Christmas, 2018

It seems that every year, there's one film that does it for me.  Oddly, it's not really the same film every year.  I suppose that's a good thing, meaning that in some ways, my life changes and I grow at least a little as a result of that change.  I love the story of Scrooge, for example, and some years, that's really what's gotten me through the holidays - that idea that we can all be redeemed if we decide to just be nicer to one another, etc.  It may be an old trope, but it's a good one.

But that's not what did it for me this year.  This year, it seems, has been full of odd challenges. They haven't been insurmountable, or particularly difficult, per se - I think the hardest was a refrigerator that died, and really, that just wasn't fun for a couple of days.  Thankfully, being of the camping world, a few days with no fridge isn't a terribly difficult thing to overcome, but it was rather inconvenient.  At least it was warm out when it did happen, though, so I didn't have to deal with it in the bitter cold.  I am grateful for that.  See - not really that difficult in my life.

No, this year's challenges haven't mostly been mine at all, but rather, of people I know.  There are folks who have experienced a bitter loss, some facing aging parents, medical issues, relationship issues and money problems.  Still some folks I know are struggling with identifying themselves, or identifying their changing roles in life.  I know some people who have lost loved ones.  These probably all sound familiar to you, because I have every confidence that we all know people to whom these things have happened over the course of the last twelve months.  It's the course of life.  Stuff happens.  You can't escape it. 

And there's the rub, huh?  You CAN'T escape it.  None of us can.  It's going to happen.  But, it's easy to lose ourselves to it.  It's easy to forget, amidst all the trials and errors, and difficulties, and troubles - and let's face it - some downright ugly things we have to deal with, that we live blessed lives.  "But how can I be blessed when such terrible things are happening to me?" some might ask.  "How is THIS a blessing?"  If I knew the definitive answer to that, I wouldn't have to work for a living.  But I can speak to it a little.  We're blessed because we're still here.  We have the wherewithal to survive these things, to persevere, to continue on, to keep going.  We don't have the choice of which things we have to face in our lives - but we do have the choice in HOW we face them.  We can cower from them, dread them, and lose ourselves in the misery that events bring, or we can face them, focus on the truth, and find the solution to the problems that come our way. 

That's not to say it's easy.  It's darned difficult to stay optimistic.  It requires a TON of energy and thought and purposeful action to keep from getting swallowed up by the not-so-good things.  And some might say, "But you just said you had a decent year - it's easy to say 'be positive' when things are so good for you!"  Yes!  Those people are correct - it IS easy to say it when things are good....and not so easy to say it when things are only so-so, and difficult as hell to say it when life is handing us those lemons.  That's why it's important to say it loud, and say it often, especially when things are good.  So we remember it when it's difficult.  So we remember that in the midst of anger, sorrow, depression, anxiety, loss, and woe, there is also joy, happiness, satisfaction, achievement, and most of all, love - in its many different forms.

Yesterday, the tree went up and the house was decorated.  As I sat there looking at this year's tree, I realized that it is indeed, the most beautiful tree I've ever seen.  I was struck by the memories of years past as I pulled out the ornaments one-by-one, and of the promises they hold, too.  And I realized that yes, It's a Wonderful Life.

I hope and pray that each of you has the opportunity to look on your lives and see the blessings, the happiness, and the joy that exists.  And I hope you know that you have helped make my life wonderful, and blessed.  Thank you, and have a blessed Christmas and happy 2019!!!

As always,

Thanks for reading,

Me

Hauntings: Haunted Transportation week!!!

Hello again!!

This week is haunted transportation week!  Ghost ships and possessed cars, phantom freighters and the like - this week's spooky stories are just a smattering of the options out there!  As we head into the final project: Haunted public spaces, I am very pleased to offer another guest appearance by Greg, my high school English teacher and drama coach!  Many thanks for your participation, Greg - I have thoroughly enjoyed reading your works this season!!!!

Without further ado......

Ski Run, Run, Run!

by Greg Ellstrom

Mandy and Toby loved to ski.  They had met, in fact, on a slope in Aspen, then gone to the lodge for some apres-ski food, drink, and fun.  Then they had retired for an anything but retiring night in Toby’s cabin.  That was six years ago.  Now, they had been married and reasonably happy for four years.  Mandy was able to stay reasonably happy because of the scandalous piles of money Toby made managing a hedge fund.  So much money, in fact, that she found herself capable of forgiving, or perhaps simply avoiding the thought of, the dalliances he had with comely young women he met in the course of his business and travels.  After all, there were so many boutiques selling so many wonderful things in Manhattan.  Also, Mandy was pretty comely herself, and she wasn’t averse to prowling the clubs for companionship on nights that Toby was out of town.

But the opening of Shadow Run in the Green Mountains of Vermont drew them together for what was to be a long weekend of skiing and drinking and whatever else came about with whomever else happened to be there.  Shadow Run had been in development for nearly two years, and the advertisement for the grand opening of this mother of all ski resorts popped up every week in the Sunday “New York Times Magazine.”  Rooms and ski and dining packages for the opening weekend were obscenely pricey, one of the main reasons that Toby and Mandy had to be there.

Shadow Run was everything it was cracked up to be, and the snow pack that weekend was perfect.  Mandy and Toby stayed in a suite with both a hot tub and a sauna and a mini-bar stocked with Dom Perignon.  They dined that first evening on Chateaubriand and truffles flown in that day for a small banquet for those paying the highest tariffs for their stay.  After dinner, they watched an incredible film, shot from a camera on a skier’s helmet, that featured wild rides down several of the Shadow Run trails.  So excited did the film make them, that they didn’t even go to the bar after the banquet.  They went back to their suite, chattering about the glories of the resort, hopped into bed, made love for the first time in three weeks, and popped Ambiens so they would sleep tight and be up early to ski the main peak, the giant called simply “Drop-Off.”

Seven-thirty A.M. found them with skis on in a line to a chair lift.  The gondola, it had been explained, was having mechanical problems, and the resort staff didn’t dare use it.  But there were plenty of chairlifts to access the slopes. There was a line for the chairlift up Drop Off.   It was a cold morning, but a bright sun illuminated the peak, and blue skies were the ceiling in all directions.  Mandy and Toby waited with excitemant, and it wasn’t long before they hopped on their chair, and started their ascent, rising to about 25 feet above the ground.

For a few minutes, both were silent, taking in the beauty that surrounded.  Then Mandy spoke.  “Look, Tobe.  There’s a mist rising from the valley down to the right.”

Toby looked.  “Odd.  Probably because it’s so cold.”

“It’s moving so fast,” Mandy said and, pulling off her glove, raised her bare hand above her head.  “No wind at all, though.”

“Maybe they’re making snow down there.  I’ll bet that’s what it is.”

“I don’t think so,” Mandy said and watched the fog flow toward them.  “Why is it moving so fast, honey?”

Toby shrugged.  “I don’t know.”

Mandy looked ahead at the chair in front of them.  The two skiers riding on it were pointing and peering at the approaching mist.  The woman looked back, smiled, waved, and shouted, “Spooky, huh!”

“Yes,” Mandy called back and tried to laugh but just couldn’t.

Tendrils of fog snaked their way out of the fog mass and swallowed trees.  It probably shouldn’t have been, but the fog was, for some reason, very frightening.  Mandy held tight to Toby’s hand.  “I think this is bad, Toby,” she said.

“Don’t be silly, Mand.  It’s just fog.”

“Not like I ever saw before.” 

They watched as one of the tendrils of mist engulfed the chair rising in front of them.  The chair had been there holding two people with bright wool caps, and suddenly it just seemed to be gone.  Nothing of the couple above was visible through the fog.

“They’re gone,” Mandy whispered.

“Honey, the fog is hiding them. . .I think.”  He turned his head and looked back.  Nothing there except for roiling fog.  “Shit.”

Mandy peered over the tips of her skis.  The fog was below them and rising rapidly.  “It’s coming,” she whispered.

Toby put his arm around her.  “Don’t worry, babe,” he said, his voice shaky with worry.

They watched the fog rise.  It was silent.  They were silent.  Soon it arrived and their skis and their legs from the knee down were obscured.  Mandy looked at him.  “It’s cold,” she said, “but it doesn’t hurt or anything.”

“Of course, it doesn’t.”

She reached down into the mist feeling for her legs.  She turned as pale as the fog.  Tears started down her cheeks.  “My legs are gone,” she squeaked.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tobe began. . .

Mandy pulled her arm from out of the fog.  It was gone from just below the elbow.  No blood.  No gore.  Just a missing piece of reality called an arm.  The fog rose, and they knew that they were no longer from the waist down.

“At least it doesn’t hurt,” Mandy said and squeezed her husband’s hand hand with her remaining hand.  “Oh, God, Toby.  Where are we going?”

“How the hell should I know,” her husband answered.  

“I could have been a better wife.”

“I should have been a better husband.”

With absolutely nothing they could do, they watched the fog rise higher, an inch at a time.  It was almost at her bosom, and Mandy felt bad because she had always been proud of her boobs.  Then they were gone.  She looked at Toby whose ashen head was floating above the mist.  She thought of closing her eyes. . .but, hell, there was little left to see anyway.

And for my own tale, we head once again to Wellbury.....

October 20^th, 10:54 PM, Wellbury Station

     Sarah Jeffries lifted her collar against the biting cold Autumn wind.  It swirled and bit at her, playing with the fabric of her long coat as she waited for the train at the Wellbury Station.  Like most of the town, the station was old, with brick that was pitted with age in some places, and had been outright replaced in others.  All of it needed re-pointing, and the wood trim was in desperate need of a paintjob.  The terracotta tiled roof was intact, but moss was clearly already starting to find its way out of the cracks and crevices between the tiles.  It was old, but it fit the town.  It just didn’t fit Sarah.  Not anymore.

     The decision to leave was her own, made a long time ago in her mind.  Most of Wellbury’s youth talked about going to Pittsburgh and getting out of the little town when they grew up.  Almost none of them ever ended up leaving.  That was life in Wellbury.  The same families never left.  No one new ever came in and settled down.  Sarah talked about it for a long time.  And for a long time, she did nothing about it.  She grew up, got married, bought a house, tried to start a family – all the usual things that were expected of her.  Still, she could always feel that there was something missing.

     It was her husband who finally made the decision easy for her.  Brent Jeffries was a decent man.  He worked hard as a handyman, and though it was tough getting the business started, he could be considered successful.  Mostly, it was because he never took a vacation and was always working.  He was like everyone else in that way – always talking of leaving but never actually taking the steps to do anything about it.  There wasn’t enough time, or money, or – there was always an excuse.  He always promised that it would happen, “someday.”  She was tired of waiting for someday, and when he came home earlier that evening, with news that one of his friends was putting together a hunting trip to Wyoming and that he was going to go, she decided enough was enough.

     That was when she decided to call her aunt in the city, who arranged to meet her at the train depot late that night.  She packed enough for only a few days’ time, and slipped out the door, unbeknownst to Brent.

     “I need to do this,” she said aloud, “for me.”

     Everyone knew the eleven o’clock train would be coming through.  They’d been hearing the train whistle for years.  It rarely stopped on its way through, but tonight, Sarah didn’t have long to wait until she saw the light of the engine coming down the track, even though it was still several miles away.

     “Is this the train to Pittsburgh?”

     The question came suddenly, and from behind her.  Sarah startled.

     Turning, she saw a young woman she couldn’t place.  She looked to be about nineteen or twenty, thin and pale, but not sickly.  Strands of her long brown hair poked out from beneath a red scarf she had done up around her head, presumably to ward off the wind.  Her dress was plain, but it suited her, somehow, and the overcoat she wore was equally so.  Still, she was put together.

     She looked almost familiar, but Sarah couldn’t quite place her.

     “Oh I didn’t see you there,” she said.  “I thought I was alone.”

     The girl smiled. 

     “That happens to me all the time,” she said.  I think I’m alone and then suddenly, there I am in a crowd.”  She paused before adding, “It’s a little unnerving.”

     Sarah laughed lightly.  It felt good to laugh like that, even if it was just polite conversation and smalltalk.

     “I don’t think I’ve seen you around,” she said.  “I’m Sarah.” She held out her hand.

     “I’m Emily,” said the girl.  She didn’t shake hands.  “It’s very nice to meet you.”

     “That was my grandmother’s name,” said Sarah.  “I always found it very pretty.”

     “I hate it,” said Emily.  “It makes me feel plain and boring.  I wish it was something different, something with more punch to it.  Something more important.”

     “Like what?”

     “I don’t know – something like Zoe or Samantha would be nice.  An interesting name.”

     “Well, my grandmother used to say that it wasn’t the name that mattered, it was how you lived that made the difference.  I know it sounds a bit cliché, but it’s always gotten me through tough times.”

     “Sounds like she was a smart lady.”

     “I don’t know.  I never met her.  She died the year before I was born.”

     “That’s too bad.”

     “I used to sit and listen to my mother tell me stories about her.  I would beg her to tell me stories.”  She smiled.  “Half of what I know may not even be the truth.  I think my mom made up most of the stories just so I would be quiet.  How lame is that?”

     “Lame?  Oh, I don’t think it’s that at all,” said Emily.  “If it gives you something to cling to, I think it works out well.”

     “You might be right,” said Sarah.

     “So, is this the train to Pittsburgh?” asked Emily.

     Sarah looked down the track.  The light was getting closer, though they had some time yet before it would actually arrive.  The long straightaway leading into town was known for looking deceptively short.

     “Yes, but it will be a few minutes before it gets here.  It’s further away than it looks, especially at night.”

     “Oh.  Have you ever been to the city before?  This is my first time.”

     “Only for an evening or so at a time.  This will be the longest I’ve ever stayed there.”

     “How long?”

     “I’m – not sure.” Sarah finished quickly.

     “Is something wrong?”

     “I’m fine,” she said.  “I just….need a breather.”

     “That’s me, too,” said Emily.  “I want to get out of this place and see the world!  Well – at least a bigger portion of it.”

     Sarah had to chuckle.

     “I know the feeling.  I want to just go, and keep going, without ever coming back.”

     The train pulled up into the station.  It was so sudden and quiet, that Sarah scarcely had time to react to it.  She thought it was odd, at first.  But thought nothing of it as she and Emily boarded the car and found a seat next to one another.  The train barely made a movement as it got started again.

     Sarah looked around.  The people were strangely dressed.  Some were in older outfits.  Not just out of fashion, but out of place in time.  Many were dressed formally, with oversized hats tied on with ribbons, and the men were…gentlemen.  Sarah looked over at Emily, who sat, smiling at her.

     “Is this some sort of a costume train?” she asked.

     “I’m afraid not, Dear One,” said Emily.

     Sarah looked at her quizzically.  She noticed then, how Emily’s smile was a little crooked, and her young skin had small cracks and wrinkles around the eyes.  Mostly, though, it was her eyes.  There was something strange in them, something that Sarah didn’t see in the dim light of the station platform.

     “Emily, what’s going on here?”

     Emily sighed.  “This part is always the toughest.” 

     Sarah looked around, noticing that all eyes were on her.

     “You mustn’t be upset,” said Emily.  “You just got on a train you didn’t expect was coming.”

     “What do you mean?”

     “This isn’t the train to Pittsburgh, and you aren’t going to see your Aunt Smantha, Dear One.”

     “Why are you calling me that?” asked Sarah.  ‘The only person who used to call me that –“

     She paled as she looked into Emily’s eyes.  She understood why the girl looked so familiar now.  She’d seen pictures, but it had been a long time.

     “Grandma?”

     Emily nodded.  “Yes, child.”

     Sarah started to say something, but her words would not come.

     “It’s all right,” said Emily.  “We all catch this train at some point in our lives.  It’s time you came with me, and leave the rest behind.”

As always,

Thanks for reading!

Me.

Hauntings, The Haunted House

OK, so I'm a little late in getting this one out, but there is a special bonus:  This week's guest author is a personal favorite of mine! Greg is one of my very favorite teachers ever.  Why?  He taught me why literature matters, why it is important that we write, and that we share that writing.  He helped make literature come alive for me, and he did it by putting Shakespeare on stage.  Now in his retirement, he writes and directs plays for community theatre in my home town, travels with his lovely wife (who also taught English in the same school (They were quite an amazing duo, I might add).  I am honored to share two pieces of his writing: The first is last week's theme of the Haunted Highway.  He sent it to me, but it never arrived, so I am going to take him at his word that he turned it in on time - I'm sure that I missed an assignment date at some point in one of his classes, so I guess turn about is fair play!  The second is the theme for this week, The Haunted House.  Greg, thank you for your contributions to this world through education, and your continued contributions through your writing. 

So, on to the submissions!!!

Going Too fast on the Barlow Road
by Greg Ellstrom

I wish that my car had broken down that night.
I wish I had run out of gas.
I would even have taken the chance of driving off the road into a tree.
Anything to have avoided seeing what I saw down that little lane that ran off the
right side of State Route 47. That little road which I felt sure was a shortcut between the
towns of Castle Rock and Jerusalem’s Lot. Even now, almost a year later, I don’t know
what drove me to take that shortcut.
I was coming home from a two-day job just north of Boston. It was Friday night
of Columbus Day weekend, and I was in a hurry to get home to Annie and the kids. So
when I came upon this little road to the right, although I didn’t remember having noticed
it before, I just felt that it was the way I was supposed to go. I turned onto it and headed
into the coming darkness, my high beams cutting the way through the tendrils of mist
that suddenly appeared floating above the cracked blacktop.
The road, I thought, was really desolate. Understatement! I had gone about a
mile or two before I realized that I hadn’t passed a single house. The mist was
thickening, becoming a sort of “creepy fog.” That was when I should have turned
around and gone straight back to 47. I didn’t. Instead, I accelerated.
That was almost my undoing. I rounded a bend and started down into a hollow,
when my lights reflected off the twisted metal and chrome of a car wreck not fifty yards
away. I stood on my brakes, and they caught and screamed to a halt a few feet short of
smashing into the wreck. Christ, I nearly wet my pants. I sat upright, squeezing the hell
out of the wheel, my heart pounding.
But, I stopped being concerned about myself when I saw her in the throw of my
high beams. A young woman was caught under the twisted body of a ruined sports car.
Night black hair framed her face that was dappled with blood. Her eyes were closed.
Her arms were reaching out, but her fingers weren’t finding anything. I was sure she
was dead.

Some adrenalin kicked in, I guess, and I jumped from the car and ran the few
steps to where she was trapped. I knelt down and put my fingers to her neck. I couldn’t
find a pulse, but I’m never quite sure of where you are supposed to put your fingers
when searching for a heartbeat. She was ridiculously cold. I would say “ice cold,” but
that is too frickin’ trite, and she wasn’t ice cold, anyway. She was something else cold!
Something altogether different and wrong. . . then her eyes popped open!
“Shit!” I screamed and really peed my pants a little. “You’re alive!”
She was blinking rapidly, and her right hand shot to her face to block the bright
light. I took her left hand. It seemed like the comforting thing to do.
“Matthew?” She said. “Matty?”
“No. . .No,” I said. I had to say it twice because the little word stuck in my throat
the first time. “I’m Todd. I just. . . came upon your accident.” Came upon! God, that
sounded dumb. I pulled my cellphone from my pocket.
She spoke in a sing-songy voice. “Going too fast on the Barlow Road.” Her eyes
continued blinking.
I had to get help, but I my phone had none of those blasted bars. “Shit! No
reception!”
Her eyes stopped bouncing in their sockets, and she looked at me, and I saw
fear in those dark orbs. “What’s your name?” I asked.
“Kate.” Her voice was husky and weak.
“There’s no cell reception, Kate. I’ll have to go for help. “
I started to rise, but her hand, surprisingly strong, clamped around mine. “Don’t
leave,” she said. “Please.”
“Kate, I have to. You’re hurt. . .badly.”
“Call, Matthew,” she said.
“My phone won’t work.”
“Give me your phone.” Her dark eyes stared into mine. I gave her the phone.
She took it with her right hand and punched in a number with the thumb nail. Her nails
were painted deep scarlet. She tucked the phone under her hair and listened.

In a moment, she smiled. Her teeth were very white. She said, “Hi, darling. It’s me.”
She listened then said, “I’m in trouble down the Barlow Road. Driving too fast,” she
said. “Come, please.” She listened. “Thank you, Matthew.” She clicked off the phone
and handed it to me. “Thank you, Todd,” she said. “Matthew’s coming. You can leave.”
“Your wreck has blocked the road.” Another dumb thing to say.
“Go back the way you came.”
“I can’t leave you.”
“If you don’t, you might wish you had,” she smiled. Her face which had been
pale was now livid. She had to be minutes from death. I couldn’t leave her, could I?
I opted for nobility and went to the car to get a bottle of water and switch off the
headlights. When I got back, I offered her a drink, but she shook her head and locked
her lips. Sitting there in near darkness with a bottle in my hand, I decided to take out
my very clean handkerchief and wash the spots of blood from her face. It seemed like a
nice thing to do for a dying woman. I dampened the cloth and dabbed at a splash
across her forehead. My finger began to burn, and I pulled my hand away. I looked at
the handkerchief. There was a hole in the fabric where I had wiped away the blood. At
that moment, I should have hauled ass out of there. . .but I didn’t. I sat frozen like some
kind of stupid lawn ornament in the middle of a Hieronymus Bosch painting. When I
looked back at Kate, she was smiling. In her hand she held a shard of glass from a
shattered headlamp. “Todd,” she said, “slice open the palm of your hand.”
“What?” I began, but she stared at me and smiled.
“Do what I ask?”
So I did. I took the glass and sliced my palm from pinkie to wrist. It hurt like hell.
Kate grabbed my hand and pulled me and it to her. She started to suck on my palm.
My palm stopped hurting. It felt good. It felt even better the longer she sucked my
blood. She looked better, too. Color was coming back to her cheeks.
I don’t know for how long she stole my blood. Maybe two minutes. Then she
pushed me away and said, “I don’t want to use you all up. That would make Matty very,
very angry.”

I was weak. She looked strong. She felt strong, too, because she put her hands
to her sides and tried to do a pushup with the car on top of her. It actually rose a few
inches, but she had to quit and let herself slowly back down to the ground. “We’ll wait
for Matthew,” she smiled. I thought she had lipstick on her teeth, and then I realized it
was my blood. Realizing that, really sucked! Poor choice of words. I tied my burned
handkerchief around my palm wound.
In the distance, the roar of a powerful engine coming from the direction in which I
had been traveling filled the hollow. A truck with a row of spotlights across the roof of
the cab came over the edge of the hollow and roared slowly to a stop. It was a big,
frickin’ black truck! A Ram with a Hemi!
“He’s here,” Kate purred.
He, Matthew, got out, and he seemed to me to be nearly as big as his truck and
nearly as black. He walked toward us, a tower of a man, easily six and a half feet tall,
with shoulders wide as a pool table, and an afro the size of a chrysanthemum at the end
of October. He crossed to us and smiled. HIs smile was as white and bright as Kate’s.
“Hello, baby,” he said. “What I tell you about driving too fast down the Barlow Road.”
“Thank goodness, Todd came along. If no one had come before sunup.. . .the
joke would be on me.”
Matthew looked at me with a smile devoid of warmth. “Thanks, Todd. Now
here’s what you are going to do. When I lift the car off of Kate, you are going to pull her
out from under it. Got it?”
“Yes.” My voice was nearly as weak as my body felt.
“Take hold her arms now.”
Kate raised her arms, and I grabbled them by the sickly cold wrists. The big man
from the Ram bent at the knees, put his hands under the edge, and lifted the car off the
woman as easy as you might lift the lid of a hope chest. Strange simile! Hope was
something of which I was rapidly running out. “Pull her out!” he ordered, and I did, and
what I saw made me abandon all hope. First, I saw the a pool of blood that seemed big
enough for a couple of bodies. It had been hidden under the car. Then, I saw that a
three foot piece of metal from somewhere on the frame had been driven directly through
Kate’s chest right where here heart should be. Six inches of the metallic spear

protruded from her back. She had been skewered straight through the heart and was
grinning.
As I contemplated this ghastly anomaly, Matthew dropped the husk of the car. It
crashed loudly, and my head snapped away from the horror I had seen. I wanted to cry,
but Matthew roared with laughter. “Holy shit, baby. Glad we didn’t get you the car with
the real wood trim. You’d a been a goner.”
Kate with the gaping hole in her chest laughed giddily at that, and I knew what I
had known for awhile but which my brain refused to accept. . .this was vampire humor I
was hearing. The undead! Nosferatu! Blood suckers! Yupper, that’s who I was
hanging out with. But me having heard that joke. . .maybe the joke would be on them.
They were no longer paying me any mind. Matthew knelt down by his lady, rolled
up the sleeve of the skin tight t-shirt he wore. And drew his fingernail across his wrist. I
saw then that his nails weren’t nails, they were green, twisting claws. Black blood
spurted from the wound, and he put his wrist to Kate’s mouth. “Drink some, baby,” he
said. “You’ll be your old dead self, soon.”
So Matthew offered his wrist, Kate sucked his blood, and I walked back as quietly
as I could to the rear of my SUV, more than ever thankful that I had chosen surveying as
a profession. I was also grateful that the morning before I had been worried about
being short on stakes to mark the plots I was to survey, so I had gone down into my
basement and taken two old inch and a half by four foot dowels, trimmed them to sharp
points and tossed them into the back of the Jeep in case I needed them. Thank God, I
hadn’t needed them.
I was as swift and as silent as my drained body could be fetching those stakes.
When I got back to my new friends, Matt had just taken his hand away from Kate’s
mouth, was starting to turn back to me, and said, “Now I’m thirsty, Toddy!” That was
when I jammed one stake into his back with all the might I could summon. I picked just
the spot, because the stake went through his chest, not encountering any bone, and
exited through his heart and seven or eight inches out of the front. The surprised wail
that came from Matthew’s mouth was terrifying, I guess, though he was dead almost
immediately. He tumbled down onto his lady friend and the stake that was through his

chest went through her stomach. She gulped, her eyes bulging, and some black blood
came out of her mouth. “Holy shit!” she sort of whispered. “Todd, you killed Matthew!”
“Yep,” I nodded and watched as Matthew officially passed away. He didn’t turn
into a pile of dust like in some of the monster movie. Instead, he shriveled up like a big
African-American raisin. When he was done shriveling, he was about half his original
size.
Instead of giving Kate a chance to enthrall me or something, I took the other
dowel and jammed it through her heart. The life went out of her eyes, and, for a second
she looked sad, then for even less than a second, she looked happy. Then she
shriveled up!
This was no time for messing around or doing things in a half ass way. I got the
can of gas I keep in the rear of my car and doused the two vampire prunes with it. Then
I tossed a lit pack of matches on them and watched them go up. They and the stakes
burned really brightly.
I got in my Jeep, did a nice K turn, and raced down the Barlow Road, never
stopping until I reached Route 47. Then I drove like hell home. When I got in my
house, I hugged my wife as if I hadn’t seen her in a year.
When we stopped embracing, she said, “you smell a little like gasoline.”
“I had to burn up a couple vampires!”
She grinned. “Silly boy!”
Then I showed her my sliced and burned right hand. . .which made her frown.
Three days later, we moved. If I was ever to get a full night’s sleep again, we
had to move out of the Lot. Annie never much cared for it there anyway. She was a city
girl. The kids were too young to be anything but excited. In daylight, we went south on
Route 47 on our way to wherever our new home would be. Nowhere along 47 between
the Rock and the Lot,, was the Barlow Road to be found. And I looked really carefully,
But way out in one of the fields where the Barlow Road should have been, I could see a
narrow wisp of smoke climbing straight up into the windless sky. Were a wrecked sports
car and a couple of blood suckers still smoldering out there? I imagine so.

(With, as many scary stories deserve, a tip of the hat to Stephen King.)





“House For Sale. . .With Goblins”
by Greg Ellstrom

The house was tumbledown, almost paintless. The lawn was over grown and
had a “For Sale” sign stuck in it. The sign was probably straight when the realtor first
jammed it into the sandy soil, but now it was leaning to the right and thinking about
falling over. The two upstairs windows facing front looked like dead eyes, and the
covered porch below them with the spindled rail looked like a mouth with too many
teeth. The house sneered out toward the road daring anyone to buy it.
In what had been her grandmother’s room on the second story. Carrie sat on the
floor with a pile of books in front of her. Her 10 year-old Lizzie was digging through
drawers and boxes. Suddenly, a drawer crashed to the floor. The contents were strewn
all around it.
“Lizzie, I told you to be careful!” Carrie snapped
“I didn’t do it on purpose, Mommy,” Lizzie snapped right back. “There’s nothing
fun in here anyway! I’m going downstairs.”
“Behave yourself, when your. . .” Carrie began, but Lizzie had already stomped
out the door and was clumping down the stairs. Carrie sighed. Certainly, this child was
their cross to bear. She heard her continuing to clomp across the living room floor
below. The clomping was followed by a crash and a tinkle of broken glass. Carrie knew
that the old floor lamp by her grandma’s chair had been knocked down in Lizzie’s rage.
She wanted to scream. Then she heard Lizzie clomping across to the front door and
the door slam as she went outside. Carrie drew in a long breath. Blessed silence, she
thought, and went back to looking through the pile of ancient volumes.
Outside, Lizzie surveyed the property and dubbed it boring! She was angelic in
appearance, this eight year old child. Curly blonde hair framed a sweet face with pink
cheeks and turned up nose. Standing on the lawn with her hands jammed into her
overalls pockets, she could have posed for a Norman Rockwell cover if that artist hadn’t
been dead forty years. Her blue eyes spotted something of interest in an out-of-control
beauty bush growing by the side of the house. Sure enough, when she crossed to it,
she saw that it was a bird’s nest, too high for her to reach but easy to get if you shook

the bush hard enough. She did, and the nest fell to the ground, three blue robin’s eggs
tumbled out of it into the grass. This made Lizzie smile. She picked them up and
looked at them nestled in her little hand. They were warm. Mama Robin must have
recently been sitting on them. Joyfully, Lizzie threw each of the eggs as hard as she
could to explode against the wall of the garage. Then she walked over to see what she
had done. Each egg had contained a baby bird nearly ready to hatch. She smiled.
This was the most fun she’d had since they came to this lame old place.
Back upstairs, Carrie was smiling over the book she had discovered. It was a
collection of poetry for children, and the poem that drew her attention was one by
James Whitcomb Riley titled “Little Orphant Annie.” It was about a serving girl who told
children terrible tales about goblins. The author had begun with the words,
With all Faith and Affection To all the little children-- The happy ones; and sad ones/ the
sober and the silent ones;/ the boisterous and glad ones;/ The good ones -- Yes, the
good ones, too; and all the lovely bad ones.
Carrie’s cell buzzed. She looked at it, and saw it was her husband. Clicking it
on, she said, “Hey, babe. . .Yep. We are here. . .we’re good.” Then she frowned.
“Actually, not good. Lizzie is being just awful. This sweet, elderly real estate lady let us
into the house, and Lizzie was just obnoxious.” She listened a moment. “Another child
psychologist. Who gave you the name? . . .John Drake. Well his kids are screwed up!
Maybe we should give this one a try. Let’s not talk about Lizzie now. I want to read part
of this poem to you. I’m thinking of reading it to Lizzie, hopefully it’ll scare the shit out of
her like it scared the shit out of me when I was her age.” Carrie giggled and began to
read.“
“An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin,/An' make fun of ever' one, an' all
her blood-an'-kin;/An' wunst, when they was "company," an' ole folks wuz there,/She
mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care!”
Now downstairs, Lizzie was going through more drawers. She discovered a box
of kitchen matches in the back of one and thought what a wonderful fire they would
make. She tried to light one, and the sulfur peeled off. She tried another and the stick
snapped. The matched had sucked up years of dampness and wouldn’t work. Lizzie
screamed in anger and stomped the matchbox into the floor.

Upstairs, Carrie heard the scream and cringed. Then read on, “An' thist as she

kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide,/They wuz two great big Black Things a-
standin' by her side.”

There was a little room off the kitchen on the first floor. It was what was once
called a butler’s pantry. Lizzie fumed in the kitchen, then heard a whispering noise
coming from the pantry. Just what was this, she wondered, and slowly made her way
into the dark little room which just happened to be located directly below the bedroom
where her mother sat reading poetry. It took a moment for Lizzie’s eyes to adjust to the
darkness. She saw tall shelves on both sides and two dark shapes looming in front of
the shelves. In a second, the two dark things with the cold, cold hands grabbed her
arms.
As if on cue, Carrie read, “An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she
knowed what she's about/An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you/ Ef you Don't Watch Out!” The
last word of the verse was followed by Lizzie’s scream. That was directly followed by a
roar of wood and plaster as the floorboards a few feet from Carrie exploded upward and
something dark rocketed by. In less than a second, the ceiling and roof above
exploded. Carrie looked up. Dust and debris fell on her, and she looked away, unable
to believe what she had seen. She looked again. In the exposed roof above her was a
hole, sort of a cartoon-like hole, in the exact shape of a little girl. She thought she heard
a little girl scream somewhere high in the dark clouds. Then Carrie started to scream
and scream and scream some more.



And now, my own Haunted house story.  As previously mentioned, we head back to Wellbury, PA....

No. 318 Monroe Street, Wellbury, PA – The Moore House

     Ed Jacobson eased the station wagon to a stop in front of the classic brick Victorian home.  It was nestled nicely on the property, a little way away from the road – a safe enough distance to allow the kids to play in the yard and his wife, Helen, to tend to the flowers she would inevitably plant there.  Maybe they would get a dog.  He didn’t know, but he remained hopeful.  It had been a long time since he had a dog.  This place seemed destined for one.

  “We’re here, everyone!  Welcome home!” 

     Helen was busy looking out the passenger-side window at the other houses on the street, while the kids, Tammy and David, were asleep in the back seat.

     “Wake up, kids!” said an excited Ed.  “This is our new home base!”

     The trip was long, moving from the east end of the state to here, the little nowhere town of Wellbury.  But, the local coal plant needed a new chief engineer, and Ed Jacobson drew the short straw.  None of them wanted to leave the Easton area, but the company made it worth Ed’s efforts to move everyone, and when this house came up on the realtor’s list, Ed’s heart skipped a beat.

     “Ed – it’s huge!” she said, looking up at the third floor.  “How can we afford this?”

     “Honey, it’s ok.  It didn’t cost what you think it might.”

     She looked skeptical.  “What’s wrong with it?”

     Ed reached into the back of the car and pulled out his briefcase.  “I have the inspection report right here.  Everything checks out just fine, and there’s a warranty on the house as well.  Anything major goes wrong – right down to a chip of paint that flakes off, and we can find something else, no hassle.”

     He needed this to be right for his family.  School would start in about three weeks, and he needed to make certain this would work.  He spared no expense in getting all the documentation, asking all the right questions – anything he could think of to make sure this became the positive experience they all needed it to be.  Wellbury was known for having an excellent public school program.  The college was nearby, the plant wasn’t too far of a commute, and he was making enough that Helen wouldn’t have to work if she didn’t want to.  The house being so cheap helped immensely.  If they were going to have to live way out here in the middle of nowhere, Ed decided they were at least going to be comfortable, and maybe make a hefty profit.

     Tammy and David were already running through to the backyard, laughing as they explored their new surroundings.  

     It couldn’t be better.  Ed Jacobson was on top of the world.  It was the last time he would ever have that feeling.

     “Ed, are you sure we can afford this?” asked Helen.  “Back home, a place like this goes for three or four hundred thousand.”

     Ed smiled at his wife.  “Here, it goes for seventy-five!” he said.

     “What’s wrong with it that it goes for so cheap?”

     “The realtor said the owners were anxious to sell.  She said they inherited it and just wanted to be rid of the property.  She didn’t say why.”

     “It’s beautiful,” she said, “it’s just –“

     “Just what?”

     “I just can’t believe this is ours!”

     Ed swooped down to pick her up.  He hadn’t done that in years, since the night they were first married, and it showed.  His steps stuttered a little before he found his footing and carried Helen across the threshold of the door, closing it behind him.

     It was 2:18 AM, and Ed was wide awake.  He heard something, or at least he though he did.  But, what was that noise?  It was cold.  He could see his breath in the air.  Something felt – off. 

     He looked over at Helen, still sleeping peacefully in the bed next to him.  He could see her breath as she exhaled.  He got out of bed and put on his slippers, padding out into the hallway.  The kids’ rooms were on the right as he made his way down the hall. 

     “Daddy?”

     He nearly jumped out of his skin as he heard the young voice behind him.

     “Not just now, Pumpkin,” he said.  “I think we may have a raccoon or something in the house.  You go back to bed now.”

     He turned to look at Tammy, next to him.  Only Tammy wasn’t there.  Standing next to him was a little boy, the like of which Ed had never seen before.  He couldn’t have been five or six years old, and dressed in a pair of shorts a button-down shirt.

     “Who are you?”  he said.

     “Stevie,” said the boy.

     “Stevie,” asked Ed, “what are you doing here?  Where is your home?  Your parents?”

     Stevie shrugged his shoulders.  “Don’t know.”

     “What do you mean you don’t know?”  How did you get here?”

     “I just woke up here.”

     Ed got down on one knee in front of the boy.  “Stevie, you had to come from somewhere.  Now, where do you live?”

     Stevie shrugged his shoulders again.  “With the boys,” he said.

     “What boys, Stevie?”

     “All the others like me.”

     “Stevie are you in foster care?  Do you live with someone who isn’t your mom or dad?”

     The boy nodded.

     “OK, great.  Who do you live with Stevie?”

     Stevie lifted a finger and pointed it straight at Ed.  “With you, Daddy,” he said.

     “Stevie, I’m not your daddy.  I’m not your guardian.”

     Ed sighed deeply. 

     “OK, come with me, we’ll go make a phone call.”

     He padded down the hallway and down the stairs and back to the kitchen, with Stevie holding tightly onto his hand the entire way.  Ed reached the phone and picked it up to call.  There was no dial tone.  He clicked the receiver a few times.

     “The phone doesn’t work,” said Stevie.

     “I can see – wait a minute.  Stevie, how did you know the phone didn’t work?”

     “The Big Man turned it off, Daddy.”

     “I’m not – “ Ed let it trail off.  “Who’s the Big Man, Stevie?”

     “He keeps us here.  He keeps us all here.”

     “How many does he keep?”

     Stevie shook his head.  “I can’t count that high.”

     Ed was perplexed.  The child made no sense, but clearly, he was disturbed. 

     “Stevie, what do you think about taking a ride down to the police station with me, and you can tell the police what you told me?”

     Stevie shook his head. 

     “Well, you can’t stay here, Stevie.  Let me go get my keys.”

     Halfway up the stairs, Ed stopped.  There was something else – someone else – in the house.  He looked back down at the boy.

     Stevie was nervous.  He looked around, frantically, before finally looking up the stairs at Ed. 

     “It’s too late.  The Big Man has you now too, Daddy.”

     “What do you mean, Stevie?”

     A loud THUD sounded.  It shook the entire house, and Ed had to hold onto the railing.

     “I’m sorry, Daddy,” said Stevie.  “I tried to get here faster.”

     THUD.  It was louder, closer.

     “Stevie – is that the Big Man?”

     “Yes, Daddy.”

     THUD. 

     “I can’t stay, Daddy.  If he finds out I was here – “

     Ed watched as Stevie ran down the hall and disappeared into the kitchen.  He did not hear the door open or shut.  Ed raced up the steps to Helen and the kids.  He got to the top of the steps and raced down the hallway.

     THUD. 

     All the doors were open, Helen, nowhere to be found.  Tammy wasn’t in her room, and David was missing, too. 

     THUD.

     It was getting closer still, and each time it sounded, Ed could barely think.  He ran back down the stairs to the door, and just as he was about to touch the handle, the doorbell rang.

     He paused, his hand just inches from the knob.

     The doorbell rang again.

     Carefully, Ed opened the door. 

     Outside on the porch, stood a rather small man.  He was slender, body, and dressed in a white doctor’s coat atop his impeccable suit.  His hair was dark, but neat as a pin.  He wore thin wire-framed glasses that sat on the edge of his slightly-too-large-for-his-face nose, and he had a pencil moustache adorning his upper lip.  A stethoscope hung around his neck.

     “Hello?” asked Ed.

     “Hello.”

     “Can I help you?”

     “Oh, there is no help for me.  That time is long past.  And I’m afraid there is also no help for you.”

     At once, the man’s demeanor switched, and a sneer spread wickedly across his this lips as he eyed Ed.

     “You see, the boys call me the Big Man.  You must understand.  I was once a doctor, many years ago, and this was my house and my practice.  I helped those in – unfortunate circumstances.”

     “What – what does that have to do with me?  Where is my family?”

     “They are still snug in their beds, but you – well, you aren’t.  You heard the boys calling you.  I can’t allow you to get away.  You belong to me, now.”

     “What do you mean?  I belong to no one but my wife!”

     “On this side of the veil, you are mine!” shouted the Big Man. “I control access across it to the other side, and I alone!” 

     He pushed Ed aside and walked into the house.

     “This place – this house – is mine.  I built it, and I know every nook and cranny. You will never escape. It is pointless to even try.”

     “Stevie did it.”

     He regretted saying it as the words left his mouth.  The boy was frightened enough. 

     “Every new family living here is tested.  Stevie was allowed to test you.  You either passed or failed – depending upon your point of view.  It matters not.  You will learn the rules here, and maybe one day, I will allow you to test someone else.”

     The Big Man strolled casually back to the door an outside.

     “Welcome to my hell.”

     The morning came.  Helen awoke to find her husband gone.  There was no evidence of him leaving.  His wallet and keys were still there.  The car was still in its spot in the driveway.  Ed was simply gone.

As always, 

Thanks for reading,

Me.

Hauntings: The Haunted Highway Entries

OK, So mine is done, and I've heard from one other, and it's time to post them!!!! 

The first is my own, and I have decided that there will be a theme running for mine-  They all take place in and around the mythical town of Wellbury, PA.  There is a reason for this, but that isn't really pertinent at this time.  Suffice it to say, this is the first of what will come to be MANY stories of Wellbury.  I hope you enjoy.

Route 38, Mile 23 – Wellbury, Pennsylvania    

     It was dark, but that was nothing new.  It was always dark outside the small town of Wellbury, Pennsylvania.  It couldn’t be helped.  When you were from a small town in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but hills and trees surrounding you for forty miles in every direction, it was something to which you were accustomed.  Darkness and the quiet of the night were constant, even in the middle of summer.  Gerry Stiles didn’t mind it though, as he sat in the aging Crown Victoria off the side of Delert Ridge Road.  He was used it.  He remembered growing up on the other side of Wellbury, doing the same things the kids were still doing today.  There was the occasional mishap when one kid or another wrapped his car around a tree, but that had been happening for years in Wellbury.

     There was nothing really “special” about the town, Gerry felt.  Like every other little town across the state, there were the same things that happened:  there were high school football games on Friday nights, and Church on Sunday mornings, Cub Scouts and PTA meetings during the week, and then the cycle repeated itself.  The only other time the marching band was seen were during the Memorial Day, Fourth of July, and Labor Day parades the town would hold every year. They had their festival every year in the Fall, and the whole town would be talking about the football game the night before.  It was a place where you didn’t have to worry about locking your front door, but you did it anyway because nobody ever used their front doors.

     There were little changes over the years, of course.  There were a whopping two gas stations in town, now, and when the chain stores came in, there was a huge ruckus about how it would drive out the businesses on Main Street.  Everyone swore they would never use the new stores, but of course, they all did it anyway.  If you asked them, though, they only went there for the things they simply could not get elsewhere, and they preferred to shop locally.  Gerry often said that if the world stopped changing in 1958, Wellbury would be considered advanced.  Maybe it was true. 

     The one thing Wellbury did have was the small college that occupied the western side of the town.  Wellbury College was an old place that somehow seemed to thrive, even though they only graduated about 200 people per year.  Somehow, it kept afloat.  Gerry didn’t know how or why.  The school had no athletic program, and at best was only mediocre in most of its programs.  There were rumors about shady things happening, but nothing anyone could prove.  Gerry thought the students were generally to blame for the rash of prank phone calls the station had been receiving lately.  He even went to the Dean of Students to ask for an inquiry, where he was promptly stonewalled.

     That was what landed him out in the middle of the night on a forgotten bit of road outside the sleepy town.  Unfortunately, the Chief of police wasn’t impressed with Gerry’s initiative, and threatened to suspend him if he visited the campus without express orders again.  He hated traffic duty, and the Chief knew it.  He ought to.  Chief Bernard Stiles was Gerry’s younger brother, and constant reminder to Gerry, at least, that the elder Stiles brother was underachieving. 

     Still, it was only a slap on the wrist.  While he didn’t like traffic duty, the nice part was that it was largely quiet.  Well, at least until a few months ago, when they finally finished the highway reconstruction. 

     Gerry never though the project was essential, but the truckers were another thing.  The route was windy and traversed up and down the hills of Western Pennsylvania, making it difficult to travel for the large trucks that used it to avoid the tolls of the turnpike.  To ease the traffic flow, the state decided to take on the responsibility of leveling and straightening the road.  It was a project that lasted several years, and required a lot of land to be purchased.  It raised an uproar in Wellbury when the proposed highway ran a large section of its drainage right past the old cemetery.

     It was the first churchyard in the area, and while the church had long ago been torn down and the congregation moved, the cemetery itself stayed put.  It was a vital piece of the town’s history.  The townsfolk petitioned the state to move the highway elsewhere, but the state wouldn’t budge.  The hillside graveyard would get the drainage run right next it.  All were assured by the state that nothing would happen, and the greatest care would be taken. 

     All seemed well, to Gerry’s mind, when the project was done.  The state did as they said, and there were no problems.  For a while.  It wasn’t until several months later when they started hearing strange reports of things near the highway.  People were calling reporting that there were people out on the road at night.  Strange people, dressed as though they were from another era.  The police investigated, but nothing was ever found.  Everyone was questioned, from the local theatre troupe to the college itself, but nothing ever came of it.  No one knew a thing.  Gerry assumed it was a fraternity prank, as it only seemed to happen once the college’s academic year began.

     Gerry’s radio crackled.

     “Base to W-5.  Gerry, are you there?”

     He clicked the button on the side of the radio.

     “Yeah, just off Delert Ridge.”

     “Had another phone call about Rte 38.  Better get out there and take a look.”

     “You know there won’t be anything.”

     “Yeah, I know, but that’s what we get paid for.  Get your butt over there and check it out.”

     “Yeah, I’m going.  What mile marker, did they say?”

     “Twenty-Three.”

     “Same place as before.”

     “Yeah, I know.  Do me a favor this time.  Approach with your lights off.  Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

     “It’s pitch black out there!”

     “Don’t worry, I’ve already called Calverton and Rimesville.  They’ve got the highway shut down in each direction.  You’ll be safe.”

     “You could have clued me in that was what you were planning.”

     “Trying to keep this close to the vest to catch the people responsible, Gerry.”

     “You know what I think.”

     “That’s partly why I didn’t tell you.”

     “Sometimes I hate you.”

     Bernie laughed on the other side of the radio.  “Yeah, but that’s been the case for forty years now.”

     “All right, I’m on my way.”

     “Thanks Gerry.  Oh, and be careful out there, huh?”

     “I will.  Over and out.”

     The Crown Vic roared to life, and Gerry left the desolate stretch of road for the highway.  It wasn’t far, and inside of five minutes, he found himself on the on-ramp.  He turned off the lights and slowly inched his way down the road, looking for anything that might be out of place.  As he suspected, there was nothing to be seen.  No lights in the trees off either side of the road, no signs of movement – nothing.  Just like every other time.  As he slowly approached mile twenty three, he was not surprised to see nothing but the inky blackness of night.  The car stopped, and Gerry got out, careful to close the door quietly.  He could still smell the freshness of the tar in the blacktop as it mixed with the fresh air that came in from the west on a light breeze.  Even this late in the season, the crickets could still be heard singing.

     The radio came to life.

     “Gerry?  Are you there?  What’s wrong?”

     “Nothing.  I just got here, all’s quiet.”

     “Gerry, come on – quite joking around!”

     “What are you talking about?  I just got here, nice and quiet like you asked!”

     “Gerry, talk to me!”

     “I AM talking to you!”

     “If this is your idea of a joke, it’s not funny, Gerry!”

     “What the hell are you talking about, Bernie?  I’m right here, and I’m telling you all is well!”

     “Dammit.  I’m on my way!”

     “Why?  Bernie?  Bernie??  W-5 to Base, come in!”

     The radio remained silent.

     “W-5 to WC-1, come in Chief.”

     Nothing.  It wasn’t that there was no response.  There was nothing.  The crickets stopped.  The breeze stopped.  There was nothing at all to be heard. 

     Panicked, Gerry ran back to his car, and got in, slamming the door.  Breaking the quiet no longer concerned him.  He turned the key in the ignition and nothing happened.  The car didn’t even try and turn over.  He checked the power pack on his radio.  Dead.  Nothing was working.  He pulled out the flashlight he carried on his belt.  Dead.  Likewise, the emergency flashlight in the car was gone, too.  He was breathing heavy. 

     “No need to panic,” said a voice VERY close to him. 

     Gerry turned around to find himself face-to-face with a gentleman, finely dressed.  He wore a large black top hat and tails, a freshly starched high-collared shirt and bowtie, grey pants with gleaming white spats covering his shiny black shoes.  He was middle-aged, with a touch of grey beginning to show at his temples and in his thick moustache, which was waxed to perfection.

     Gerry drew his gun and backed away.

     “Put your hands up!” he shouted.

     “I will do not such thing, my good man,” said the gentleman.  He glanced his eyes over Gerry.  “You are an officer of the law?”

     “Officer Stiles,” said Gerry.  “You stay right there while I call this in.”

     The gentleman paused a moment.  “I am afraid that will be impossible for you.  In fact, there’s much that you will find impossible at the moment.”

     “What do you mean?”

     “I do not believe any of your gadgets are going to work at the moment.”

     Gerry pointed his gun into the air and squeezed the trigger.  Nothing happened.

     “Who are you?  What have you done?”

     “Ahh, good,” said the gentleman.  “These are questions I like much more.”

     The strange man began to pace back and forth in front of Gerry, but his feet made no sound on the pavement.

     “Let us start with the simple things:  My name is Stewart Fallsby, Esquire.  I have been appointed as the representative of the town of Wellbury.”

     “What do you mean?  We already have lawyers in town.”

     “Ahh, yes, “ said Fallsby.  “Not the town as you know it.  You see, there is another town here, one you and your kind have disturbed.”

     Gerry looked at him, puzzled. 

     Suddenly, Fallsby drew very close to him, his congenial attitude gone as a sneer spread across his face.  “And we don’t like it very much.”

     Gerry looked around as there appeared other people, some dressed as nicely as Fallsby, and others dressed in their own version of Sunday Best.  None made a sound, but looked at him with hatred in their eyes, their skin a hazy blue-green.  They looked as solid as Fallsby, but their coloring frightened Gerry.

     “I don’t understand!”  Said Gerry as he backed away next to the car.

     “None of you do!” yelled Follsby.  “We built this town.  We suffered through disease and famine, floods and worse, all so that you could build the lives you have here.  You could not even respect our graves, and for that, you will all pay!”

     “We told the state not to do this!” said Gerry.  “We petitioned, we tried!”

     “And when they told you to be quiet?  Did you go to war?”

     “No, of course not!”

     “Then you did nothing.”

     “Please,” begged Gerry.  “Give us another chance!” 

     “You have had many chances,” said Fallsby.  “And you did not listen.”

     “We‘ve been trying to figure out what was happening.”

     “Then you are as stupid as you are gutless.”

     “Please – tell me how we can make this right again!”

     “It’s far too late for that, Officer Stiles,” Fallbsy grinned.  “You see, we like this world you’ve made.  We like your technology.  How easy it is to move about, to talk to one another over great distances.  We like your convenient lives.  And as you have taken our home for your own,” here Fallsby’s grin turned even more sour, and his skin became the blueish-green akin to the others, “And now we’re going to take it back!”

     Fallsby started to laugh.

     Gerry started running down the highway, trying to get to the town before any of the spirits did.  He could scarcely hear his feet on the blacktop, but the blood pumping in his ears hurt.  His head throbbed.  He still had a mile to go, he knew, but saw the headlights up ahead coming toward him.  The flashing red and blues atop the headlights could only be Bernie.  He would be safe.  He began flailing his arms, trying to flag down his brother.

     Bernie rolled to a stop and got out, looking at his elder brother.  The man was crazed and out of breath, his eyes wild with fright as he collapsed into his younger brother’s arms.  He was blabbering something Bernie couldn’t understand. 

     “Gerry!  Gerry!  Are you okay?  What happened?  What’s wrong?” 

     The questions came out in a flurry and panic as Bernie helped his older brother to the ground, and got on his radio.

     “This is WC-1 calling WEMS.  Carter, are you there?’

     The radio crackled back to him, “Yeah, chief what’s wrong?”

     “I’m out on the highway, Carter.  Come out and get my brother.  Something’s happened to him, and I don’t know what.  He’s alive, but I can’t help him like this.”

     “Ten-Four.  On my way.” 

     It wasn’t but a half –second later when Bernie could hear the sirens from the fire department sound.

     “Hang on Gerry!  They’re coming for you!”

     Gerry looked up into the face of his younger sibling. 
     “They’re coming for us all,” he said before he passed out.

     In moments, Carter arrived in the ambulance, and the crew helped get Gerry into the back and on his way to Memorial Hospital.

     In the darkness on the side of the road, the crickets still did not chirp.  Silent eyes watched the scene unfold.  

     Fallsby turned to his friends and neighbors, gathered behind him. 

     “Tonight we learned much.  It won’t be long until we can take advantage of all we’ve learned to undo them.”

     The ghosts of Wellbury nodded in silence as they turned to head back to their earthly graves.  They could wait until the time was right.

     Fallsby grinned as he looked back at Chief Stiles, scratching his head as he looked down the highway to see Gerry’s car, lights on, engine running, wondering if his brother would ever be the same.

ENTRY #2:

This entry comes to us from a young writer friend of mine, who goes by the name of Abbey Lynne.  She is starting out on her writing journey, and frankly, her cinematic vision is really great.  Thanks for participating!!!!!!!!!

The Haunted Highway

Lorraine was confined. She didn’t know where she was or who was around her. She had an eerie feeling from the cold air that touched her skin. Lorraine opened her eyes. All she saw was a highway and fog in front of her. The highway was damaged, broken into pieces. Everything around her reminded her of something. Lorraine knew this feeling, but she couldn’t place what it was she was feeling. She looked around to find a building or a gas station. There was nothing. She began to run down the foggy highway.

She didn’t know where she was running, but she had to go somewhere. There must be a place around here. In the distance, she saw a tall black figure. She ran quickly. Every inch she got closer to the dark figure, she got a dark feeling that ran over her entire body. As she neared the tall black figure, she saw the nightmare she faced whenever she was 18 years old. His face was burnt, blood dripping out of his mouth, his jaw was severely broken, his skin was sickly green, and had blisters all over. Lorraine screamed, terrified of what she was seeing with her very own eyes.

“Join me.” He says in a sinful voice. His voice was raspy and sounded like he had smoked an entire carton of cigarettes. The voice was evocative. It brought memories she had ran away from.

She shook her head and ran the other way. She was running as fast as she could. She just wanted to get away from him. His presence made her feel ill. Lorraine suddenly fell to the ground, roughly. She looked up and saw a large, heart-shaped, charcoal black rock. The rock was burning. The cracks in the rock were glowing and had steam coming out. She was mesmerized by the glowing orange cracks. She held her hands in front of the rock. Her hands shook as she picked up the rock. The rock burned her skin for a second until it stopped. She moved the rock up more, so she could look at the rock. The glowing orange looked like lava was pumping through the rock.

“Just join us.” Someone says behind her. She looked behind her and saw the girl who had betrayed her everyday in High School. The girl would be friends with her, but also talk about their friends. She told everyone it was Lorraine saying all those nasty things. Whenever Lorraine needed a friend the most, the girl left her. The girl started to make rumors up about Lorraine. Lorraine stared at the girl. Her eyes were gone, her skin was deathly pale, and she had black veins all over her body.

“Where am I?” Lorraine asked the girl.

“You are trapped. You can’t leave. If you run, it will just hurt more.” The girl replied. “Your heart is barely surviving. It isn’t beating to anything. The only thing that is happening is that you have blood pumping through you. You are cracked and damaged.”

“What do you mean?” Lorraine sets the rock down carefully, making sure she doesn’t harm it.

“The pain, loneliness, and depression. We all know it haunts you everyday. Just join us and you will be better. Look at us, we are happy.” The girl smiled mischievously at Lorraine.

Lorraine looks around and he was back with a few other people. He was the boy she thought she had loved. She thought he loved her. But things got worse and their relationship was not healthy.  The boys from her gym class were behind him. They bullied her whenever they got the chance to. They would go up to her saying degrading things to her. Laughing at her whenever she walked past them. Their skin was melting off, some of their eyes were pulled out of their socket, and they barely had teeth. The last person was a man who had said he loved her thousands of times. After everything, he told her never loved her and never would. He was 22 and Lorraine was just 14. He made an emotional connection just to get whatever he wanted. His hair was shedding off, his teeth were sharp, and his fingernails looked like knives, and his skin was peeling off.

All Lorraine could think about was, why was she stuck here? Nowhere to go. No safe spot to go. The air around her became thicker and her breathing got heavy. She looked up and they all just stared at her. They looked at her without any emotion. Lorraine started crawling as quickly as she could. She didn’t get far before their hands started to grip her feet and legs. They all tugged. Lorraine’s screams filled the air as she was dragged into the depths of the fog.

Lorraine could never escape the haunted highway. She had never truly gotten past her nightmares. That gave them the opportunity to run to her again. Now she sits on the haunted highway, crying, begging for someone to come save her. No one will. Lorraine looked at the dark, heart-shaped rock everyday. As the orange glow fades, so does her hope of getting out of this miserable highway.

She was stuck there. Lost in her own world forever. With her nightmares surrounding her everyday. Laughing, teasing, and destroying her every second.

Hopefully, there will be more entries to come! 
As always,

Thanks for reading,

Me