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

A new writing project: Hauntings!

OK, it's October.  The holiday season has officially begun.  I know - the stores had things in stock three months ago, but now that it's here, we can finally start celebrating October, and for those of us who love things macabre, That means it's a month of things that are black and orange - it's Halloween time, kids!!!

Now, because National Novel Writing Month is November and that is usually very busy for me, I'm moving it to October, only there's a different sort of challenge.  Instead of working on one piece, I'll be working on several.  More to come.  The real bonus is that you can play along, too!!!  That's right, I set the themes, and you can write alongside me.  It will be fun and entertaining, and a great way for those creative types out there to exercise some of those keyboard skills.

Here's the skinny on the spooky doings:
1) I post weekly themes (hint: they will all be ghost stories of some sort)
2) You get a week to write.  NO POETRY.  This must be prose.  There is no set length, and there are only a couple requirements.
3) You share them with me.  If you want me to publish them, I will, on here - you will get a guest credit.  If not, that's ok, too.  That part I leave up to you.
4) If you want critique, I will offer that, too.
5) You can be as gory as you like - but I reserve the right to post or not.  Sorry, my blog, my rules.
6) All entries/shares must be submitted by the last day of the week in which they are running.
7) Door Prizes exist - warning - it's trick-or-treat fashion, so you might end up with a pen, a recipe, and used dog toy....  Participants in all 4 exercises will be entered in a drawing for a special prize.

THEMES:

1) The Haunted Highway: Oct 1-7
  A stretch of road, a random appearing path, abandoned blacktop (that is NOT a shopping mall) ancient roads that aren't there any more, etc. are what we're looking for this week.  Magical lanes that don't belong, things you encounter on the highway,  and creepy fogs are all a bonus, but be warned: Go too far afield, and you won't be making the return trip!!!   MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!

2) Haunted House: Oct 8-14
Fairly obvious, no?  Anything from Casper to Stephen King goes in this tale.  Demons, ghosts, ghouls and goblins alike are all up to their halloween hijinx this week!!  Double, Double, Boil and Trouble!!!!!  Haunt the attic, haunt the halls, haunt the nursery, haunt the walls!!!!!!

3) Haunted Vehicle: Oct 15-21
  From ghost ships and haunted vessels to crazed cars and mythic motorcycles, it's transportation week!  But where will you be going?  Just to down the street, or will you be taking a trip to the Twilight Zone???  These haunted vehicles will take you somewhere.....and maybe you won't come back!

4) Haunted PUBLIC Spaces: Oct 22-30
Two extra days to pull out all the stops!  It's public hauntings time!  Orphanages, churches, courthouses and jails, bridges, parks or even hospitals are all up for grabs this week.  The key here is it must be a public place (a place where lots of people gather regularly).  Are these hauntings a warning....or an invitation?

I look forward to reading your spooky fun stories!!!!!

As always, Thanks for reading!

Me

OOPS!!!!  I forgot one important part:  It should be a complete story.  none of this, "I got a page and half into it and ran out of steam" stuff.  Come one....even if it's a s Scooby-Doo Ending, it still works.

Dreams....

Recently, in one of those "around the watercooler" conversations, we were talking about dream jobs.  You know, the questions of "If you could do anything you wanted, and pay didn't matter, what would you do?" kind of conversations.  It got me really thinking of jobs that might be fun for a little while - not careers, per se, but more like "things I would love to get paid to do." So here's a top-ten list - in no particular order:

1) Color Namer.  The person who gets to look at a color of, let's say crayons, and comes up with a name for them.  Aside from having to know what obscure things like Mauve and Ecru are, I think this would be fascinating.  Can you imagine the conversations?
"It's green."
"But it's not a REAL green."
"It's still Green."
"But it's more like an 'early spring blossom" green than a "true green."
"We can't call it 'true green' - that's a copyright infringement for a lawn care company."
"Right.  Grass Green?"
"Kentucky Blue Green?"
"That's confusing.  We're talking about kindergarteners here."
"Right.  Sorry - I got caught reminiscing about my college art classes for a moment."
"You took art?"
"I was an art history major."
"What does that even mean?"
"No body knows, but you have to really like museums."
"I see.  How about Lawn Green?"
"That works, but that's not this green."
"Oh right, but we have to compare it with something, and we're comparing it with a lawn."
"My lawn is brown."
"Now you're confusing the issue."

2) Weatherman in a Desert.  Seriously, why do they even have weathermen out there?  It's hot.  Very hot.  Except when it's not, and it becomes merely "warm."  That happens what, a few days out of every year?  But look on the bright side - you have a really good chance of almost always being correct, which is a heck of a lot better than somewhere forested and humid, where your chance of being right about the weather may be correct, but ten minutes from now, you will be wrong.

3) James Bond Gadget-creator.  If there is a job that is more "Hey that would be nifty!" I can't think of it.  This is way beyond the spork, kids.  This is one of those jobs that has very little downside, other than the you have to wear kevlar all the time.  "What does this do?"  "Well, it was just going to be a laser-watch, but that was a little too boring, so now it's a laser watch that also has an explosive setting, a garrote,  a two-way radio, keeps the pulse of every known world leader, is a phone, a toothbrush, an emergency ice pick, imitates the call of the California Condor, and tells you to pick up milk and bread on the way home."  "Does it tell the time?"  "No - that part is fake - frankly, we just couldn't fit that part in."

4) Muppet Writer.  Plot no longer matters.  Make something up, make it explode or get eaten.  Cut.  Print.  NEXT!!!!! (plus, Muppets.)

5) Dog nick-name creator.  Your dog has a name.  That's cool.  It might even be a cool name, like a German Shepherd named "Gorgeous George."  But that is not what you call him.  No, you've got pet names for your pet.  Like WHO didn't see THAT coming, right????  I want to be the guy who gets paid to come up with that nickname for you - all so that you don't have to do the work yourself.  That's right - designer pet-names for Fido and Fifi.  Boom.  Instant Millionaire.  I'd be like that guy who invented the pet rock.

6) Rubber ball bounce-tester.  One of the greatest toys of all time, the bouncy-ball!  No more shall generations of children be deprived of true bounce-happiness!  Not while I am on the job!!!!

7) Namer of Product Lines:  You know, like Nike Air.  Well, not quite - see, Nike has had that for a long time now.  To the point where it's really like combining random words to make them sound cool.  A new running shoe, for example, might be "Nike Air Pro Edge Slice Combo H7"  These words mean nothing, but if it sounds cool, you'll buy it, they are convinced.  I'm sure, somewhere, there might be a reason.  Maybe the designer's name was Henry, and this is the seventh rendition of the the shoe, so it gets H7 after it - I dunno.  But seriously, it looks like they're just tossing words out there.

8) The person at Lego who gets to decide what they are going to try and build.  NOT the person who has to figure it out, the person who says, "yes, let's make a Lego Space Shuttle, and sell it for $2,000, because it will be neat."

9) Window washer at the Crystal Cathedral.  Your work, on display, every Sunday.  And nobody knows you exist.  That's kinda bad-ass.

10)  Zamboni driver.  It even has a song.  I mean, you have to be a decent technician, too.  It's like maintaining the greens on a golf course....but with ice....and fans.....and hockey players....and ice capades....

Hope you had as much fun reading this as I did writing it!  as always,

Thanks for reading,

Me

Topsy-Turvey World....

Wow - the world is hurting pretty bad right now.  Where to begin?  I can't solve it, I know.  I can't fix it all.  I wish I could, but I'm just one guy.  There's not enough of me to go around, and even if there was, my answers don't work for every situation or for everyone.  What I can talk about is when the world gets Topsy-Turvey.

In light of the unfortunate early exits of Anthony Bourdain and Kate Spade last week, I've seen a lot of social media posts talking about "getting yourself help"  and, of course, those criticizing this philosophy because it doesn't do any good, or that it sounds like a simple cliche, akin to "suck it up, buttercup," or "just pull yourself together."  The difficulty here is:  they are both equally right and equally wrong.

When you are in that place, nothing is right.  It's strange, it's uncomfortable, and it's really, really, REALLY sneaky.  There's no telling when you're going to find yourself looking into the abyss, and being faced with that inky darkness, contend with what you'll find there.  Most of us are lucky enough to never encounter it.  We run away from it - sometimes to family, friends, religion, a house, a dog, a bike, a jog, a career - we have limitless options of places and directions we can run to and avoid looking into that place.  We have the freedom to choose, most of the time.  And again, most of us will never have to make that choice consciously- we just do it. 

That's not true for everyone.  Some people feel that dark place watching them, looking over their shoulder, hiding just out of sight in the corners of their vision, so that when they turn to look - poof - it's gone again...but for that feeling.  Some people can't escape that.  Telling them to "suck it up" or whatever pithy saying we've got in our collective arsenal doesn't help, because it's already too late.  A little known secret: once you look into that abyss and see the demon that lives there, it looks back at you, too.

How do you come back from that place?  That's where the hard work begins.  Coming back is when those pithy-sounding phrases help, but they only help a little, and only when the work has already begun.  They serve as a constant reminder that it's work and as long as you're making progress each day, you're allowed a few little backslides (and I do mean "little").  But it's more than just proving you're a man (or a woman, if the case may be).  It's about knowing you are worth more, and choosing - purposefully - to accept that worth, ESPECIALLY when you don't feel like it. 

That's where the topsy-turvey part comes in.  What's right seems wrong, and what's wrong feels right. It's not true, of course.  But that's part of the temptation, the sickness - call it what you will.  It's seductive.  It lies.  Most of all - it has a brutal weapon - it pretends to couch itself in, of all things, logic.  The chief and strongest argument: "It's easier, and just makes sense, to be done with it all, to throw it out, to leave it behind, and end the suffering and useless torment." 

What it doesn't tell you: it doesn't stop the pain.  Oh, you won't feel it anymore, but that doesn't mean there isn't pain.  It just means that you won't be there to feel it.  It doesn't tell you that it will cause heartbreak, sadness, misunderstanding, the grief that comes from not knowing.  It doesn't tell you there's a hole left, a perfectly you-shaped hole that nothing else can ever fill. 

Some people will say it's cowardly.  I tell you: those who are in that place have been suffering for a while, and when it comes down to having to make that choice, finally, they are there because they have been worn down over time, and the demon tests to see how much resolve they have left.  They aren't weak, they aren't cowards - they have simply been fighting a battle that most of us will never know about.  Maybe they are winning that battle.  Maybe not. 

So, why this?  Why write about this?  Why do I think that what I'm saying is important enough to talk about it?  I have been there.  The slope is slippery.  It's steep.  It's sneaky.  And the demon that lives in that abyss is nasty and ugly, and tells lies.  A lot of them.  How did I get out?  It was a lot of work, and another secret: that work is never going to be done.  But I choose to do it.  Why?  Because there are people out there who need me, who want me, who love me, who care.  So why write about this?  Because I'm asking you to be someone else's reason to choose to do the work. 

You can't do it for them.  But you can be the reason they choose to keep fighting.  When they don't have any strength, give them yours.  I am reminded of song lyrics, oddly:

Lean on me,
when you're not strong,
I'll be your friend,
I'll help you carry on,
for it won't be long,
'till I'm gonna need
somebody to lean on

We need each other in this life.  It's the only way we're going to get through it.  Be someone's someone.  Please.

Thanks for reading,

Me