin. But his heart told him it would not be so; the planet was consumed by too many problems to make precious resources available for space exploration.  When he went home and shared his concerns with his wife, Janet.  She only reinforced the population’s mindset.

She would say, “Why do you need to worry about something so distant when there are so many problems facing the planet here and now?  I just don’t understand your priorities.”

Jeff recently visited a farm; most of the population of the planet was encouraged to do so to see how the governments were staying ahead of any crisis.  The tour was led by Stuart Gromley, more of a scientist than a farmer, gaining the knowledge necessary to provide the food needed by the ever-expanding population.

Gromley began his tour, which would be short, for in reality, farms no longer existed, land was too precious, to grow crops greenhouses the size of skyscrapers was used.  Through enhanced fertilizers and crop genetics, what would have taken thousands of acres to grow took just one acre of land.  Farms went vertical.  Gromley was proud of his farm and said to the tour, “As you can see, not an ounce of precious soil is wasted.  Hydro farming allows us to grow any crops we want with only water and chemicals.  Healthy food is brought to your table with little drain on the planet.”

The hand of a young woman shot up.

Gromley muttered, “Shit, there always has to be one,” and then said out loud, “Do you have a question?”

“Yes,” she responded, “I have read papers stating that some of these chemicals used to produce our food can build up in our bodies and produce cancers.”

Gromley shared a secret thought that many of his profession shared, Honey, would you rather die now of starvation or die later of cancer?  But no one ever said this out loud.

Gromley held his temper and said, “Studies are still ongoing to see if these claims are true.  Our research, thus far, has not proven any of these claims.”  He did not share the fact that the research was nonexistent.

Overall, however, science improved and extended the lifespan of the world, and the population lived longer.  Those in power concentrated on the immediate, as for the distant future, science would always find a way to solve the world’s problems.

TEN THOUSAND GENERATIONS LATER

Adomski and Farber were long dust.  The fears they shared for the planet were forgotten.

Laws were passed by the most technologically advanced nations and space travel was ignored in favour of improving the condition of humanity.  As these decisions were made, scientists on the planet predicted the maximum population the planet could support. Centuries since that prediction, the population of the planet soared to double that prediction.  Yet, with further advances in technology, life continued.  However, turmoil broke out on the planet.  The more advanced countries continued to live fairly well, but the third world countries were in chaos.  These circumstances reinforced the opponents of space exploration in favour of helping the people.

After dinner, Alex Reed, an expert in population dynamics, went to his study and quietly closed the door, blocking out the sounds of his children at play before their bedtime.  He did this more and more often to turn on his computer and review the history of his planet and the dreams of space exploration attributed to the writings of Dr. Adomski and a host of the scientist that came along after his death.   They all shared the hope that exploration of the universe would go forward and save the species.

 Reed was both a scientist and an intellectual.  He studied the great accomplishments made in art and literature going back thousands of years, but as a scientist, he knew that at some distant day it would all be destroyed.  “All of this will be nothing but cinders,” he said to no one there.  “All these magnificent accomplishments of the planet will be lost.  Is it too late to think about the preservation of mankind’s history, of the great works produced?”

Reed remembered well the warnings Dr. Adomski had postulated and could not believe how self-centered the people of the planet had become.  Even now, with the time of its demise calculated, the population remained uninterested in space exploration.  He reasoned that he was only a scientist and had no power over the decisions that determine the destiny of the planet.  Elected officials made policy and the rest of humanity, relying on their intelligence, would have to accept the judgement.  Election and power were more important than reality.

EIGHTY THOUSAND GENERATIONS LATER

The planet was populated beyond belief.  Every acre of land had hundreds of residents and resources were being stretched to the limit.  When all the land was occupied, floating cities were constructed.  It was not long before the entire surface was in use, reducing the planet to a seething cauldron of toxins and waste.   Conditions had been deteriorating for many thousands of years, but they now accelerated to astronomical proportions.  Food riots had begun and, more frequently, water riots.  As predicted, the sun was getting brighter and spontaneous fires erupted, destroying vast areas and populations.  The world was one large metropolis and there was nowhere to run; nowhere to escape the final result.

President Addis, leader of half the planet’s population, summoned top scientists for a conference to discuss the world’s future.  The president sat patiently and listened to their talks.

Most were the same, full of hope, yet unable to dictate a plan that would save man.

In attendance was Dr. Scious Minori.  She was the world’s leading authority on the state of the planet; the president listened to her speech. The message was most disheartening.

She began by saying, “My presentation will be brief.  Our planet, our species, is doomed.  I see no hope for any intervention that can alter the future.  Our resources are stretched beyond the ability to support the population.  Our future will be nothing but turmoil.

“The planet is beyond repair.  There are no errors in the calculations.  In approximately twenty thousand years, the sun in its death throws will engulf our world.  Until then, our existence will be that of a constant conflict.  The only peace our people will know is at the end of our existence.

“We have waited too long to ensure survival of our species and all the life that inhabits our planet.  Now, it is not possible to journey into space, even though there is time.  At this point, to build a facility for space exploration would displace hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions of people.  On the entire planet, there is no room for such a center for space exploration.  We are at a loss to save our civilization.” 

The president, however, missed one presentation that shared a glimmer of hope for the future, not for the planet but for the species, and provided statistics that speculated the proposition that Homo sapiens was not doomed.  It was held in a small room with seating for less than thirty.  The speaker was Dr. Fermi Rialtos, a bacteriologist.  The presentation was so esoteric that it was not considered worthy of the president’s attention. 

There were only ten scientists in the audience.

Dr. Rialtos began his talk by saying, “The bacteria I primarily study is E. coli.  One of the purposes in my use of these bacteria was the study of evolution.  The benefit to studying these organisms is that one can observe thousands of generations in a short period of time. “I inoculated twelve flasks of bacteria and studied them for 30,000 generations with the E. coli exposed to identical conditions through the course of the study.  At the conclusion of the experiment, I analyzed the genetics of all twelve flasks.  Their pattern of development was identical.

“I feel this demonstrates that evolution is not random.  Given similar conditions, life will progress in a similar manner.

“I am also something of an amateur astronomer.  There are hundreds of stars, around which planets have or are presently forming.  The attributes of some of these planets are similar to our planet, millions of years in the past.”

Dr. Rialtos went on to describe the conditions on some of these recently discovered planets.  “One planet I have been studying is very young, a mere neophyte, but I think there may be a possibility that it will someday harbour life.  The star it orbits is slightly larger than our own sun, making their years slightly longer, but the planet’s position is a close approximation to that of our own world in relation to our sun.  I feel it may be capable of supporting life, but it is only one of possibly thousands that we have discovered in the universe.  Perhaps our civilization will be replicated in the cosmos with more lasting results”

He finished by saying, “Embrace your children every day and enjoy the life you have.”

###

Toward the end of their world, the population prayed to the God they believed would save them.  But God had other plans.

                    ###

The end of civilization was not pretty.

In the distant past, it would have been survival of the fittest.  But now, thanks to globalization and shared technology, all populations of the planet were on an even footing.  Equals fought equals to the death to exist.  And in the end, as the sun spent the last of its life-giving force, the last of the species perished.

                    ###

On a planet millions of light-years away, backyards were full of people looking skyward, straining to see the star-like light racing across the heavens.  The year was 1957.

Tim Riddell, age five, stood outside with his parents.   His father, Eli, told him what to look for and where to look.  As they watched, the Riddell family could hear voices all around them as neighbours also looked to the heavens. 

This was an historic event.  It was the first of its kind.  Earth was being orbited by a man-made machine.

Tim began to shout, “I see it!  I see it!” and his small arm pointed skyward. 

All around people also began to point and shout, “There it is!”

Liz, Tim’s mom, said to no one in particular, “I feel so exposed.”

Eli smiled and said, “Tonight, I want to be your Sputnik.”

The space race was on.  Sputnik made history for the U.S.S.R.  Later, after many embarrassing attempts, the U.S. also launched a satellite.  The race would last for decades and initiate Earth’s journey into space.

                    ###

The year was now 2093, and the advances in science and space travel were beyond belief.  Those who stood in their backyards gazing up at the sky in 1957 only witnessed the beginning.  Science and mankind had developed a propulsion system that enables man to visit the closest neighbouring solar system.  At the same time, great advances were made in astronomy with platforms installed in deep space.

One day, Dr. Theo Thurber was monitoring one of the platforms when alarm bells began to ring indicating an event worthy of study.  He rushed to his monitor in time to witness the beginning of the death of a distant star.  The bright glow of its passing lasted for weeks, and then slowly dimmed and disappeared.

After the initial observation, Dr. Thurber dictated into his records, “Witnessed the death of a distant star two million light years away.  Nothing unusual.  This is not a significant event.”

            Thurber could not know that a distant civilization had come to and end.

          © Copyright 2013 Walt Trizna. All rights reserved.