Kevin A. Ranson's Blog, page 2

Miracle Child

‘Lazarus’ Boy Returns to Life, Mother Dies Mysteriously

17th September by THOMAS GOURD, Waterview Mercy Hospital, River City

A desperate family. Spencer Alexander Lawson was only six years old when he was diagnosed with cancer, a malignant cardiac tumor. Pediatric specialists discovered an enlarged heart after detecting an arrhythmia (irregular heartbeat). Amanda Lawson, the boy’s mother, was convinced her son was going to die. To ensure his comfort, she selflessly quit her job to take care of him full-time.

Several attempts were made to remove the tumor before Spencer was placed on the heart transplant list, but on the evening of the young man’s seventh birthday, September 13th, the child suffered a coronary event and suddenly died. What happened next defies explanation and still has doctors scratching their heads.

When alarms summoned the shift nurse to Spencer’s room, the boy was out of bed and standing next to his mother, still connected to the equipment monitoring his life signs and showing no readings at all. Slumped over on the guest couch was Amanda, unresponsive. Attempts to revive the young woman failed. Officially, her death was ruled of natural causes.

Miracle child. Doctors originally suspected the child had disconnected himself from the monitoring equipment when he went to his mother. Technicians later produced documentation that the equipment was working fine and had been calibrated recently. Spencer seemed awake and alert, but specialists could not measure any detectable life sign.

It has been suggested that Spencer has a condition which makes his heartbeat virtually undetectable, but witnesses claim the boy registered neither any measurable brain activity nor appeared to draw breath unless he was about to speak when answering a question. While blood tests were summarily inconclusive, drawing any fluid at all, according to a confidential source, proved difficult or altogether impossible.

Top field specialists refuse to believe such a thing actually happened and claim it was either a hoax or a misdiagnosis. The boy’s father, David Lawson, took the boy home that evening and has reportedly been in contact with doctors concerning his son’s condition. Our confidential source also revealed that the boy has eaten nothing in the four days since leaving the hospital, yet he seems perfectly healthy and far more active than he was five days earlier.

Speculation among those who believe what happened have suggested everything from being resurrected by an angel to a mutation that allows the boy to survive in a symbiosis with his cancer. The truth, however, is that a little boy is alive after a traumatic ordeal but grieving due to the loss of his mother. Funeral arrangements are being made and our condolences go out to Mr. Lawson and his son for their loss.

THOMAS GOURD is a senior staff journalist at The River City Herald.

. . .

A Knife In the Dark – 3

“What Lies Beneath”

“‘Tis the year of our Lord twenty sixteen, good sir.”

Amalthea had instructed me well. I had reached a point in my health eligible to be released… and of course, the neurologist was the one barring my path. A dark sense of humor and an evasive disposition, she said, were indicators of cognitive decline. The concern was my illness had done irreparable damage to my brain, and I had no desire to let on the buffoon might have been exactly correct.

For the first time in over a week, the neurologist dared a step into my chamber. “I hear you’re not finishing your meals.”

“Everything on the plate reeks the same. It takes quite the culinary skill to infuse pasta and vegetables with same flavor as bland meat.” I did enjoy the Jell-O, especially the lime. “My throat is still sore from the intubation, and everything burns when I swallow.”

More nodding and clipboard notations. “Why didn’t you answer me when I asked you earlier what year it was?”

I hoped the way I was gritting my teeth before answering wasn’t too obvious. “I did spend a few unconscious days in your intensive care unit, and the drugs afterward clouded my judgement. To be honest, it was nice not thinking about the calendar for a while and just getting some rest, but I’ll start falling behind on my obligations if I stay much longer. None of this was exactly planned.” Especially meeting him.

Convincing my physical therapist I’d return regularly was simplicity itself, but the neurologist was a tiger of a different stripe. With him, everything was a mind game and I understood the desire to engage… something Amalthea forbid me to do if was to make good on my escape.

Again, the neurologist turned and left without another word. No tip of the hat, no quick goodbye, just a rude disposition and his flagrant abuse of power.

To my surprise, word came just hours later he had signed off on my release, or more to the point washed his hands of me. A taxi would take me home (wherever that was) and someone would call on me periodically. The clothes I’d arrived in had been cut away, so I was gifted a set of blue pajama-like “scrubs.” After being allowed to dress, I was saddled with paperwork, prescriptions, recommendations, and requirements before finally receiving my affects and being loaded into a wheelchair.

Amalthea wheeled me out. I had seen the hallway earlier with my physical therapist, but we hadn’t gone as far as the windowless double doors at the end of the corridor. The button she pressed on the wall between the doors illuminated, and we waited as an unseen mechanism could be heard grinding louder behind the wall. When the sound stopped, the doors opened into a tiny cubical, and Amalthea pushed me into it.

My first elevator ride… or at least the first I could recall.

I chose to ignore the hustle and bustle on the first floor and all the new things I saw, and while I believed myself prepared after watching a week of television, seeing the taxi itself and knowing it would take me away from here was a sudden source of fear. Amalthea sensed my apprehension and gripped my shoulder for assurance. I patted her hand in response.

After helping me into the car and buckling me into it — how fast could the taxi go that I required restraints? — the driver requested my destination. I fumbled through the bag I was told contained my belongings and, finding a wallet, handed a picture identification to the driver. He seemed to know where he was going.

It was then I noticed an intricate pocket knife among my affects, a folded blade made entirely of black metal. The craftsmanship was exquisite, and I was compelled to open it. Besides a manufacturing logo and some relevant numbers, there was an inscription upon the blade written in Latin:

Tenebris Cultro. “A knife in the dark.”

It seemed my predecessor had a sense of humor.

Chapter 4 Coming Soon

. . .

A Knife In the Dark – 2

“The Man In the Mirror”

Patience is a virtue, but a patient patient can leverage good behavior.

The name of my first and favorite nurse was Miss Jones, but she confided in me her first name: Amalthea. I chose not to ask if she was aware of her Greek counterpart, although she willingly agreed to let me know when the neurologist was lurking about. Take that, Zeus.

Much to my chagrin, my legs were near useless, but I could at least use a walker to stand up and to use facilities on my third day of wakefulness. To my near horror, tubes hadn’t been only been inserted into my arm.

Being coherent enough to communicate, a small army of clerical workers formed a line to my bedside, each with various amounts of paper work. Fortunately, there wasn’t a need to empty my pockets and pauper myself while still bedridden, only a few agreements that I would render payment afterward. I didn’t concern myself much with any of that; my first goal was to escape the hospital ward.

What was of interest were details of how I came to awaken there: pneumonia, brought on by a nasty influenza and exacerbated by a secondary infection, just when the body was most vulnerable after fighting off the first. I was non-responsive when I was found, and the medics stabilized me there to ensure safe transport to this hospital. Everything in my body had shut down to stay alive, hanging on until help thankfully arrived.

Shouldn’t I be possessed with mortal thoughts? Death brushed close to me without a hint of dread. Was I inhuman?

It made a kind of sense to blame it upon my displacement, a constant out-of-body experience. The mirror in the facilities might as well have been empty. I didn’t know the image reflected in it, nor did I desire to.

When I was alone in the room, I deactivated the television and mused over the possibilities, from the mundane to the fantastic to the fanatical.

Suppose I was an old soul that had found my way into an empty body. Perhaps I was a historian of a bygone era that confused a fantasy of another time with my current lifetime. There was always the possibility a Dr. Frankenstein had gifted me a new chance at life.

It wasn’t fear driving me; it was fascination… and all the opportunities therein.

The former occupant of this shell, the aforementioned Mr. *********, was no longer in control. I smiled at the idea I was an alien invader, secretly positioned as an infiltrator, sent to spy on the dominate species of the planet.

I caught the neurologist out of the corner of my eye, lurking in the hallway once again. I tried and failed not to smirk.

“Can you tell me what year it is, Mr. *********?”

“You’ll get no satisfaction from me, Earthling. Tell your leaders to dismiss my demands at their peril.”

And there he goes…!

Chapter 3 Coming Soon

. . .

A Knife In the Dark – 1

“The Mars Institute”

The dark is where everything begins. No matter what we make of ourselves, darkness remains a part of us, and is ever familiar.

“Do you know what year it is?” a clear voice asked.

A ridiculous question — of course, I knew! — but the answer was not coming to me.

“Did you hear what I asked?”

“Nineteen…” I started to answer, stopping when it felt wrong — because I felt wrong. Fighting grogginess, I opened my eyes, looking toward the cold spot on my arm, noticing the tube squeezing something into it. I realized just then I was in a bed; a chemical scent hung in the air, cool and clean… sterile. Was this an infirmary?

“Twenty nineteen?” the irritating voice continued. “Why would you say that?”

I found where the voice had come from, eyeing the man standing in a doorway, whom I assumed had spoken with such disdain. White wisps of hair fought for their side of a shiny head adorned with the silver-rimmed glasses of a self-styled intellectual. His lab coat was open in the front like a frock coat, too clean for a working man. Was he wearing blue pajamas beneath it?

“Did you hear what I asked?” His tone was sharp.

Mine would be more so as I glared. “Shall I tie you to a bed, pump your arm full of poison, and ask you insolent questions from a cowardly distance?”

That seemed to do it. He couldn’t escape my sight quickly enough.

“Did you hear what I asked?” I called after him with a chuckle.

Other than a moment’s peace from my long-distance heckler, my reward was a pair of previously unseen hands injecting something into my arm’s tube. The needle used was impossibly thin and yet translucent, and I was momentarily transfixed upon how useful that could be. When it was discarded into a bright red bag hung upon the wall, I marveled that such a thing was safely disposable.

An instant afterward, my sweet darkness returned to swallow me whole again.

“Mr. *********?”

The name roused me, but it was as if I hadn’t heard it right. She was addressing me, I knew, yet the name wasn’t familiar… at least I didn’t believe it should be. Her voice had a sweet tone with a hint of an accent, pronounced with the grace of a normal school graduate.

“Your neurologist asked me to check on you. He said you seemed angry.”

“Correct,” I said. “He was curt and I was having none of it.”

I opened my eyes again. The woman wasn’t at all how I had imagined her; the anticipated kind eyes were there, but she was older… and of African descent? Interesting.

“How are you feeling now?” she asked.

“A bit like a Yankee.” In King Arthur’s Court.

“Is that a good thing?” Her tone took on a deliberate Southern charm. I couldn’t tell if she was being clever or not, but it amused me.

“It must be.” I smiled, but I must have looked a fright. She didn’t seem to mind.

After watching her write green numbers onto a shiny white board, I could no loner assure myself something was wrong with my eyes. As I peered around the room at various cabled devices and furniture on wheels, a realization came upon me: I wasn’t a Yankee; I was John Carter. What a tale in All-Story Magazine this would make.

“If you need anything,” she instructed, “push that little button in your right hand. Want me to turn on the TV for you?”

I followed her pointing finger to an empty black picture frame suspended from a bar in the ceiling, and I was consumed with curiosity. “By all means, work your wondrous magic.”

Her face lit up brightly. Stepping around my railed bed, she touched a colorful control box by my side, causing the empty frame to illuminate with moving pictures and an orchestra of sound. Possibilities raced through my mind. I could scarcely wait until I was free of this institution, able to procure a fine sword, and seek out a princess in need of rescue.

To pass the time, of course, deviling the neurologist wasn’t out of the question.

. . .

“The Situation Room”

A MATRIARCH VAMPIRES SHORT STORY BY KEVIN A. RANSON

Under the cover of night, Mr. Chamberlain exited into the hallway. He pulled the door closed, adjusted his black Borsalino fedora, and met the eyes of a young man in a dark suit. “What’s your name?” he asked, being polite.

“Jimmy. This way, Mr. Chamberlain.”

It was too warm and too humid in Florida for Mr. Chamberlain to be wearing his classic-style London Fog trench coat, especially so close to the ocean. He knew how it made him look: like a throwback to the Cold War. That seemed fitting somehow in light of being smuggled into a country club to assess a so-called “potential situation.”

After a few turns and easily passing a dozen other men in suits with radios, Jimmy opened the door to another room at the Palm Beach estate. Before Mr. Chamberlain could enter, Jimmy took a step to intercept him.

“Is there anything you need, sir?”

Jimmy looked strong and able but still the youngest staffer he’d seen on site; it was also clear he had been briefed. “Are you offering me a drink?”

There was an uncomfortable pause. “If required.”

“You’re no dingbat, are you?” Mr. Chamberlain grinned, intentionally flashing a fang.

“No… sir.”

“Stop harassing the kid and get your ass in here,” a gruff voice commanded.

Mr. Chamberlain gave Jimmy a polite nod and entered, hearing the door close behind him. Every corner and edge of the room looked overpriced, from the pattern fabric and dark wood on the furniture to the intricate molding and textured wallpaper… and everything was some hideous shade of gold or a garish color meant to call attention to it. Soft light came from gaudy chandeliers and hanging fixtures dimmed to the point of most people having to squint to see.

Fortunately, he wasn’t most people. “This looks like the bathroom of a Saudi prince. Who on this side of the Atlantic decorates like this?”

“Glad you could make it, Neil.”

“Mister Chamberlain, if you please, General… or do you prefer Mr. Secretary now?”

“I thought we were friends.”

“This is business.”

The General nodded. “Fair enough. Did you ask him?”

“No.”

While the General looked like he was about to spit tacks, Mr. Chamberlain removed his hat and placed it carefully on a cushion — inverted to keep the shape of the brim — before sitting in a chair next to it. He was comfortable and ready to bear the brunt of it by the time the General found his voice again.

“God damn it, this isn’t a joke! I didn’t invite you down to this… this…” He gestured at everything, even the palm trees planted outside the windows.

“Hackneyed seaside hacienda?” Mr. Chamberlain offered.

The General pointed an accusing finger. “You know what’s at stake here more than any living patriot I know.”

“You forget I’m not alive — keep your stakes to yourself.”

“Yada, yada, vampire bullshit! Your job is to compel him to answer one damn question… like every sitting president before him.”

“Except Jack. JFK had a bit of the ancient blood in him.” Blood workers were immune to a vampire’s thrall, although Jack probably had no idea.

“You already know, don’t you?” the General accused, eyeing with suspicion. “What’d he admit to?”

“How many subs do you have off the coast right now? I’m guessing three in the triangle, one in the gulf.”

He took the question personally. “I wouldn’t tell you if the Fourth Fleet was beached in plain sight on the waterfront.”

Mr. Chamberlain smiled at the old Marine. They both loved their country, but like every election when a new commander-in-chief took office, the old guard became nervous. There was nothing new about America’s enemies testing the mettle of an incoming leader, but too many questions about loyalties were coming up.

“I didn’t ask him tonight because I’d already asked him… back in D.C.”

The General sneered. “When?”

“Before the inauguration. You thought a businessman’s son — who made it a point to avoid the draft during Vietnam — willingly surrounded himself with career military personnel? Don’t think about it too hard; just say ‘you’re welcome,’ General.”

The General looked impressed. “You said you didn’t do that sort of thing. I have a list if the gloves are off.”

“Little things aren’t harmful, especially if you can build on what’s already there. Every president needs a soldier’s point of view, especially one with neither military nor political experience.”

Instead of standing tall with intimidation, the soldier-turned-adviser finally sat down. “So what the hell does he want?”

“What all men want: a legacy.”

Grumbling followed. “That doesn’t tell us much.”

Mr. Chamberlain shrugged. “It wasn’t easy getting an answer. He’s a bit all over the place. I’m not sure even he knows or understands that.”

“All we want to know is if he’s in bed with the Kremlin. Why can’t you just ask that?”

“You haven’t been watching the news, have you? You’re talking about a former world superpower that now has a functioning economy smaller than California, New York, and Texas… separately. The problem is, those states don’t control a nuclear arsenal.”

A harrumph escaped the General’s lips. “Well, as I live and breathe: American Dracula got one right.”

Mr. Chamberlain smirked, narrowing his eyes to fixate upon his host. “I’m not a fixer; I’m an assessor. There’s no ‘Vampire Team Six’ that’s going to parachute into Red Square.”

“I figured y’all could fly.” He didn’t smile one bit saying it.

“Your problem is image control. There’s never been a president with a direct line to the citizenry and the willingness to use it. Can you imagine if Tricky Dicky had access to this?”

“I shudder to think.”

Mr. Chamberlain gently smacked the back of his hand against the General’s shoulder. “You can handle this. Let him do his rallying thing and see where it goes. It’s a good distraction, not to mention a catalyst for getting people into politics like never before. The average citizen knows who the press secretary is — by name. Election fatigue historically sets in by now, but people are talking about changing things in two years instead of four, watching carefully to see if their rights are being tread upon. I’ve been meaning to ask, by the way: does the government have a right to your personal digital information in the name of security?”

“Damn right it does,” he answered, walking into the trap.

“‘Those who would give up essential liberty, to purchase a little temporary safety, deserve neither liberty nor safety.’”

“You’re quoting Ben Franklin to a Marine?”

“A key on a kite in a thunderstorm seemed a bit subtle. Were you hoping I’d bite someone and make everything easier again?”

The General let out a long sigh. “I’d settle for mass hypnosis to just shut everyone the fuck up.”

“Sadly, that only works in person.” Mr. Chamberlain collected his hat, gave it a once-over, and put it on. “It’s been good seeing you again.”

“Likewise, in spite of being a necessary prick to you.” He wouldn’t apologize for it, of course.

“‘Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty…’”

“A Jefferson quote I can handle.”

“That was Wendell Phillips, and the rest of the quote goes ‘… power is ever stealing from the many to the few.’ He wasn’t talking about foreign powers; he was referring to a leader hardening into a despot while drunk on power. Let’s settle upon ‘we will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic.’”

“Done… and you can go now.”

Mr. Chamberlain stood and took a last look around the tasteless room. “Is a little humility out of the question?”

The General smirked. “Get out before I put you out.”

“The night that ever happens will be an interesting one.”

. . .

“The Lucky Five”

A MATRIARCH VAMPIRES SHORT STORY BY KEVIN A. RANSON

Between the passengers and their equipment, six people occupied the space of twelve, almost the capacity of the elevator.

Five of the riders wore blue gloves and knee-length white coats over scrubs; the sixth wore a dark suit and a wireless earpiece. A lab cart had been assigned to each of the technicians while the man in the suit carried a computer tablet. Everyone looked straight ahead in silence, focused on the task at hand.

The doors opened; the stop switch was pulled. The suited man started a timer on his tablet as the five techs pushed their carts out of the elevator. Of the thirty rooms connected to the long hallway, five had been pre-selected; in concert, the techs knocked and waited while the suited man watched.

One by one, the techs disappeared into the rooms as each door opened. The suited man quietly observed from the hallway so as not to interrupt the collection; time was of the essence.

In the first room, the elderly resident had been watching a movie before pausing it. He surrendered his right arm as the tech prepped his skin and expertly inserted a needle attached to a cup. The resident winced for a moment and relaxed.

Collection was already proceeding in another room. The tech quickly inserted a red-capped glass vial into the needled cup and twisted it to begin the flow of blood. When it was filled, she twisted it out again and replaced it with another. The move was practiced and smooth; the donor smiled at the absence of any discomfort. Once the needle was removed, a sterile gauze pad was taped over the skin as familiar instructions were hastily issued to the donor.

The suited man checked the time as the technicians emerged from their assigned rooms. On each of their carts were ten red-capped glass vials filled with blood, fifty in all. Noting the collection on his tablet, the group headed back to the elevator. Once everyone was inside, the stop switch was depressed to release the elevator; the doors closed.

On the ground floor, the collection carts were pushed into the secured blood lab while the suited man followed. Each of the procured vials were quickly but carefully inserted into a circular tray that held the exact number of samples collected. The tray was pushed beneath a stainless steel apparatus that aligned with each vial simultaneously; a lever raised the tray into the metallic device and locked it into position. Levers on two support arms elevating the apparatus over the table were disengaged, allowing the entire device to be inverted.

Alerted by the beeping from a standard microwave oven, a warmed ceramic cup was withdrawn, black on the outside and white on the interior, the tall kind used in trendy coffee houses. After securing the cup beneath a nozzle, a button was pressed that drained the vials into the waiting cup below, filling it to within half an inch of the top – a perfect pint.

The suited man noted the time on his tablet, nodded in approval to everyone in the lab, and took the cup away with him. In the office he worked out of, he set the cup down on the far edge of his desk and checked to ensure there was no spillage. Satisfied, he sat down and resumed his work, waiting.

Within a few minutes, the executive administrator entered the office. Going right to the cup, she smiled at its warmth as she picked it up.

“It never ceases to amaze me that you have this waiting every time I come in,” she said. “Who are today’s lucky five?”

The suited man looked away from his laptop. “You tell me.”

After flashing him a knowing smile, the administrator lifted the cup to her lips and drank deeply.

. . .

“Never Tell”

A MATRIARCH VAMPIRES SHORT STORY BY KEVIN A. RANSON

It’s okay. We understand. Please remain calm.

You’ve reached your destination but can’t seem to remember all the turns you took before you arrived. Perhaps you’ve misplaced your car in a familiar parking lot — just after nightfall. Have you ever forgotten why you came into a room?

Finding money in an old coat or purse always seems like a good thing, even without any recollection of putting it there. Maybe you’ve noticed a mysterious wound healing on your arm or shoulder — or perhaps found a spot of blood on your clothes. Have you?

There is a chance that — even if it’s only the smallest possibility — you have recently crossed paths with a VAMPIRE.

Hilarious, right? You’ve been assured there’s no such thing.

Even if there was, would it really matter to you? A creature that takes only that which is required out of desperation, leaving no unpleasant memory and perhaps granting some small boon in return. An extra twenty in your pocket for a moment’s confusion? Honestly, now — nothing has been stolen that you’ll miss or can’t get back in a day or two; mortals are blessed like that.

You should also keep such ideas to yourself. You never know who you might be talking to.

Perhaps the encounter was by chance, an immortal just passing through your neighborhood. Then again, maybe it’s someone you know, even a person who watches over you. It could even be someone new in your life…or an individual that you feel you’ve known forever.

Don’t try to guess who they are. Don’t watch to see if they slip up. Don’t confront them if you think you know.

If they feel threatened, you still won’t remember anything…or ever again.

Trust us. It’s better this way. Life will continue.

You want that, right?

NEVER TELL.

. . .

“A Third Choice”

A MATRIARCH VAMPIRES SHORT STORY BY KEVIN A. RANSON

Yes, it hurts. Believe me, I know. Keeping as still as possible is the best thing you can do right now.

Ironic, isn’t it? A piece of wood sticking out of your chest isn’t killing you, but it’s causing so much pain you probably wish it would.

I’ll also apologize for all the motion. We’ve taken precautions, but being inside a moving vehicle makes it more difficult.

Of course, the best idea is I could remove that stake…but there would be conditions.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been staked before or even how long you’ve been a vampire, but from the way you were being treated by your sire, we guessed it wasn’t voluntary. Those kinds of relationships rarely end well, so we interceded. You watched us destroy your maker, but we both know what stays in our heads. Yes, I still have a little of mine, too.

Besides that, the other thing you’ll have to worry about is yourself.

I’m sorry the choice to become an immortal was made for you. You think you have two options: embrace the monster or allow yourself to be destroyed. From the way you’re looking at me, I’m guessing you don’t want to hurt anyone, but I want you to realize that the pain you’re in is diminishing your thirst. Did you notice?

I’m offering a third choice: you can choose to live with this, so to speak. I’ve learned to cope, but I couldn’t have done it without help. It will require trust and constant vigilance because any slip will not only affect your victim but anyone else whose trust you’ve earned. The blood you crave must be fresh, and it has to be both alive and human. There are no shortcuts here, so consider carefully what it is that will be expected of you.

You’ll be safe under my protection while you’re learning, but once that ends, you’ll have to leave. The place we’re going now can’t support more than two vampires for very long, but you have something you can offer those you befriend, not the least of which is your protection. As a guardian, you’ll be able to survive, but if you can’t do this, myself or someone else will destroy you. Do you understand?

A pair of handcuffs are binding your wrists. You won’t be able to escape them while the stake remains in, but if I remove it, I’m going to ask that you keep them on. If you try to break out, I’ll replace the stake and be very disappointed you’ve decided not to participate in our program. You’re locked into the back of this vehicle with me, so I promise you won’t be able to cause anyone else any harm.

So. Enough threats.

Would you like me to remove the stake, provided you promise to remain bound? Your thirst will return quickly. I don’t know how long it’s been since you last fed — you may be aware we can’t feed one another — plus it will be a while before we’ll be someplace I can provide for you. Or we can leave the stake in and I’ll talk to you if you’d like; I’ll understand completely if you’re afraid you can’t trust yourself to do as I’ve asked.

What do you want to do?

. . .

Forget Me Nots – Chapter 3

THE SPOOKY CHRONICLES BY KEVIN A. RANSON

“So Not Looking”

Spooky was giddy with anticipation. Every concession was made to make Spooky comfortable before the midnight ritual, which he thought was very hospitable of Bill. Spooky also volunteered his pendant and mobile phone to play his part properly; after all, alerting the authorities while sacrificing children just wouldn’t do.

To prepare for the ritual, Bill had Spooky placed into a room they called the Preparation Chamber (which was essentially a narrow closet with an overhead light and a wooden chair inside). A long, silken white shirt had been left for Spooky to wear. He imagined what another child would have thought, being made to wait before their impending doom (trying to get into the mood and all), but it was all just too cool not to be excited. After putting on the shirt, Spooky sat in the chair and waited for perhaps fifteen minutes, but it felt like an eternity.

Finally, the door opened.

“It’s time,” the Third Minion said. “Are you prepared?”

With a grin, Spooky nodded. His happy expression seemed to disturb the minion a bit.

The doors to an old, open-faced elevator were open. Inside were the two other minions Spooky had met earlier, still dressed in black robes. Bill himself, seated comfortably in his wheelchair and dressed in red robes that matched his bow tie, smiled pleasantly as Spooky was led onto the lift.

The Third Minion drew the door shut behind them and pressed a large button on the side to start the decent.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Spooky wisecracked.

The Third Minion shushed him. Bill merely chuckled.

Spooky looked around as the elevator traveled downward. The First Minion carried the “book of the dead” while the Second Minion carried a sacrificial knife (presumably one with a collapsing blade) upon a silvery pillow.

Once the secret elevator cleared the floors between the attic and the cellar (“secret” because it was enclosed not to be seen from the main floors), the so-called cellar was revealed. More like an underground cathedral, wooden chandeliers lit up a stone chamber dug thirty feet down into the foundation of the mansion. There was a fire already going in an enormous, ornate fireplace that bathed the chamber in an orange flickering light. Doors to other rooms were on either side of the fireplace, and a stone spiral stairway curled up from the chamber floor, around the elevator, and up into an enclosed hallway. Spooky thought there must have been a secret door out (or in), probably in the foyer under the grand staircase.

In the center of the room was a dark pit with a raised stone wall like an old well, capped with a metal grating with openings too small for Spooky to have poked his head in. There were four heavy rings, each set into the top of the masonry ringing the pit, perfectly arranged to bind a sacrifice. Tied to each ring was a small length of rope.

After the elevator came to a stop, the Third Minion motioned for Spooky to step out and toward the grated pit. Spooky complied solemnly, walking the way he would imagined a choir boy at a Catholic church would march down an isle, then turned silently towards Bill as he reached the pit. Bill in turn wheeled himself out between the fireplace and the pit, creating a powerful image as the flames roared up behind him. The Third Minion took a stance beside Spooky while the other two stood on either side of Bill.

“The book,” Bill commanded.

The First Minion placed the book open to a marked page into Bill’s lap. He looked over the text, then motioned to the Third Minion.

“The offering,” Bill commanded.

“Hop up,” the Third Minion whispered to Spooky. Complying, Spooky climbed onto the grate and laid himself down on his back with his hands folded across his stomach. The minion placed Spooky’s hands to his sides instead. Looking to Bill, the Third Minion indicated one of the rope rings. Bill looked to Spooky, lying calm and prone without a care in the world, and merely shook his head with a grin.

“The instrument,” Bill commanded.

The Second Minion marched the pillow and knife over the Third Minion, who in turn took the knife, held it lengthwise with both hands in a sort of presentation and awaited further instruction.

With a hand on the book as if swearing an oath, Bill began to speak.

“My minions,” he said indicating each of them, “and honored guest,” he said with a nod to Spooky. “Like my grandfather and his son before, we gather this night because of its traditions and its promise of power. We offer this innocent life to the Dark Ones, those ancient and old who will rule once more as they did before mortals such as we rose to poison this Earth.”

“That’s kind of harsh,” Spooky whispered to the Third Minion. The minion put his index finger to his lips to shush Spooky in response to the comment, then smirked just a bit.

Bill then began to speak in a different language, one Spooky didn’t recognize. Bill seemed to be asking questions, and in the same language, the minions would answer in unison. The fire began to swell in the fireplace, and a chilling breeze started to waft up through the pit Spooky was laying on top of. The chamber vibrated as periodic crashes of thunder struck the grounds outside. The longer Bill read, the more intense he became, and the more the elements seemed to answer in kind.

Spooky smiled. Even the special effects were cool.

Bong!

The mysterious, unseen clock began to ring out again, presumably for midnight. Bill’s reading ceased as he pointed to the Third Minion.

Bong!

The minion took the knife in one hand and pressed down on Spooky’s shoulder with the other.

Bong!

For a moment, Spooky could see the Third Minion’s eyes looking down at him. There was doubt.

Bong!

Spooky nodded reassuringly to him, whispering, “Do it.”

Bong!

“Now!” Bill commanded. The knife fell decisively, buried into Spooky’s chest up to the hilt, stopped by his sternum from penetrating further.

Bong!

The Third Minion frowned, then looked toward Bill.

Spooky blinked, then added, “Ow.”

Bong!

The minion looked back down at Spooky.

“I don’t think the blade collapsed,” Spooky observed.

Bong!

The minions all looked to their master in confusion. Bill himself was wide-eyed with his mouth agape.

Bong!

“Impossible!” Bill cried out. “Is he impure?”

Bong!

“I’m not impure,” Spooky replied, sitting up with the knife still sticking out his chest. “Just not alive.”

Bong!

“That’s not a problem for you, is it, Bill?” Spooky added with a grin.

Bong!

Midnight.

“You fools!” Bill scolded his minions, but he looked more terrified than angry, and with good reason.

The steadily growing breeze up through the pit grate beneath Spooky became a full gale, pushing Spooky off the grate and into the cellar floor. Dark smoke started seeping out from the flue above the fireplace and out from under the doors on either side of it, thickening as though alive. The First Minion screamed without warning.

Producing Spooky’s phone and pendant from an unseen pocket, the Third Minion pressed the items into Spooky’s hands. “There’s a secret door at the top of the staircase,” he instructed. Taking Spooky by the shoulders and looking him directly in the eyes, he added, “Don’t look back.”

“Isn’t this a little out of character for you?” Spooky asked.

Then Bill started screaming uncontrollably, a sound which erupted into gurgles like someone being drowned. Spooky turned his head to see, but the Third Minion pulled his head back toward him before he saw anything.

“Run, kid.”

Suddenly aware of the seriousness of his situation, Spooky nodded and complied.

The Third Minion started laughing maniacally as he released Spooky’s shoulder and began to fall backwards. Either that or something was dragging him backwards.

The stairs were too long on the outside to take two at a time, but without a railing, he didn’t want to be too close to the center edge where he might fall. Climbing as quickly as he could, the screams below sounded more like guttural laughs, the way he imagined demons might sound as they tortured someone. For a moment, he wondered how he would ever be able to forget a sound so horrible.

The top of the stair ended in a wall with a small light to see by, likely to keep it from showing through on the outside. Something sounded like it was coming up the stairs behind him, and for the first time in his life, Spooky was at a loss to imagine what it might actually look like. In his mind, he repeated the same thing over and over: don’t look.

Unable to find any mechanism or a regular doorknob, Spooky finally shoved the wall outwardly in the direction he best guessed opened into the foyer, and to his happy surprise, it opened. Spooky spilled out into the room just as he heard the secret door snap back shut. When he turned to look, it was almost impossible to tell a door was even there. Wait… was there a door?

“Spencer!” Mrs. Price yelled out. The chaperone looked quite upset with him.

“You don’t have to yell,” Spooky answered, still picking himself up off the floor. “I’m right here.”

“Where have you been? All the other kids are in the other room, and you missed out on the candy. Did you even try to find any keys?”

“Um, Mrs. Price..?” Spooky tried to interrupt.

“And what’s with this knife sticking out of your shirt? Were you trying to scare the others? Go and take that off immediately and I don’t want to see it out again.”

“Mrs. Price!” Spooky yelled. “We have to leave! Everyone has to get out of here. Now!”

“What for?”

“There’s…” Spooky then noticed the portraits on the South wall of the foyer. As he stared, the third painting began to fade, looking like the pictures on the walls in that room, the secret room in the… where had he seen those?

“Spencer?” Mrs. Price called out to try to get his attention. “Why do we have to leave?”

Everything about the evening was starting to cloud in Spooky’s mind. He was only able to dimly recall something about the empty pictures on the wall of all the children that came to the mansion before him, children that no one knew existed. No one would ever miss them… miss who?

“Spencer?!” Mrs. Price said louder.

“Why is that portrait empty?” Spooky asked, pointing at the wall.

As if on cue, the butler-looking guy he had spoken to earlier happened to be walking by. “Oh, that was to be for the son of the second owner, but he never had any children. The mansion has stood empty ever since his death fifty years ago.”

Spooky shook his head. Something wasn’t right, but it all seemed correct.

“Spencer?” Mrs. Price said again, trying to sound sympathetic but failing in any way to sound maternal. “Please go take that off and join the other children if you’re done crying wolf.”

Nodding, Spooky went to where the butler-looking guy had indicated the bathroom was. Inside by himself, he stared at his reflection in the mirror. Something had happened that night (the knife in his chest was the proof), but he couldn’t seem to recall how it got there. It took both hands and several attempts to dislodge it, but he finally removed the blade. Not knowing what else to do with it, Spooky cleaned the stickiness off (he didn’t really bleed) and carefully wrapped it in a piece of the white shirt so he could put it into his overnight bag without cutting anything. He knew from experience that the wound would heal while he slept, but it still felt weird that he couldn’t remember exactly when the wound occurred or where the knife had come from.

The next morning after everyone had gotten up, stuffed their mouths full of donuts and orange juice, and climbed back onto the bus to go home, Spooky sat in a seat in the back staring at the front of mansion. He remembered wanting to see the creepy things inside and recalled doing so, but something told him that there was really something scary there, even if he couldn’t remember what it was.

One thing was clear to him if nothing else was: memories were missing, and he had the evidence to prove it. He was aware that something like that didn’t happen accidentally, and he was sure that some thing inside the mansion was responsible. It wouldn’t be today, but Spooky knew that one day he would return to deal with whatever was hidden within Chesterfield Mansion, one way or another.

. . .

Forget Me Nots – Chapter 2

THE SPOOKY CHRONICLES BY KEVIN A. RANSON

“Rules of the Game”

After the pizza was gone and the luggage was stowed, the fifth graders all met back out in the foyer below the balcony. Shortly before nine o’clock, the lights dimmed and everyone grew quiet.

The solitary sound of an electric motor accompanied the image of a man in a wheelchair appearing at the top of the grand staircase. It was hard to see all the way up there, even if the lights hadn’t been dimmed. As if on cue, a flash of lightning through the balcony windows was quickly accompanied by a loud thunderclap, rattling the walls and the chandelier overhead.

“Welcome, children, to my home.”

The voice seemed to come from everywhere, but they had obviously been spoken by the man in the wheelchair. The rain outside could be heard pelting the roof and windows.

“My name is William Chesterfield. My grandfather built this mansion when he was a young man, and my father added to it when it became his. Now it is mine, and you are all my guests.”

Mr. Chesterfield paused for effect. The way he said “guests” sounded more like “prisoners,” and the effect wasn’t lost on the group. In Spooky’s mind, it was all perfectly awesome.

“So,” the man in the wheelchair continued, “have you all come for my hospitality, or have you come,” he paused again for effect, then finished with, “for the candy?”

The gleeful emphasis on the word “candy” shattered the sinister spell, causing many of the other kids to predictably cheer. Spooky rolled his eyes; they could have the candy as long as he got to see the rest of the mansion.

“There are rules!” Mr. Chesterfield continued as the murmuring died down. “There are thirteen areas throughout my home, each with a clue to where you may find one of thirteen skeleton keys. The keys all look a bit different, so look at the picture on the clue card before you search. If any doors, cabinets, or drawers are locked, they are off-limits; the keys will be where you can find them and within your reach. If you are confused, get lost, or need help, don’t be afraid to ask one of my minions.”

It was at this time that Spooky noticed that the wait staff had taken the opportunity to slip out of the room. Like the others, he’d been so engrossed with listening that he wasn’t paying attention to when they left. That left the obvious question, but someone else asked it before Spooky did.

“What minions?” a girl’s voice cautiously asked.

The simultaneous sound of a large group taking a single step together echoed throughout the foyer. In time with the sound, over a dozen people in dark, ritualistic robes appeared on the balcony landing next to Mr. Chesterfield. Only the hands and the lower halves of the faces of each minion could be seen, giving them a cold, inhuman appearance.

“These minions,” Mr. Chesterfield answered. “The hunt will take place from nine until midnight. At that time, all children must return to the North hall to claim their prizes. Finally, one of the thirteen keys will open a special box in the North Hall containing the grand prize: a ten-pound solid milk chocolate pumpkin!”

The longer Mr. Chesterfield talked, the less interested Spooky was becoming. If the minions all had knives and were chasing the kids around, that would have been interesting.

“But be warned, children,” Mr. Chesterfield continued. “There are wondrous things to behold in my home, but there are also a few surprises. If you frighten easily, I beg you now to abandon this quest and wait for your friends in the safety of the North hall. Are you afraid?”

“No!” the children shouted in answer.

“Minions!” Mr. Chesterfield commanded. “To your posts!”

In concert, the minions collectively dashed down the stairs and into split into two groups, each disappearing into a different wing of the house. When the last was out of sight, the sound of a massive clock bonging the time rang out. When the ninth and final bong was heard, Mr. Chesterfield shouted, “Begin!”

Similar to when the pizza had been announced, the foyer emptied of children until only Spooky remained. Mr. Chesterfield noted the youth, then himself directed his electric wheelchair away from the top of the stairway and back into the shadows beyond the balcony as the motorized sound died away.

With all the other kids far ahead of him, Spooky leisurely began his self-guided tour. As Mr. Chesterfield had said, each area had a clue card on an easel with a picture of a numbered key. The clues all seemed pathetically easy and the minions who weren’t just standing beside their clue cards directing traffic were randomly jumping out for cheap scares.

What was worth it to Spooky was everything the other kids were missing: African tribal masks, wooden antique wheelchairs, pictures of turn-of-the-century locations, clocks of every size and shape, wind-up phonographs, and more. Every room was a separate museum filled with history, some of it creepy (the aforementioned trophy room filled stuffed creatures in scary poses) or really creepy (photos of the dead posed to look like they were sleeping, some even with their living siblings or other family members).

A few candy seekers would run by every once in a while, but otherwise Spooky was left alone to his own explorations, right up until he came upon three of Mr. Chesterfield’s minions blocking his way into one particular room, almost as if they’d been waiting for him.

“Hi guys! I’m guessing there’s a key nearby?” Spooky asked as he looked around. “I don’t see a clue card here.”

“You don’t seem interested in keys,” one of the minions replied.

Spooky grinned. “I’m not. I think the mansion is awesome.”

“Mr. Chesterfield has noticed your appreciation of his home and asks if you would like to meet with him.”

Spooky didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah! Right now? Let’s go.”

The three minions led Spooky in a non-threatening way (keeping in mind the eerie words of the butler-looking guy earlier) and through a secret passage to a hidden servant stairway.

“Are there a lot of these around here?” Spooky asked.

“Mr. Chesterfield will answer all of your questions.”

Spooky had plenty of them and really didn’t want to wait to ask, but he was quickly led to a hidden office in the attic. Everything inside looked frozen in time like a living black and white photograph, including Mr. Chesterfield in his wheelchair.

Able to see the mansion’s owner better, he seemed neither as ancient nor as incapable as he’d first assumed. Mr. Chesterfield wore a rimless hat and wire frame glasses that suited his gaunt face and wispy chin hair. He was dressed in a tan tweed jacket and wearing a dark red bow tie, looking like a creepy, retired children’s show host.

“I’m Mr. Chesterfield, but you may call me Bill,” he said to Spooky, putting his hand out to shake. “I understand that you’re Spencer, yes?”

Spooky smiled and took the old man’s hand. As he did so, one of the minions took a picture of Spooky with an instant camera he had seen in those old movies his dad liked to watch.

“My friends call me Spooky. What’s the picture for?”

Bill smiled. “That’s just a memento for my wall behind you. I call them my ‘forget me nots.’”

Spooky turned and looked. There were at least twenty pictures on the wall, some framed and some not, not all the same size and shape but with one consistent feature: they were all empty, as if whatever was in the picture had faded long ago.

“Why are they all blank?”

Bill rolled his eyes in that mocking way old people do when they don’t think kids understand something. “I remember each and every one of them. Every few years, I choose a child such as you for a special event, one that none of the others will experience. My favored minions and I sacrifice an innocent for wealth and power. When the ritual is concluded, the victim is obscured from reality, as if they had never been…”

“… which is why you’ve never been caught, right?”

“Exactly!”

Spooky chuckled. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing! Was this guy for real? “You’re really into Halloween, aren’t you?” Spooky asked.

“In ways you wouldn’t believe,” Bill answered. “That’s not a problem for you, is it, Spencer?”

“Nah. My mom was big into Halloween. Dad’s more into sci-fi. So, you have an altar around here someplace?”

Bill looked elated. “Yes! Down in the old cellar. We’ll take an elevator down just before midnight for the ritual.”

“Uh huh. And I guess you have a book of the dead or something?”

Unable to contain himself, Bill actually cackled. “Yes! Yes, I do! Exactly that! Here, take a look for yourself.”

Opening a old, tattered book on a table close by, Spooky was impressed by the workmanship. It genuinely looked like an old spell book of rites and stuff (at least movie quality or better). Bill turned a few pages for Spooky to see; while he couldn’t read it, it was beautifully illuminated with pictures of winged things and blood-red text.

Spooky nodded, then asked, “And I guess you want me to be your sacrifice for this year?”

Bill was overcome with glee. “My dear boy, I won’t accept no for an answer.”

. . .