The Raven Issue 5

Dark Night of the Soul, Part 3

Poe, the Original Goth Lights

A Journal of the Macabre, the Bizarre, & the Unexplained and More!

In this issue: Dead Man Dreams Issue 5

The RaVen

Your humble editors, collectively known as the Ghost Scribes are Sue Latham and Ann Fields, but not necessarily in that order. It is our privilege to present The Raven, a collection of writings and various tidbits inspired by the works of Edgar Allan Poe.

Sue Latham is a native of Dallas, TX. Her travels have taken her to the Nazca desert where she endured a harrowing flight over the lines in a small plane; to Africa on a quest for a glimpse of the rare white rhino; and to the Australian Outback, where she was stranded by a flash flood and had to spend the night in a Subaru. Her novels, The Haunted House Symphony and The Science Professor’s Ghost, are ghosthunting mysteries featuring a team of ghost hunters led by Sue’s intrepid alter-ego, Margo Monroe. Both books are available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble and other online bookstores as ebooks and in paperback.

Ann Fields published four romance novels and one novella under her pen name of Anna Larence before she encountered her first ghost. That one brush with the supernatural shifted her focus from love and happily ever after to love and life in the here and after. In her novel, Fuller’s Curse and her short stories featured in Voices from the Block (Volumes I, II, and III) and Lyrical Darkness, she explores life in all its many dimensions. You can learn more about her and all of her subsequent run-ins with the supernatural at www.annfields.com

Contributors

David Berger

Ann

Geoffrey

Fields

K. Graves

Dr. E. B. Jones

Sue Latham

LindaAnn Loschiavo Lou Normann Don Santiago Jerry Weiss

Credits

Starship typeface | Cruzine Mystic Moon glyphs | Wumi Designs Horror Ephemera | Digital Curios Awesome candy skulls | Side Project Photo Cemetery Gates | Brian Maddison Vintage Typewriter | CatMadePattern Sanborn vector elements | Spencer and Sons Kraken tentacles | Vector Tradition Not credited | Who knows? Probably Pinterest or public domain All content is the copyright of the respective authors and artists.

Contact Us!

Reach us via Facebook at https://www. facebook.com/GhostScribes or email GhostScribesDallas@gmailcom

Advertising & Submissions

To advertise in The Raven, or to submit a story, recommendation, or idea, email us at GhostScribesDallas@gmail.com

From the Editors

Hello Readers,

Welcome to the Haunting!

That’s what we’re calling this issue of The Raven because it is filled with so many disturbing hauntings—stories, poems, a book review, a cartoon and more—all based on the terror of the seen and unseen. Right off the bat, you’ll encounter the feature article about Edgar Allan Poe and the haunting influence he left on the Gothic literary art form. The article, titled, “Poe, the Original Goth” starts on page 5.

Poe’s article is accompanied by a collection of short stories, all featuring a macabre haunting of some kind. There’s “Dead Man Dreams” by Geoffrey K. Graves (no, he did not adopt that last name to match the genre!), the story of an author who cannot get the last chapter right until he deals with distractions in a most deadly way. And there’s “Expiration Time” by Don Santiago, about a ghost with an important life message. But what lengths will he go to get people to listen? “Lights” by Lou Normann puts a terrifying spin on encounters with state troopers. Trust us. It can get worse than a ticket! David Berger wraps up our shorts with “The Senior Ghost,” a heart-breaking tale about a ghost who has lost his way.

A haunting of a different sort is presented through the works of poet, LindaAnn LoSchiavo. Her poems “Annabel Lee Breaks Her Silence by the Sea” and “Lady Madeline Usher’s Revenge” represent the woman’s voice and perspective in response to Poe’s similarly named short stories. We got a kick out of these poems and think you will, too.

What’s The Raven without a true ghost story? Author E. B. Jones shores up one, sharing a childhood story that her father used to tell her. After reading it, all we could say was “Now that’s a bedtime story!”

If all these hauntings are a bit too much, turn to cartoonist, Jerry Weiss’ latest artwork and humor. It’s sure to lighten the mood.

We complete this issue with the final installment of “Dark Night of the Soul” by our own Ann Fields. In the dramatic close, readers will finally learn who wins Gerald’s soul.

Don’t forget to check out our standard fare, which also carries the haunting theme: “Speaking of Art” featuring filmmaker, Curtis Harrington, a Hollywood icon and master of fear; “Book Review” highlighting one of the GOAT horror books, The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson; and “On Our Radar,” displaying products and entertainment for the faint and not-so-faint of heart.

Thank you for joining us as we traverse all things haunted. Be careful! Stay alert! For we are not alone.

Sue and Ann

Haint

Explorers Turned Editors

Imagine the classic picture of Edgar Allan Poe, the one that is universally published. It shows Poe in a dark suit. His face is pale and his dark hair is carelessly combed. Poe is unsmiling, smirking, in fact. His expression seems to suggest irritation and intolerable impatience. To many people, Poe’s image is simply an author portrait, but to us, your editors of the macabre, Poe’s picture, his attitude screams Goth!

What is Goth?

The term Goth is short for Gothic, the name of the original people of German descent who were instrumental in defeating the Roman Empire in the third century and who helped shape medieval Europe. They were described as big in stature (tall and athletic) with light hair, light complexion, and light eyes. Their society produced great cultural works of art, music, and literature, and their influence in government, law, religion, and the economy (farming, trade, and taxation) is still felt today.

As with many ancient societies, the Goths and their institutions faded due to migration, violent wars that wiped out thousands, and assimilation. A revival of sorts occurred in the early 1800s (more on that later) but the revival was a cultural movement that borrowed heavily from the Goth’s achievements in music, literature, fashion, art, and more. All things dark, tragic, and yet romantic became associated with the Goth cultural movement and the rest, as they say, is history.

As we turn our historical lens on the Gothic cultural movement, we narrow our focus on the art form in which Poe excelled: literature.

Gothic literature came into being in the late 1700s when The Castle of Otranto was published by author Horace Walpole, an Englishman (1764). The story was hailed as “form and a fashion by combining historical background with supernatural machinery,” according to author Devendra P. Varma, author of The Gothic Flame. A slew of English authors poured into the canon afterwards with titles such as Vathek by William Beckford in 1786, The Mysteries of Udolpho by Ann Radcliffe (who was considered the Mother of Gothic literature) in 1794, and The Monk by Williams Lewis in 1795.

This new literary art form spread across the European continent, to Germany and France in particular. From such spread arose great works: Goethe’s Faust in 1808, The Hunchback of Notre-Dame by Victor Hugo in 1831, The Man-Wolf by Erckmann-Chatrian in 1859, and The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux in 1910. The European authors added new elements to the genre: monsters, deep, dark forests, architecture, beautiful women, family secrets, wrongs to be righted, and Faustian bargains. The doppelganger trope was introduced during this time and quickly became popular due to the standout German gothic story, The Devil’s Elixirs by E.T.A.

Hoffman. Many scholars and enthusiasts believe this story to be the inspiration for Poe’s William Wilson.*

Which brings us to America.

If you think Poe wrote the first American Gothic tale, you would be wrong. That distinction goes to Charles Brockden Brown. His story, “Wieland” was published in 1798, eleven years before Poe’s birth. It is likely, however, Poe would have encountered Brown’s work through William Godwin, a fellow American writer of gothic literature, best known as the author of Caleb Williams * In 1835, Poe wrote a review, which appeared in the Southern Literary Messenger, of William Godwin’s Lives of the Necromancers: Or An Account of the Most Eminent Persons in Successive Ages, Who Have Claimed for Themselves, or to Whom Have Been Imputed by Others, the Exercise of Magical Power. (Authors back in the day really loved their impossibly long titles, didn’t they?) It was a positive review—a rarity for Poe who was known as the Freddy Krueger of reviews. Poe praised Godwin’s “air of mature thought” and his “fuller appreciation of the value of words.” No doubt he would have sought more of Godwin’s works and by extension, Brown’s.

Poe: Poster Boy for Goth Lit

As with the European invasion which pleasantly mutated Goth literature, the same can be said of America. On American shores, the literary form took on even more facets and came to be defined as “the literary art which

William Wilson is considered Poe’s attempt to come to grips with his dual person. In the story, Poe invokes a doppelganger, twin characters, one who is disciplined, productive, and vice-free and the other that would make the devil proud. In danger of selfimploding due to the constant struggle of good versus evil, Wilson rids himself of the struggle by killing the good Wilson, only to sink into wretchedness, a death unto itself.

Caleb Williams is Charles Brockden Brown’s call to end the tyrannical abuses of power that he witnessed in his day. The story’s lead, Caleb Williams, takes a job with a powerful squire and uncovers dark and dangerous secrets. When the squire learns Caleb is aware of his dealings, he enacts a plan of destruction that young Caleb is wrought to escape.

During the time when Poe’s first short story appeared in print (1832), German gothic thrillers were all the rage. The Germans couldn’t write them fast enough. It is thought Poe may have sub-titled the piece “A Tale In Imitation of the German” to capitalize on the popularity of the genre. But knowing Poe’s strong inclination to chart his own path, we think that unlikely. Others speculate the sub-title signals Poe making fun of this newish form of storytelling. We think this doubtful, too, given Poe’s tendency for critical, overt directness. Poe would have bypassed ridicule and opted for writing a scathing review. A third assumption suggests Poe was testing the gothic waters, using the German formula of success as a starting point. This doesn’t feel right to us either given Poe’s natural storytelling ability. So, the question of Poe’s intent with the subtitle will remain a mystery, just like his cause of death.

hails the darker side of life and human nature.” Goth lit reviews were often filled with words such as gloomy, dark, mysterious, supernatural, secrets, dramatic settings, fantastical, horror, mood-intense, suspenseful, isolation, death, excesses, damaged characters, and violence. Words that fit Poe’s life and experiences to a T, making him a natural for the genre. In fact, we would go so far as to say Poe was a perfect and willing disciple of Goth lit.

To prove our point, we conducted a little analysis. We listed the defining characteristics of Goth literature and placed the list next to Poe’s first short story, “Metzengerstein: A Tale of Imitation of the German,” published in 1823 in the Philadelphia Saturday Courier Poe checked all the boxes. Take a look at “Characteristics versus Application” on page 10 and see for yourself. Before doing so, it might be helpful to read a brief synopsis of the story.

Metzengerstein: A Tale of Imitation of the German *

When his parents die, 18-year-old Baron Frederick Metzengerstein inherits his parent’s vast holdings. He immediately celebrates his good fortune with friends and society, throwing elaborate parties and spreading mischief over the land with wild abandon.

Egged on by a longstanding feud between the Metzengersteins and the next-door neighbor, the Berlifitzings, young Metzengerstein sets fire to the Berlifitzing stables (though not clearly

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stated, the young baron is assumed to have set the fire during his period of mayhem). Old man Berlifitzing dies in the fire while trying to save his beloved horses.

While the fire rages, the young baron gazes upon a tapestry hanging in his apartment. The wall hanging depicts the scene of a battle between the two warring families. A gigantic horse “of an unnatural color” is in the background of the tapestry. Yet when the baron looks again, the horse has moved to the foreground, is facing the baron, and is wearing an expression described as “human.”

The baron rushes out of the house and encounters his servants struggling to subdue a stray horse which looks remarkably like the horse in the tapestry. The baron is drawn to the horse’s ferocious and devil-like demeanor and takes on ownership. He abandons life’s responsibilities to spend his time riding the horse.

One day as he is riding, the baron sees smoke rising from his home. Upon his powerful steed, he charges into the fire. That is the last the villagers see of Metzengerstein, but of the horse, they see a smoke cloud in its shape rising out of the smoldering embers of the Metzengerstein estate.

Poe’s Influence on the Gothic Genre

Supernatural and fantastical are two story characteristics we intentionally hopped over in the Metzengerstein review (see page

10.) In the story, we read about the magical transformation of old man Berlifitzing to spirit, alighting in the tapestry as the horse (allegedly), and later materializing in the natural as the horse (allegedly, but remember the brand WVB on the horse?) and riding the young baron to his death (allegedly). That is supernatural and fantastical all in one, and that is one of Poe’s greatest contributions to the gothic literary genre. Yes, these story elements existed in gothic fiction before Poe, but his masterful blend of dark emotions, the supernatural, and the flawed human condition raised the standard.

According to Lillian Sikorska, author of An Outline History of English, “whereas gothic originally referred to the ‘medieval,’ its meaning was changed and shifted more towards the macabre and fantastic.” Poe’s works certainly helped to propel the shift, while daring readers to consider “the beauty in fear, the unseen, and the unknown” as put by writer Ma Marta Zapala-Kraj. Poe excelled at forcing readers to equally balance the supernatural with the natural and to embrace the unthinkable. Poe’s treatment of mood and character also influenced and helped to evolve the genre. Consider Poe’s short story, “The Tell-Tale Heart,” published in 1843. Critics, then and now, describe it as “the ultimate gothic story, for its mood and its narrator.” Perhaps you remember the reading from your past. If not, it goes like this.

The narrator (sex unknown) of the story is the caretaker for an old man. Of the old man, the narrator states, “One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture—a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold. . .” The narrator decides to end their terror by killing the old man. After smothering and dismembering the man, the narrator buries the limbs under floorboards. Ahhhh, peace, but only for a short while. “A low, dull, quick sound—much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton” grows incessantly loud and disturbs the narrator. A knock at the door reveals police who have come to investigate a reported disturbance. The narrator leads the officers through the house to prove all is well and in the room where the old man’s limbs are buried, the police linger so long the narrator is overcome by the sound of the dead man’s beating heart and confesses to killing the man.

Poe achieves a dark and threatening mood in this and his other stories and poems through the use of description colorful, active, targeted words that build into phrases, sentences, and paragraphs woven so tightly they create great distress for the reader. In the “Tell Tale Heart,” one can almost hear the heartbeat. One can feel the rising desperation of the narrator, the struggle for control and . . . the loss of control.

And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror.

The ringing became more distinct: . . . :I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling:

but it continued and gained definiteness— until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.

In addition to the description to affect a dark and troubling mood, Poe uses setting—castles, stark rooms, imposing mansions, decaying manors—and isolation, an element that forces characters to delve into their minds and souls.

Of character, critics and scholars have pointed out Poe’s abundant use of first-person narration in many of his works. This literary device allows Poe to pull the reader in close so they feel like an invisible, vested character in the story. It also forces the reader to examine their own soul, to understand their own vulnerability. Scholar, Chunyan Sun states, in reference to first-person narration, “Poe well describes the modern people, especially the process of psychotic breakdowns,” and “Poe mixes love and hate and our [mankind] abnormal indulgence in both.”

The final point we’ll share regarding Poe’s influence on Gothic literature is the new framework he built. Poe nailed together Gothic, horror, Romanticism, and American Southern literature to create a new form the reading public greedily consumed. And this was at a time, the early to mid-1800s, when gothic fiction was fading out. It had had a seventy to eighty-year run. But, with Poe’s fusion, there

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Gothic Literature Characteristics versus Application

Gothic Literature Story Characteristics

A medieval castle, complete with a baron and a lady

Metzengerstein: A Tale of Imitation of the German

Palace Metzengerstein

Baron Frederick Metzengerstein and his mother, Lady Mary

The Berlifitzing estate

“His castles were without number. The chief in point of spendor and extent was the “Palace Metzengerstein.” … his principal park embraced a circuit of fifty miles.”

“…to a fortune so unparalleled…”

“…the behavior of the heir out-heroded Herod,…”

Violence and Destruction

Excesses Revenge

“Shameful debaucheries—flagrant treacheries— unheard-of atrocities…”

When the Berlifitzing stables burn to the ground, “… the unanimous opinion of the neighborhood added the crime of the incendiary to the already hideous list of the baron’s misdemeanors and enormities.”

The Palace Metzengerstein burns to the ground.

Death

Metzengerstein’s parents, the Minister G and Lady Mary deaths are prologues to the active story

Count Wilhelm Berlifitzing dies in his stables.

Baron Frederick Metzengerstein dies in his house fire

Gothic Literature Story Characteristics

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Dark and Gloomy

Metzengerstein: A Tale of Imitation of the German Isolation

Death Secrets Suspense

continued

“…a flash of red light, streaming far into the chamber, flung his shadow with a clear outline against the quivering tapestry…”

“…an expression of determined malignancy settled upon his countenance…”

“…the sudden disappearance of a small portion of the tapestry…”

“…a steed, bearing an unbonneted and disordered rider, was seen leaping with an impetuosity which outstripped the very Demon of the Tempest.”

Metzengerstein’s parents, the Minister G and Lady Mary deaths are prologues to the active story

Count Wilhelm Berlifitzing dies in his stables. Baron Frederick Metzengerstein dies in his house fire

Did young Metzengerstein burn down the Berlifitzing stables? Is Count Berlifitzing the fiery steed in spirit? Questions the reader is left to ponder.

“…the young nobleman himself, sat apparently buried in meditation, in a vast and desolate upper apartment.”

“He was never to be seen beyond the limits of his own domain, and . . . was utterly companionless.”

The story is fraught with moments of tension. Consider these:

• The tapestry changes and quivers.

• The horse belongs to no one yet is branded.

• The mysterious fires at both estates.

arose not only a revival of gothic fiction, but also the evolution of horror into psychological horror of not only the human psyche but also the human condition. And need we mention Poe’s invention of the modern detective story and science fiction?

The Gothic Genre’s Influence on Poe

And what did the genre give to Poe in return?

To answer this, let’s take a quick walk through Poe’s life.

When he was three, Poe’s mother died. His foster father physically provided for him but was emotionally distant and eventually rejected Poe. He struggled financially as an “artist,” relying on the grace and beneficence of others. Professionally, he endured many stops and starts throughout his career. His wife died when he was 38, and throughout his life, he struggled with alcohol. Read any of our feature articles on Poe in previous issues of The Raven and you will understand the depth of challenges he faced in his short 49 years on earth.

With such a trying existence, one can’t help but think, “Of course he was drawn to the gothic genre!”

Gothic literature its form and expression gave Poe the freedom to fully unsheath his melancholic, brooding, broken-hearted self.

To craft his deeply disturbing, masterful pieces of work, Poe accessed his own deep well of abandonment, death, addiction, loss,

destruction, and more. Certainly, a degree of research and imagination was involved, but his lived experiences provided much fodder, especially in regards to his wife’s, Virginia Clemm Poe, sickness and death.

Critics often cite the influence of Virginia’s five years of dying—from a ruptured blood vessel and tuberculosis—on Poe’s work, the stories and poems that focus on death in particular, “Eleonora,” “Berenice,” “Ligeia,” and “The Fall of the House of Usher”. The madness of the narrators in “The Cask of Amontillado,” “The Tell-Tale Heart,” and “The Black Cat” no doubt reflects Poe’s internal anguish while watching his beloved suffer and die.

But Gothic literature is also romantic and loving. Poe had such in his life from not only his wife, but also his mother, Elizabeth Poe and foster mother, Frances Allan. In fact, Frances often defended him to John Allan, his foster father and it is assumed that had she not died so early in life, Poe’s troubled life would have probably been less so. Poe also had the love and affection of other women. His aunt, Maria Poe Clemm doted on “her dear Eddie” as did several other women to whom he was romantically involved after Virginia’s death. Based on carefully preserved letters, Poe’s male friends and benefactors certainly held him in high esteem and he them.

While challenging readers to accept the dualities of life—good and evil, love and hate,

fear and security, sanity and insanity, the known and unknown—Poe was also challenging himself. Writing in the Goth genre was cathartic for Poe. In many ways, it saved him.

Conclusion

Now think back to the image of Poe we first started with, the black and white photo of our young Poe. Knowing all we learned about Poe and the Gothic genre, we like to think Poe’s smirk is less the typically-ascribed Goth attitude and more a challenge to himself to see what he could contribute to the genre, to literature overall. Agree? Disagree? Write to us at ghostscribes@gmail.com and let us know.

References:

French and German Gothic - The Gothic Library

Edgar Allan Poe A to Z by Dawn B. Sova

Edgar Allan Poe’s Contribution to American GothicGRIN; Devendra Varma, The Gothic Flame

Edgar Allan Poe Complete Tales and Poems, compiled by Fall River Press

Liliana Sikorska, An Outline History of English, Wydawnictwo Poznańskie, 2002

Chunyan Sun, “Horror from the Soul—Gothic Style in Allan Poe’s Horror Fictions,” Microsoft Word - Chunyan Sun-new-final.doc (ed.gov)

Goth subculture - Wikipedia

Dark Night of the Soul

Part 3

In the last episode (read Part Two here), Gerald and Maria set off on a multi-stop tour to find the man who sicced a witch on Gerald, and in doing so, is slowly ending Gerald’s life. Have the witch hunters found the right culprit? Will the spirited team lift the spell in time to save Gerald’s life? Read on for the exciting finish of Dark Night of the Soul.

I followed Maria to room 155, according to the silver numbers on the burgundy door, asking, “What do you mean black and green?” I peeked over her shoulder. “You pick locks, too, Maria?”

by Ann Fields

Maria was fiddling with a device that had a black plastic credit card on one end and a black, palm-sized, rectangular box on the other. The card and box were connected by a one foot long, black electrical cord. A light flickered green on the box and the lock slid home. Maria grabbed the handle and cracked open the door.

“Jesus!” The smell that greeted us was foul, a mix of rusty wet metal, sewage, and spoiled food. I covered my mouth and nose and stepped backwards to the curb afraid I was going to throw up. Maria, who must have had a stronger GI system than I, disappeared inside and moments later, returned with a chair. She propped open the door, rushed outside, and drew in deep breaths of fresh air.

“What the hell is that smell?”

Maria continued to gulp in air. “Residue of the trade,” she finally answered. She returned to the door, gathered her unlocking device, and dropped it into the overnight bag on the ground. She dug in the bag, pulled out heavy duty, medical grade masks, and handed one to me. I wasn’t convinced the mask would help but I was willing to try.

I pulled the phone out of my pocket and canceled the car—adding a generous tip to the cancellation fee—which was circling the property looking for me. Who was I kidding? I was stuck to Maria like orange was stuck to black at Halloween, at least until I got my life back. Besides, since this was Bill’s home, he’d show up at some point. And I’d be here to welcome him.

The room was dark, but the light from outside spilled across the threshold and part of the room, helping me to make out the kitchenette facing us and a bathroom and bedroom to my left. I stood in the heart of the living/dining area, squinting as Maria scurried about opening drapes, blinds, and windows and snapping on lamps. I almost wished she hadn’t. Clothes and towels hung on chairs and doorknobs and littered the floor. Dirty dishes were piled high in the sink. Trash cans overflowed with takeout containers and beer cans. Dried food caked on plates which were abandoned on counters and tables, accounted for the rotten food smell. Cabinet doors hung open. Mail, erotic magazines, receipts, and other papers

laid wherever they’d been dropped.

The décor wasn’t any better. A ledge above the dining room table was filled with black candles, some melted down to less than an inch. On the dining table in an old, cast-iron pot, a dark liquid smelled like a decomposed rat. On the coffee table next to a DSC employee handbook and a framed picture of Bill’s family—an exact match to the one in his office—was a gold charger with dried vegetation, incense cones, and scraps of paper. A baseball bat stood in one corner of the living room, an ornamental knife with a red stone embedded in the hilt rested under a side table, and an old-fashioned pitchfork leaned against the doorjamb of the bathroom. Expansive spider webs covered the corners of the ceiling and the overhead light fixtures.

“This place really is a lair,” I said, taking in the complete creepy picture. The reality that I was standing in the very place where Bill was conspiring to end my life made me shudder and want to run out of there. But just as strong –a desire to pick up the baseball bat and start swinging at any and everything.

“Hello. This is Bill Henderson’s wife. Maybe he told you I was coming?”

Maria’s voice pulled me out of my internal struggle. She was speaking into the room phone which sat on a side table.

“No? Well, I’m here. He gave me the key to the room, room 155, but he didn’t tell me the place

was a mess. Can you send housekeeping?”

A few seconds passed, then, “Thank you.” Maria hung up. She scanned the room and shivered. “There’s much dark energy here. It’s going to be hard.”

“What are you saying? That Bill’s got more skills than you? His evil outweighs your good?”

Maria’s dark eyes hardened. “It’s going to take more effort, but we’ll be ready when he shows.” She moved to the coffee table and sorted through the scraps of paper on the charger. “We must find that lint paper.”

“Isn’t that it?” I asked, pointing at the papers she was examining.

“Plain paper with printed words. All of them. The lint paper we need is the square you pull off the lint roller. Like masking tape. Sticky on one side, which is the side that will have your hair on it and smooth on the other where he will have written your full name.”

“That’s what you were searching for in Bill’s office.”

“We must find it and make sure it’s destroyed.”

“Can’t you ask your guides where it is? They haven’t failed yet.”

“To do that I’d need the light of the white candle. But if I light the candle, you’ll go to sleep, and I need you awake.”

“Can’t you do something to keep me awake?”

“Everyone reacts to strong spiritual presences in their own way. Some get sleepy, some get headaches, some cry, some have no reaction at all. You . . . you sleep.”

We heard singing from a distance. Maria moved quickly to the door, stripping off her mask as she did. She poked her head out, then stepped outside. “Hello! Thank you. I’ll take it from here,” I heard her say.

“Are you sure you don’t need help?” a female voice asked, then rambled on. “You don’t know how long we’ve wanted to get in there and clean. A few people have complained about smells, but he won’t even let us bring fresh sheets or towels.”

“I’m so sorry. My husband has a thing about people invading his space. It’s a pet peeve of his.”

“Well we’ve all got those,” the woman said. “If you need more supplies or help, just call. I’m right around the corner.”

“Thank you.”

The singing started up again but faded quickly. I looked outside to see Maria pushing a fully loaded cleaning cart with a vacuum attached. She parked the cart outside the door.

“What are you doing with that?”

“I told you, we have to dilute the dark energy here.”

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“I thought you meant in some magical, swaying, trance sort of way! Not clean up after the asshole!”

“People are energy,” Maria said, as if I were a two-year-old. “Everything we touch, everywhere we step, sleep, eat, sit, work, we leave traces of our energy. We must erase as much of Bill’s presence as we can. To weaken him. Also, . . .”

I manuevered around the cart and looked both ways. “Where did that housekeeper . . .” “Also, . . .” Maria said in a raised voice, “Housekeeping is not going to search for a piece of lint paper.” I looked into the room and frowned. “Okay, how about you take the candle to the car, find out where the paper is, and . . .”

Maria shook her head. “We still have to erase Bill’s energy. We do not want to give him any advantage when he comes. Yes, the white light can help, will help, but we have to do our part.”

I thought about going to the car and leaving Maria to clean the room, light the candle, and do whatever else needed to be done to prepare for Bill, but that wouldn’t have been right. She was trying to save my life. How could I do less than her?

I stepped into the room. In my head, I called Bill every foul name I could think of.

Y

Maria went straight to her bag and pulled out hair nets, in the style of cafeteria workers, cleaning gloves, and baggies. “For protection,” she said, handing a net and gloves to me. “We don’t want to leave behind any hair, skin, or body fluids.”

Fuming, I looked at the white hair net in one hand and the yellow gloves in the other. I swear to God if Bill had walked in right then, I would have killed him.

Maria put on her protective gear then went to the cart, returning with trash bags. “Put all papers, magazines, receipts, and such in one bag. All clothing, fabric items in another bag. Things that he’s touched—dishes, soap, candles, and the like—in another.”

For the next few hours, I alternated between cleaning, gagging, and hauling trash bags to Maria’s SUV. She refused to let me throw them in the dumpster right by her car. “I’ll burn them when I get home,” she said. We reached the last room, Bill’s bedroom.

With no lint paper uncovered. Standing in the doorway, I desperately scanned the room, asking, “It’s got to be in here, right? He wouldn’t have the paper on himself or in his car?”

Maria shrugged past me and started stripping off the bedding. I joined in, stuffing the items in trash bags. I lifted the mattress by the handles while Maria searched beneath it. No paper. I grabbed the edge of the box spring and lifted it with a grunt. My muscles were trembling not having worked so hard in weeks.

“Got it!” Maria screamed. “Got it!” She surfaced, holding the lint paper high in the air like it was a first-place trophy.

I let the mattresses fall and snatched the paper from her. It was as she’d said—several of my black curly hairs on the sticky side, my name on the non-sticky side. I wasn’t prepared for the tears that fell, but looking at that paper, thinking about how Bill had used my hair on a three-by-five-inch, personal grooming item to control my life and nearly destroy it, opened the way for strong emotions. Wiping my eyes and face, I thought, soon I’ll be able to reengage with my children, make love to my wife, and return to work in full health.

“Thank you, Maria,” I choked out, “Thank you for saving me.”

She was smiling, her dark eyes gleamed. She reached in a pocket, pulled out a baggie, and dropped the precious paper in. She zipped the

baggie closed, took a deep breath, and just that quick all happiness vanished. The serious Maria was back. “Were you having mysterious dreams?”

I reared back, suspicious. “Yeah, why?”

“Describe them.”

“There wasn’t much to them. I was in a dark room with dark curtains blowing. I saw movement behind the curtains and tried to open them, but couldn’t.”

“Curtains like at Liaisons? Black, flimsy panels?”

“Exactly like that.”

Maria frowned. “I suspect if you had opened the curtains, you would have seen Bill . . . or his witch. But the strength of his spell stopped you. Bill didn’t want you to see who was behind the scenes, orchestrating your demise.”

Maria left the room, leaving me amazed again at the depth of Bill’s reach. My dreams! He was even manipulating my dreams. Jesus!

Maria returned with more trash bags. We dumped Bill’s toiletries, money, basically anything that wasn’t nailed down into them. When we got to his clothes and shoes, Maria searched every pocket and checked inside each shoe.

“What are you looking for now? Please don’t tell me there’s more. I don’t think I could handle

more.”

“I’m looking for other papers. I want to make sure he’s not trying to kill anyone else. This guy is evil and dangerous.”

The thought of someone else going through the torture I’d gone through—was still going through—was too much to bear. I closed my eyes and shook my head.

Y

Thank God we didn’t find any more papers with hairs and names, I thought as I finished vacuuming the bedroom. I unplugged the machine and looked in the living room. Maria was stripping off her mask, gloves, and hair net. She threw them in a trash bag then dug in her overnight bag. She withdrew a silver ornamental plate, no bigger than snack size, and placed it on the coffee table. She situated her cross, candle, and a silver lighter around the plate, then dropped sprigs of sage leaves onto it.

I carried the vacuum cleaner past her. “You’re all setup. That’s my cue.”

Earlier, in the midst of cleaning—or as Maria would say, weakening Bill’s energy and power—Maria had explained that after we’d cleared out most of Bill’s energy, I would need to leave so she could burn the candle, sage the place, and pray. “You pray too,” she’d said, “For deliverance.”

I said that prayer now as I attached the vacuum

to its special holder on the cart, but my worry intensified. What if Bill’s spell was stronger than Maria could handle? What if we hadn’t prepped enough?

Maria dropped the last trash bag at my feet. “Throw the vacuum bag in there. Your mask and stuff, too. I’ll call housekeeping to come get the cart.”

Maybe she read the fear in my eyes because Maria laid a hand on my arm. “Trust me.” She held my gaze for a long moment and in her eyes I saw strength. I nodded, reassured.

Maria backed into the room and shut the door.

I stared at the closed door, wondering what was to come. I felt fear rising again but before it got a strong hold on me, I did as Maria instructed. Then, I lugged the final bag to the SUV and stuffed it in with all the others. I thought about sitting in the car to wait but being surrounded by Bill’s things made me uneasy. Would I be inviting his dark energy to seep into me? I’d rather not take a chance. I looked around and saw two lawn chairs separated by a small table under a pagoda. It was farther from the room— about six cars away—but close enough for me to still see the door and any comings or goings.

I settled in one of the chairs and pulled out my cell phone. A little after four p. m. I could not avoid speaking with Amanda any longer. She’d called a few times throughout the day checking on me. My text messages—“I’m fine,

babe”—would only suffice for so long. I made up a lie, fully understanding now why Maria told little white lies. I wasn’t ready to tell my wife what I’d been doing all day and with whom. I dialed Amanda’s number.

My angels must have been looking out for me because I got her voicemail. In the cheeriest voice I could muster, I said, “Hey, babe, sorry I couldn’t call before now. I came to work to pick up another packet of the sick leave paperwork and ended up training a new sales rep. We’ve got several more accounts to go over. It’ll be late when I get home. Tell the kids if I don’t see them tonight, I’ll see them in the morning. I’ll make pancakes.” I paused, praying there would be a morning for me, that there would be many more mornings for me to spoil my kids and love my wife. “I love you, Amanda. You and the kids mean everything to me.” I hung up quickly.

To distract myself from images of my wife and kids and thoughts of my future, I decided to people watch. Apparently, some of the hotel’s extended stay residents were families who chose to live there rather than a house or apartment. I assumed this after watching women and children tumble out of vehicles.

Like my kids, the children, with backpacks strapped to their backs, chatted away or picked at each other while the women seemed to be juggling a million things in their hands while unlocking the front door of home. The thought that the same scene was being acted out in my neighborhood relaxed me. I even chuckled at

a few of the antics I saw, and soon, I was so relaxed, I fell asleep.

YIronically, it was Bill’s loud cursing that woke me. I shot out of the chair and raced towards the room, watching as Bill shoved the cleaning cart out of his way, cussing about housekeeping being in his room. He slid the card into the key slot but must have been drawn by the sound of my sneakers pounding against pavement because he turned, spotted me, and did a triple take. His reaction would have been funny, but in this life-or-death matter, it wasn’t. I ran even faster, still about five rooms away. He opened his mouth but whatever he was going to say was lost, surprised right out of him when Maria opened the door.

“Who the hell are you?” he shouted at Maria before turning back to me. I was close enough to see he knew why I was there. He pushed the door open wider and took one step over the threshold when I slammed into him. I heard a loud whoosh of air escape as his side hit the door jamb. I recoiled as he bent over, one foot in, the other out of the room. Recovering from the impact before Bill, I pushed and kicked him into the room, catching a brief glimpse of Maria’s composed face as she closed the door.

I pounced on Bill, pummeling him in the head, face, stomach, sides, anyplace I could reach. I didn’t stop, not when he tried to dodge my wild fists, not when blood spurted, not even when something crunched. Maria, calling my name,

tugging at my t-shirt, trying to capture my hands, finally stopped me.

I staggered to my feet, breathing hard, staring down at my piece of shit boss. I kicked him, hard in the back before letting Maria push me into a corner.

She stood between us – me, ready to go another round, and Bill, on the floor, curled up, bloody and snotty. I took a step toward him, but Maria held out a bracing arm and glared at me. I backed up. She moved over to Bill, squatted, and said, “Time for you to release Gerald.”

Maria tried to move Bill’s arms away from his head, but he curled tighter into himself. She pulled a baggie out of her pocket, the baggie that contained the lint paper that held my hair and dangled it in front of him. “We have the lint paper.”

Bill peeped through his arms. I tracked his eyes. They moved to the coffee table, the ledge above the dining room table, the table itself, and finally to all the places where he’d stored weapons—the pitchfork, knife, and baseball bat. All the implements, potions, candles, the cauldron—everything was gone, stuffed in bags in Maria’s SUV, waiting for a hot fire. His place was no longer a lair, just an extended stay hotel room.

Maria said to Bill, “Your power, it’s weak, diluted. I know you feel the loss of energy.”

Bill’s blue eyes turned as black as pitch and

a guttural, roar-groan spilled out of him. He rolled to his feet clumsily, knocking Maria over and snatching the baggie from her.

I surged forward and assumed a fighter’s stance—one foot in front of the other, wide apart, hands fisted at chest level. There was no way in hell I was going to let him win, not after what he’d put me through. “Come on,” I taunted in a voice I didn’t recognize. “Quit hiding behind your tricks and spells. Fight like a real man.”

Bill, trapped in a corner of the kitchenette, lifted the baggie high. “I have your life in my hand.”

“And I’ve got yours,” Maria said. She was back on her feet and patted a pocket. “Divorce papers. Henderson versus Henderson. Your fingerprints are on the paper and your name. We’ve got you just like you’ve got Gerald.”

Bill’s face blanched, telling me Maria had bludgeoned him with the truth.

“Seems both our lives are at stake,” I said. “What you gonna do?”

I could see him calculating in his head, trying to figure his way out of the situation, trying to win. “I don’t know how much he’s paying you, but I’ll raise it,” Bill said.

“You can’t afford it,” Maria said, unimpressed. “But let’s trade.”

Bill’s jaws clenched and he turned a deep red. “You’ve got all my personal items. You could

renege and kill me later.”

“I’m not you. My word is good.”

Still, Bill hesitated.

“Give Maria the baggie,” I said, “If you do I promise I won’t beat the shit out of you.”

Bill cocked his head and stared at me like he wanted to test me. I moved towards him, but Maria pushed against my chest. I let her hold me back, but I was only going to give Bill a few more seconds to make a good decision.

Maria said, “After the exchange, after you remove the spell, you will leave town. Tonight. You will never come back.”

Bill looked at Maria like she had two heads. “My job is here! I have a house in Ladue. I can’t . . . “

I shouted, “Stop lying, Bill! You got nothing. Nothing except witchcraft.”

“While the likes of you got everything!” Bill shouted back. “The perfect family, the nice house, the winning personality. The big accounts, number one sales rep.” The last he said mockingly. “They even offered you my fucking job first! Why do you get the life I’m entitled to?” He stepped forward. The blood and snot smeared on his face made him look evil, crazy.

Suddenly, I understood what the black and green was about. I didn’t need the angels, spirit

guides, white candle, or Maria to tell me. He was jealous, a deep, hateful jealousy of me, a Black man. “You’re a sick, evil man. Less than a man. Less than human. I almost feel sorry for you, boss.”

Bill charged me. I pushed Maria out of the way and ducked his swing. The missed connection threw him off balance. I pushed him and Bill crashed into the door. Before he could rebound, I grabbed his hair and banged his head against the door, over and over.

“Gerald!” Maria grabbed my wrists. “We need him alive to remove the spell.”

That stopped me, the only thing that could have. I let him go and watched as he sank to the floor, a cheek pressed against the door, mouth hanging open. A trail of blood marred the door. “Bill, get over here.” Maria picked up the baggie with my hair from the floor. She moved to the coffee table. “Undo the spell.”

Bill didn’t move. For a second, I thought the gurgling and wheezing coming from him was the death rattle. That scared me. He could not die before removing the spell. I reached out, intending to shake life back into him, but before I touched him, Bill said, “You can have my life.” He closed his eyes.

Was he dead? I leaned in, heard his troubled breathing, and looked to Maria. She stood by the table, unmoved by his sacrificial offering. “You’re not going to win, Bill.”

Except for his breathing, he remained motionless. Is this what it came down to? Bill’s will? Which meant my death for sure. Bill’s? Maybe, because try as I may, I could not imagine Maria taking a life, not even one as worthless as Bill’s. It felt like all my air and blood drained out of me, leaving me hollow, anchorless. I looked again at Maria, asking for help with my eyes on how to stay alive.

Maria stared at Bill, her eyes transformed bit by bit, becoming black, hard, empty. Her olive skin turned shades darker. A black vein, starting at the center of her hairline, protruded vertically down her face. I watched transfixed as the vein worked its way down her chin, neck, and the part of her chest I could see. It looked like she was being split in two.

“Don’t test me, Bill.” Her voice sounded like many tongues speaking in unison, heavy and forbidden. “It’ll be worse than anything you’ve inflicted on others. You will beg for death.”

Bill opened his eyes and returned Maria’s stare except he couldn’t sustain it. He threw a hand over his eyes and shuddered. After a second, he picked himself up, trudged to the sofa, and sat. Maria withdrew the lint paper from the baggie and placed it in the center of the silver plate. In her current position, I couldn’t see the black vein or the color of her eyes and skin. I prayed she was back to being the Maria I’d spent the day with. This one frightened me.

“I’ll be listening. Closely.” Maria’s voice had not

changed; it was fearsome, commanding; one no human would be able to challenge. She handed Bill the lighter.

Bill picked up the paper and lit one corner. That’s when I saw the white candle had been lit. I had no idea when Maria lit it. Maybe it had been glowing since this afternoon. Regardless, I felt myself relaxing, getting sleepy despite the fear that surrounded me like a winter cloak. I shifted, moving to in front of the coffee table to beat back the drowsy feeling.

Bill dropped the burning, glowing paper onto the plate, closed his eyes, and started spewing a language I didn’t understand. It seemed as if his gibberish was a combination of Latin, a Buddhist chant, and whistling sounds. Maria drew my attention when she started swaying, eyes closed, lips moving silently. The vein was gone. Her skin color had regained its normal shade. She was back to the Maria I knew.

I blinked furiously and shifted from foot to foot, trying to fight off sleep while alternating my gaze between Bill, Maria, and the burning paper.

Suddenly my eyes popped wide open. An uncomfortable tugging at my heart region commenced. I looked down, grabbed my chest. Tiny, black dots slipped between my fingers. I clawed at the neckline of my t-shirt to pull it out, away from my skin so I could see my actual body. More dots sifted out of my skin and passed through the material of my shirt. I

stared terrified of those foreign particles leaving my body. Was this the witch? As dots? Can’t be! But if not, what the hell was happening to me? I looked at Maria, but she remained in warrior position eyes closed, swaying, praying. “Maria,” I croaked in a whisper. Fear took the best of my voice. I stretched out a hand to Maria even though she was not in touching distance. I looked back down and no more dots seeped out of me. I followed the last of the dots as they floated up, high above my head. The dots gathered there and shifted and coalesced to form a transparent black shape. About the size of a toddler, the being had no features just the silhouette of a female form. A cone-shaped hat sat atop its head. The witch! It wavered and quivered then in a flash was gone. I blinked fast while searching the ceiling, the corners, the entire room. I was still looking for the witch when silence descended.

Bill opened his eyes. Maria stilled.

The paper was nothing more than ash.

Maria looked at me. “You’re free.”

I ran out of that room. Y

LATE OCTOBER

Ten days later, I walked into our family room carrying a serving tray, loaded with a bottle of champagne, three crystal flutes, and a bowl of ripe, sweet strawberries.

I set the tray on the coffee table in front of Amanda. She uncurled and moved to the edge of the sofa. “What’s this?”

I clicked off the TV. “Kids in bed?”

“Out cold. What’s this?”

“A celebration.”

“That much I figured, but . . .”

The doorbell rang. I smiled. “Right on time.”

“Gerald,” she called after me as I rushed out of the room.

I hurried to the front door, eager to end the “Bill chapter” of my life. I opened the door. Maria stood in the same spot as the very first night we’d met. She wore the same pantsuit or one similar to the one she wore the night we’d vanquished Bill. Had it really only been ten days? It felt like a lifetime.

“Thank you for coming,” I said as she scanned my head and shoulders.

“You’re clear. Your aura, that is.”

“I’ve never felt this good.” I moved aside to let her in and closed the door behind her.

“What’s she doing here?” my wife asked in an angry voice. Amanda stood in the intersection of the hallway and the family room, glaring at Maria.

I jockeyed around Maria to reach Amanda. I turned her gently by the shoulders, then steered

her to a sofa to sit. “I asked Maria to come and join in the celebration.” I held out a hand, inviting Maria to sit on the other couch.

Amanda opened her mouth, but I launched into the reason for this gathering. “As you know I’m back to being my old self. No more pain or crazy dreams. Sleeping like a baby. Eating everything in sight. Regaining my weight.” I patted my belly. “I’m clear-headed and focused. I feel great!” And that was no exaggeration. I couldn’t recall a time in my life when I’d had so much energy, felt so much joy. I turned to Maria, put my hands together in prayer position, and bowed slightly. “And Maria gets 100 percent of the credit for that.”

Amanda swung her gaze to Maria then back to me. I didn’t like the gathering of her brows.

“Doc Taylor said it was an atypical health condition,” Amanda stated firmly. “Something the body healed on its own.” After watching me improve day by day, Amanda had forced me to visit Doc Taylor. I went through all the same procedures and tests as before and had the same results—vital signs good, all systems normal, no abnormalities. My case went down in the history books as an anomaly. If only Doc Taylor knew how right he was.

I sat down beside Amanda and took her hands. “Do you remember the night I called you and told you I was training a new sales rep? The night I got home way after midnight?”

Amanda nodded.

“That was a lie. I was with Maria.” Amanda flinched and her eyes filled with hurt. I explained, realizing too late how that sounded. “We were fighting off Bill and his witch.”

Amanda reared back and yanked her hands free. “I thought we’d settled that nonsense.” She looked at Maria like she was guilty of a multitude of sins. “Were my messages not clear? I told you to leave my husband alone.”

“She got your messages,” I answered for Maria, knowing it to be true because Maria had relayed that fact the day after we’d sent Bill packing. In the one and only conversation we’d had since that eventful day—other than today when I begged her to come tonight—Maria said a few choice words about Amanda. Those words I would keep to myself. I reached out and caressed my wife’s arm. “I apologize to both of you for taking so long to clear this up. Amanda, I want you to listen to what I’m about to tell you and will you try to suspend judgment until I’m done? Please?”

Amanda’s eyes were fiery. She didn’t say a word.

I mentally shook my head and launched into a play-by-play of the day we beat Bill, starting the morning Maria showed up at our door and ending with my freedom.

Amanda stared at me as if I were a demented circus clown, while telling me with her eyes,

“You’re as crazy as she is!”

“Tell her the rest, Gerald,” Maria said.

“After Bill freed me, he got in his car. We got in Maria’s and followed him to the Illinois state line to make sure he left Missouri that night. Then, we went to DSC and bagged his personal items and Maria cleared the office of his evil energy. The last stop was Maria’s house in the country, where we dumped the bags in a pit she has out back.”

“And I’m supposed to believe this?” Amanda asked exasperated.

“Amanda, you know me. You know I’m not capable of coming up with something so wild. And why would I? Why would I make up such a crazy story about my health, about my close call with death?”

Amanda searched my eyes, looking for the truth.

Maria inserted, “Your heart knows the truth even when your head denies it.”

They locked eyes for moments, then Amanda shifted her gaze back to me. She held my hands. “I believe you believe what you just told me. But you and I . . . we’re never going to agree on this. I mean, you said you and Bill fought in the room while the candle was lit, but you didn’t get sleepy until after the fight? But I would think you would have been sleepy the minute you fell into the room fighting. And where, how did Bill

learn to control witches?”

I looked to Maria for help with the answers to Amanda’s very good questions. She said, “I don’t know why Gerald didn’t get sleepy at first. I’ve never encountered that before with him or anyone else. It could have something to do with his heightened emotional state at the time or the fact he was not aware the candle was lit until later.” Maria shrugged. “As for Bill’s knowledge of the occult, I don’t know that either. We didn’t have an opportunity to ask him.”

“You don’t seem to know much for Gerald to be giving you full credit for saving his life.”

Again, the ladies dueled with their eyes. Or rather, Amanda dueled. Maria’s eyes were as unexpressive as usual.

“Amanda, Maria saved my life. I assure you, if not for her, we’d be having a different conversation. No, actually, we wouldn’t be talking at all. I’d be dead.”

“You know,” I continued, second-guessing myself, “Maybe I should not have put off this discussion. Maybe I should have told you that night before the doctor’s visit and all the tests and their conclusion. But I was still a little doubtful myself. I kept going to bed, night after night, expecting to wake up on the floor in pain. But the witch is gone, Amanda. She’s not riding me anymore. I’m 100 percent.”

Amanda caressed my hands. Her voice softened a bit. “I am grateful, so very grateful that you’re

back to being the man you were. I just don’t buy your explanation.”

I sighed deeply. She was right. We’d never agree on this. “Do you at least forgive me for lying?”

“Of course, I forgive you, Gerald, but we need to talk more. In private.” Amanda cut her eyes at Maria.

“No, we don’t. After tonight, this is over.” The words came out more forcefully than I intended, but I was hurt by Amanda’s dismissal of the truth.

I stood up and walked into the kitchen to retrieve a large, brown paper gift bag. I sat the bag in front of Maria. “There’s no gift I can give you that will compare to saving my life, so consider this a loving token of appreciation.”

“Thank you,” Maria murmured while untying the black net bow that held the handles together. I opened the champagne and filled the glasses as she sifted through layers of tissue paper. Finally, she pulled out a couple of opaque envelopes filled with white sage, a couple of boxes of sandwich-size baggies, and a box of white candles. She laughed, a sound I’d only heard once before. “It’s perfect.”

“You used a lot of supplies on me.”

Maria smiled. “That I did.”

“I also wanted you two to be the first to hear my news.” I passed around glasses. “Today, HR

called me into the office. They told me Bill was fired for job abandonment. They offered me the Vice President of Sales job. Again. This time, I took it.”

“What do you mean you don’t remember what spell you used?”

Jerry Weiss

STAY OUT! NO TRESSPASSING!

CONDEMNED! - the signs read. It’s the kind of dilapidated vacant house people say is haunted. Every city has one, but this one’s different. It’s been condemned and red-tagged since the storms, unsafe to enter. Yet, inside something happens every night in the darkest hour at 1:09 a.m., the precise moment the old man slumps over his antiquated Underwood typewriter, killed by, well, that’s the thing, isn’t it?

“Robert? Robert? Robert?”

“What, Mother?”

“I said your name three times.”

“I heard it three times.”

“And you ignored it all three times. Have you finished the chapter?”

“I have not finished the chapter.”

“You’re behind.”

“I know I’m behind. I’m having trouble with one character. I think I’ve made her too, I don’t know, too domineering. Too nagging. Too . . . ”

“Mothering? Is that what you’re getting at?”

“Smothering?”

“I didn’t say smothering. I said mothering.”

“My mistake.”

“And you know it.”

“Don’t take it personally. It’s only a fictional character.”

“So you say. Dinner’s ready. Come down when you’ve finished the chapter. I’ll keep yours warm.”

Mother leaves and when he’s sure she’s out of earshot, he says, “I’ll come down when I’m damn well ready.”

“I heard that!”

The ancient writing machine is a commanding presence dominating the cluttered Victorian desk in the upstairs bedroom that is his office. It is the room with the lacunar ceiling, tucked into the second story of the corner turret. From the street below, the brave can glimpse a bit of it if the wind creeps through the slats of the halfboarded window to flutter the disintegrating Honiton lace.

But no one looks at that decaying Queen Anne-style house on Cedar Street where every home was condemned after the floods. A palpable aura emanates from it like rays from a far-flung blue star, creating a discomfiture that possesses any who dare venture near. The closer one gets, the more intense the feeling. “It’s all in your head,” practical folk say till they pass that strange structure. Then they feel it. And then they know: Something is alive in that dead house. That house adjacent to the vacant

Geoffrey K. Graves’ work has been recognized by a number of international literary competitions: Finalist 2019 Pinch Literary Award, Finalist 2019 Cutthroat Barry Lopez Nonfiction Award, Finalist 2019 Cutthroat Rick DeMarinis Short Story Contest, Micro-Fiction Winner 2020 Grindstone Literary Anthology (UK), Quarter-Finalist 2020 Ruminate, Finalist 2021 Bellingham Review’s Tobias Wolff Award for Fiction, 1st Honorable Mention (2nd place) 2022 Periscope Literary/Word Press (UK), Short-Listed 2022 Bath Flash Fiction Award (Ireland), and elsewhere. He has been widely published in literary journals and anthologies.

lot. The only Queen Anne house on the block. Right there. Right there on Cedar Street.

Oh, children know. They’re so terrified of that house they won’t look at it. “Don’t try to sneak into it,” older kids tell younger. “Don’t even throw rocks at it. If for some reason you absolutely have to be on that street,” they say, “cross to the other side and run past.” They are frightened because they sense their elders’ preternatural fear of that weather-beaten relic, the oldest house on the block. The haunted Cedar Street house.

“Have you heard from the publisher? Well, have you?”

“What? Yes.”

“What did they think?”

“The editor wants changes.”

“Changes? Again? I hope you haven’t lost your touch, Robert. This is your chance for a big comeback. We need the money.”

“You need the money for your world cruise.”

“I’ll ignore that. After all I do waiting on you hand and foot, I deserve a world cruise. It’s been so long since you’ve published anything, so this had better be good.”

“It’s typical for a novel to go through multiple revisions before everyone’s happy with it.”

“I know that. What’s the problem?”

“I’d rather not go into it.”

“It’s that character, isn’t it? The nagging one.”

“I said I’d rather not go into it.”

“Maybe I can help. Provide a little perspective. Robert? Perspective? Did you hear me, Robert?”

“I heard you, Mother.”

“She’s the one that gets killed, right? In the basement?”

“How do you know that?”

“I came up here and read your outline last night. After you went to bed. So what?”

“Please don’t do that again. Ever. You know

I don’t want anyone reading my work until I’m satisfied with it or close to satisfied. Understood?”

“No, I don’t understand. I don’t see what it hurts if I . . . ”

“Don’t do it again!”

“I don’t like the way you’re speaking to me, Robert. You’re practically barking. Like a dog.”

“I don’t like the way you’re constantly hounding me, Mother. I can’t concentrate! How many times have I asked you to stop? It’s Robert this and Robert that and Robert, Robert, Robert! I’m beginning to despise my own name. Leave me alone, Mother. I’m trying to write. Go!”

One moonless night, a concerned citizen playing the role of would-be good Samaritan decides to burn the place down. He prepares a Molotov cocktail, lights and tosses it over the chain link fence surrounding the place. It lands on the porch. The flames extinguish themselves. He tries a second time to same effect. On the third go, the lit bottle of gasoline slips from his grip and shatters on the sidewalk, engulfing him in flames. A human-shaped smudge is scorched into the concrete, marking the spot forever.

There’s an unspoken agreement among the township; no one is to talk about that house. The insidious energy radiating from it freaks them all out. Perhaps it’s just the stachybotrys chatrum, asexually reproducing filamentous

fungi with slimy head-producing spores creeping along with time, moving out of that odd pool of liquid on the basement floor and up the walls, across the ceilings and into the hall where it crawls up, up, up the long narrow stairs edging ever closer to that corner room in the turret till they finally arrive, covering floor, walls, ceiling and furniture with their slick oily black mold excretions. Could it be that at some fundamental molecular level yet to be discovered by science, it knows it belongs in that room at 1:09 a.m.?

A Saturday night after the Bourbon Street bars close, Ray Carson accidentally drives his beater Plymouth down Cedar Street. He slowrolls past that strange house. As usual, Ray is significantly intoxicated beyond the legal limit accounting for the stolen glance at that upper story window. If sober, he never would have chanced it, the haunted reputation of the place having amplified over time as urban legends do. The recent incineration of the would-be arson adding literal fuel to the urban legend fire.

Next night at Sweeny’s Bar, emboldened by his third double “Tanic,” as Ray calls his Tanqueray and tonic, he swears to one and all that from the overspill of a streetlamp he saw a man crossing behind that upper-story window in the turret. “I’m telling you it was him! Who else could it be?” Everyone tells him to shut the hell up about that house and whatever it was he thinks he saw, and why had he driven down that street

anyway? Who in their right mind would look up at that window? “Ray, you’re an idiot!”

For two hours he’s been buying top shelf liquor for an older barfly he calls “Sure Thing.” Disgusted with something he whispers to her, she pours the dregs of her mojito over his head, slings her Fendi knock-off purse with the broken zipper over her shoulder, and stomps out. He tries to apologize to everyone but too late; he’s single-handedly drained all joy out of the place, and the night fizzles to ruin. Even the vintage Wurlitzer juke box senses the damage done and stops playing right in the middle of The Doors’ “Riders on The Storm.” Jim Morrison’s just finished singing the line, “There’s a killer on the road.” The joint clears out fast, Ray last to leave. Sweeny tells him, “Keep your sorry ass out of this bar. Forever.”

Just to be sure he saw what he saw and inflamed with defiance from his humiliation at Sweeny’s, Ray drives by that house again. The closer he gets, the more he feels the malevolent energy pulsing from the structure. He brakes to peer up at the window and there again the shadowed figure passes as though waiting for him to drive by. It stops, pulls the curtain aside, and waves at him. Scared witless, Ray stomps on the gas, the old Plymouth lurches out of control, jumps a curb and plows straight into the trunk of a fifty-year-old cedar tree. It’s the last thing seatbeltless Ray Carson ever does.

The man who owned the Cedar Street house

was a once-famous author of highly regarded horror novels, many made into major motion pictures. He hit his heyday in the 1980’s, topping best-seller lists and winning prestigious literary awards with critics extolling his talent and naming him best horror writer since Stoker and Shelly, praising the detail, ingenuity, pace, plotting and especially those phenomenally imagined characters of his wordsmithing. He wanted no dealings with fame and refused interviews despite his publisher’s pleas. There was only one known photograph of the writer taken in his mid-forties, a black and white. It reveals a heavyset man seated at a 19th century mahogany desk, an ancient typewriter before him. His fleshy face sprouts a few days’ growth of scruff, pale eyes winged with crows’ feet glare from behind plain, black-framed glasses, and a mane of prematurely white longish hair crowns the prize-winning author’s leonine head. The expression he wears is a fierce scowl, as though he’d like to kill the photographer stealing his image.

A cult of hero worship grew up around his work and became a large movement, many of his fans reenacting fantastically gruesome scenes from his books at annual conventions where they dressed as his most horrifying monsters. Eventually his time passed and he slid deeper into a life of self-imposed oblivion, an agoraphobic recluse never leaving that house, still writing but publishing nothing for decades. It wasn’t by choice he abandoned

people and the ordinary things of an ordinary life, but after the floods and an unfortunate - or was it a fortunate - incident for which he was or wasn’t responsible? - something powerful and uncontrollable, a force of its own volition possessed him in slow sinister ways that immutably changed him. The more he wrote, the more the characters of his stories infected his dreams, flowing over into his waking hours. Monsters hovered behind him as he wrote, demons threatened to push him downstairs, devils waggled forked tongues from the bathroom mirror and ghouls leered from faces in paintings of his forefathers. At night, a wraith with the face of his dead mother circled in the air above his bed. And circled. And circled. He heard banshee screams echoing up from the cellar. It became a vicious cycle, from his mind, to the page, to his dreams, to his mind, to the page, diabolically spiraling along, and then, he began to understand he was becoming what he was writing. With every chapter, indeed, with every word he fell further into a dark boreal netherworld of frightening evil beings all bent on achieving the most reprehensible kinds of iniquitous deeds, monsters performing ghastly acts, beckoning him to come play in their wicked twisted world. And inside that dangerously imaginative room tucked into the corner of his mind, he gladly, joyfully, gleefully joined them. It was his private, secret, sick addiction he could not and did not want to kick. He knew it was affecting his health. He could feel his blood pressure rise every time he

sat at the Underwood. As he approached the denouement of his most challenging manuscript, the throb of his heart was palpable, running a race against time. He sensed something was coming. Coming for him. He could feel the vein in his throat twitch-twitching in its quickening rhythm. He wondered which would win, the story or his heart? He was alone when that something from the basement finally made it up the stairs, took shape, and brought the answer.

“Are you finished, yet Robert?” it said, shocking the life out of him.

Upon death, his agent revealed the reclusive author had been working for years on what he believed would prove to be his opus magnum. Alas, the massive heart attack beat him to the punch, leaving the last critical chapter unfinished. His body wasn’t found till rigor mortis had claimed it, limbs seized with a rigidity that gave the coroner considerable difficulty. No one investigating the death was allowed in without Tyvek suits, shoe coverings, respirator masks and gloves as protection from the black mold. Prying the cadaver away from the old typewriter proved impossible without breaking both arms’ humerus and radius bones. They considered burying him with the machine, but the whole thing wouldn’t fit in a coffin. There was no viewing because the writer died without friends or relatives and per his wishes there was no funeral, no memorial service. It would have taken a master of funeral parlor make-up

artistry to return his face to a semblance of its former countenance rather than his weeksold corpse’s rictus that more closely resembled a character from one of his novels. He had, indeed, succeeded in becoming what he wrote. “Robert?”

“Not now, Mother.”

“But, Robert, I need you to help me get that old trunk out of the basement. For my cruise. It’s on a high shelf where the flood waters couldn’t ruin it, thank God. I can’t reach it. It’s too heavy for me. It’s still muddy down there so wear your galoshes. Robert?”

“I said, not now. You don’t leave for another month. What’s your hurry?”

“I don’t want to wait till the last minute.”

“Damn it, Mother, I’m in the middle of working out that issue with the story. I just about had it resolved, and now you’ve broken my concentration. I’ve lost the thread. It would have been the perfect ending.”

“Oh, you can come up with something else. Help me with the trunk.”

He slams his fist down on the desk, startling her. He stands, livid. “No!”

“Robert, you’re scaring me. You need to control your temper. You drink too much of that sherry. It makes you mean. Now give me a smile and come help. Be nice. After all, it’s Mother’s Day.

You didn’t even remember. Didn’t even get me a card.”

“I remembered. You’ll get it later. Go on down. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“It’s too heavy for me. Come down and help. Now!”

“Hey, chief, the coroner’s here.”

“What’s he think?”

He left no heirs. The assets of his estate remained unclaimed, eventually consumed by the government. There was weeping and wailing among his few remaining fanatical acolytes, the balance of whom had already switched their fickle allegiance from horror to sci-fi, which offered a whole new world of costumes, make-up, and conventions.

The interior of that house on Cedar Street remained the same as the day the bodies were removed. The city boarded up the place and that was the last anyone was in it. It was condemned along with every home on the street, victims of that black mold, but since the city’s budget was perpetually under-funded and the federal government had failed to keep its promises to help the city recover, demolition was indeterminately delayed. So slowly, victoriously, the black mold invaded that second story room in the corner turret, covering everything.

“He’s earning his nickel today with all that mess in there, walls, floors, ceilings. Hell, I never saw anything like it. That dampness from the flood and the humidity must have made the perfect conditions for growing that slime. City ought to burn this place down. Hope those Hazmat suits really work. Coroner said they found another body in the basement.”

“A second body? There’s two?”

“He said it looks like a homicide. An older woman. Major trauma to her head. Probably his mother.”

“What makes him think it’s a homicide and not an accident. With all that dampness and mold down there, maybe she slipped going down the basement steps.”

“Nah, he said her head had been twisted completely backward.”

“Seriously? Backward?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Robert! Robert, are you coming down here? Robert? Ro-bert! Can you hear me?”

“Yes! I hear you! Stop shouting! It’s one o’ damn clock in the morning. The whole neighborhood can hear you. Stop yelling at me!”

“Man, that’s the stuff of nightmares.”

“He said it must have been a really strong person or someone so enraged they got a burst of adrenalin that made them extra strong. Said

it’s called hysterical strength and it’s activated by the body’s fight or flight response. The body’s been there weeks in that basement. Most of it has sloughed off the bones and onto the floor, mixing with that mold into a pool of Godknows-what to call it. I surely wouldn’t want to be the person to clean it up. Couldn’t pay me enough.”

“Weird. How’d he die?”

“Also, strange. They’re not sure, but that body’s been up in that room for weeks. Fell forward onto a typewriter, arms wrapped around the machine. It’s more skeleton than corpse. Really bizarre. Skin and most organs sloughed off into a large pool that’s now dried up on the floor, all except the heart. It looks like a dried peach seed hanging from a rib.”

“Good Lord, it’s like one of his horror stories.” “Coroner said heart attack was his best guess, but it’ll probably be impossible to definitively determine cause of death.”

“Doesn’t really matter. He left no kin.”

It is a heartless, unforgiving night on Cedar Street. Two mammoth cirrus clouds stretch across the apocalyptic sky, hovering like a pair of obsidian raven wings over the wary city. Raging eight miles off the gulf coast, a storm threatens the citizenry with bellowing thunderclaps and spectacular billion-volt lightning strikes. Galeforce winds herald the onslaught aiming for

town, a hell-bent locomotive with an engineer asleep at the throttle.

Dried brambles, advertisements from last week’s newspapers, and assorted flotsam blow helter-skelter down the long empty road. Ten blocks away, at the ancient junkyard fraught with the relics of generations, a yellow hobgoblin of a pit bull watchdog, that usually sleeps on the back seat of a wrecked Plymouth, barks rabidly and incessantly. Most streetlights have blinked out in the area after a transformer at the power plant exploded like the mother of all bombs with dramatic reverberating force. No one is around to know or care. Storm or no storm, the townspeople know it’s always best to avoid Cedar Street.

1:09 a.m. The deserted and forsaken Catholic church at the end of the road was another victim of the floods and mold. In the belfry, the lone bell that hasn’t rung in years clangs loudly, just the one time. Maybe the moaning winds nudged it, maybe not. Above the city, shapes too large to be birds are circling and darting through the sky. For a moment the tempest hesitates, then the heavens open and angry torrents lash the timorous town.

In that upstairs room in that vacant Queen Anne house on Cedar Street, a battered swivel chair is dragged out from the Victorian desk, its four rolling casters imprinting a path across a large dark stain on the weathered oaken floor. There is a creak as a shimmering dark

phantasm animated by - well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? - lowers itself into the cracked leather seat of that favored chair that’s dripping with sticky goo. Carefully, the dead man rolls back frayed sleeves of the corduroy shirt revealing withered wrists more bone than skin. Like something slithering out of an Egyptian sarcophagus, the right hand reaches to the corner of the antediluvian desk to grasp a long-empty bottle of Gonzalez Byass Oloroso ‘63 Sherry, each finger’s bony tip making a tiny tink as one by one they close around the bottle. The hand languidly rotates at the wrist and tips the bottle sideways, pouring sorry dreams into an 1876 Avon cordial glass. The ghostly thing lifts the goblet to desiccated lips, drooling mold slime, sips, smiles, and swallows air. It adjusts a useless pair of bifocals roosting on the end of a withered nose as though eye-less sockets weeping black ooze required them. An invisible sheet of nothing is set upon the paper rest, carefully adjusted against the guide and rolled into the machine with a twist of the cylinder knobs. The paper release lever is employed to ensure straightness, then re-engaged, and the line space lever is tapped an exact number of times. Ah, perfect.

The room is now completely silent. No one is calling the name, ‘Robert.’ Brownish ivory fingers rise to the keyboard of the treasured vintage 1926 Underwood typewriter, truth be told the only true love of his life, and as ghouls and mutants begin rising from the floorboards, appearing from the walls, and pirouetting through the air, the phantom begins tapping away: “Chapter 28 - A Monster Lives on Cedar Street.”

“Never to suffer would never to have been blessed.”

Edgar Allan Poe

Lights

By Lou Normann

“Another conference down the drain. I don’t know why boss man won’t let me Zoom these things. But . . .” Jack mimicked his boss’ voice, “The more people you network with, the more money I make.”

Jack humphed as he slid into his car. He settled his warm bottle of Gatorade and his portfolio on the passenger seat, turned the ignition and blasted the AC. While adjusting the vents, a cluster of sales reps walked by, heading for their cars. They waved. Jack waved.

“Later Jack,” called out one of the attendees at the sales conference. “Catch ya’ next year.” The rep saluted.

Jack did not return the salute. He slammed his car door closed and grumbled, “Not if I can help it. One week of Myrtle Beach with three hundred sales reps is seven days too long.” Jack popped the New York Times bestselling audio book, “Highway to Death” by his favorite horror author, Tim Dorsey, into the CD player. “Take me home, Tim. Jacksonville bound.”

Jack backed his Altima out of the parking spot, exited the expansive lot of the hotel, and soon approached the on ramp to the highway. “I hate sales. I need a new line of work,” he complained. “Maybe I should have listened to mom and become a teacher like her.”

Jack quickly reached the speed limit, whizzing by the tall, darkened office buildings, bright lights

Lou Normann credits Stan Lee, Rod Serling, and TV episodes of “Colombo” as the inspiration for his writings. Their storytelling appealed to his love of mystery, drama, thrillers, and the dark cravings of the human soul. Telling stories came naturally even as a kid. It was inevitable that his passion for words and language turn into novels and short stories. You can reach Lou online at https://tinyurl. com/AuthorLouNormann.

from businesses that catered to the evening crowd, and billboards marketing everything from a food pantry to a high-end mall. At this time of day, he hadn’t expected so much traffic, but then the conference had been a sellout and a lot of the attendees were driving south like him to home. He figured he would lose a bunch of them once he passed Savannah, Georgia.

Jack figured right. By the time the lights of Savannah winked out of his back window, traffic had thinned considerably, and he could fully concentrate on the deeply-timbred voice narrating the book. Time flew by and with it, scenes of terror and murder by mysterious means and unknown forces.

Jack had just crossed the state line into Florida, only an hour or so from his home, when flashing police lights appeared ahead. “Hmmmm, wonder if it’s one of the attendees.” Even though it was frowned upon, Jack slowed down and moved to the inside lane for a better look. The closer he got to the lights, the brighter the reds and blues seemed. He raised a hand to shield his eyes. “Ah, the boys in blue pulled out the spotlight on that poor guy.”

Jack slowed even more and inspected the scene, noting the front windshield of the late model sedan had a crack that splintered from one side to the other and the driver’s side door hung open, nearly busted at the hinges. Straining against the contrast of pitch-black night to bright police lights, Jack looked for a person in or outside of the car. He saw only a policeman, standing in the open door of his cruiser. But, beyond the stopped cars, in the deeper shadows of the shoulder and woods beyond, he could have sworn he saw movement. Jack strained harder to see.

Suddenly, the bright spotlight blinded him, making him throw up a hand and speed up. “Geez, I’m moving along, buddy. No need for encouragement.”

Jack resettled into his groove, setting the cruise control for the exact speed now that he knew the boys were out tonight and listening intently for clues on the identity of the murderer or murderers in the book. He had not traveled far, maybe ten miles, when familiar red, blue and white lights flashed up ahead. “What the heck? It’s not even quota time of the month.”

This time, the incident was on his side of the

highway. As before, Jack slowed, but this time when he changed lanes, it was for the right reason - to give the police and the stopped car—a brand new Audi—space. Jack passed, seeing similarities with the last scene – the driver’s side door nearly ripped off, no sign of a person or persons, bright, blinding spotlight and was that movement on the dark shoulder? A policeman, standing between his cruiser and the Audi turned and focused on Jack as he rolled by. A realization hit Jack. This policeman and the one before were wearing motorcycle cop helmets. “Strange. They’re not motorcycle cops and it’s night. Why the helmets and shields down? Crazy!”

Jack picked up speed and while puzzling over the unanswerable glanced in the rearview mirror. The policeman had moved to stand nearly in the highway and seemed to be staring straight at Jack. He shivered, not sure why he suddenly felt uneasy. Jack chuckled, trying to play it off. “Geez, soon, I’ll hear fiddle playing from the woods over there and see some crazy brothers with evil intent.”

The phone rang. The unexpected sound made Jack jump. His heart lurched, then beat abnormally fast. Jack let out a long, ragged breath and tapped an icon on the console.

“Hey, baby, what’s up?” He hoped his voice didn’t sound as distressed as he felt. “You on your way?”

“Yes, almost there. Why?”

His wife of almost 35 years hesitated. “Dave’s coming over . . . ”

“Oh great! What does baby brother want now? For you to spot him for the casino?”

“Jack, stop being so hard on him.”

“Just sayin’ . . .” He didn’t try to hide his nasty tone. No need to. They’d been married too long and been through too many Dave arguments for anything but honesty.

“He needs to borrow some of your tools.”

“Which tools? I still haven’t gotten my sander back from him.” Jack blew out a breath. “Don’t let him take anything. I’ll be there soon. And, wait . . . why does he need tools after midnight on a Friday night? Is he breaking into a bank?”

“Not funny! Be careful and see you soon.”

“Bye, honey.” He tapped the button. The audio book resumed, but Jack’s mind was not on the unfolding story of gore and death. Something worse—Dave rummaging through his tools, drinking all the premium beer he kept in the garage refrigerator. For the next several miles, Jack worked himself into a heated lather, thinking about all the ways his brother-in-law had taken advantage over the years. He’d just made up his mind that this would be the absolute last time the name Dave and the word ‘need’ would be used together when he glanced in his rearview mirror. A semi bore down on him like

Jack was invisible. With his heart in his throat, Jack floored it but his Altima, long past its peak performance, responded sluggishly. Gauging the distance between his car and the truck, Jack had no choice. He jerked the wheel to the right and entered the shoulder, spewing up gravel, rocks, and tufts of grass.

His heart pounding, Jack stepped on his brakes, causing the car to fishtail wickedly. Visions of his car rolling down the embankment and coming to rest against one of the stately pine trees in the woods made him jerk the wheel the other direction. Jack heard the sickening scrap of metal against metal, the passenger side of his car meeting the guardrail, and the contents of his stomach crawled up to his throat.

At the same time, the truck swooshed by, creating a massive wind tornado that rocked the Altima. Jack stood on his brake and came to a squealing stop.

Hands shaking, heart thumping, Jack took long, deep breaths. He laid his head on the steering wheel and counted his lucky stars.

When he’d calmed enough to think, Jack got out the car to inspect the damage. Before he made it to the rear, he heard a steady hiss, the sound of a tire dying a slow death.

“Aw, come on!”

Jack tapped the flashlight app on his phone and confirmed what he already knew. Rear, passenger tire, flat. Rim, bent. He shook his

head. “Spare is flat.”

Jack heard a car approaching and stepped toward the highway, arms raised and waving. The car sped by, going faster than even the truck. “Thanks for nothing!” Jack shouted after the car. During the entire trip, he’d had the steady company of cars and now that he needed help not another car in sight.

Jack walked back to the front of the car, speaking into his phone, “Hey, Google, local non-emergency police number.”

“Dialing . . .” his phone said and seconds later, a live female voice. “Police.”

“Hey, yeah, my name is Jack Ritchie. I’m stuck on highway seventeen just north of Jacksonville. Gotta flat tire and no spare. Can you send roadside assistance?”

“Sorry, sir, there’s been a massive multi-car accident and we won’t have available service for at least another hour or two.”

“A few miles back, there was a car on the side of the road. I saw a cop car there. Maybe you can send him to help me.”

“We don’t have any units on that stretch right now, sir. All cars have responded to the . . . ” “That’s impossible! About fifteen minutes back I saw a police car parked behind a car and about fifteen minutes before that another on the other side of the highway. I clearly saw the flashing lights, the state logo on the Ford cruiser.”

“Ford? Our troopers drive Chargers, sir. Only Dodge Chargers.”

That eerie, uneasy feeling returned, making Jack’s hands shake, his heart thud wildly. Trying to make sense of her words, Jack said, “It wasn’t thirty minutes ago. A Ford police car. A policeman with a motorcycle cop helmet.”

“Sir, on highways, we use troopers. They drive Dodge Chargers and they certainly don’t wear motorcycle helmets. You . . . Oh, hold on a second.”

A muffled conversation filtered through the speaker. Jack strained to make out the words and failed. “Hey,” he called out in a shaky voice. “Hey! I need help.”

The dispatcher came back on the line, loud and clear. “Sorry, sir, my co-worker said there’s been several reports of policemen in Ford cruisers. A trucker said he saw policemen beating and mutilating a person. He said he hauled ass in case they decided to target him next. Another driver called and said he saw policemen drag a person out of a car. Yank the door nearly off. Did you see anything like that? You know what, never mind, tell me where you are? What mile marker or maybe you have GPS and we can lock in on your location.”

Jack shook from head to toe, losing every word she said except beating, mutilation, policemen. He had to go. He had to get off this highway. Jack looked around. “My car is busted. You gotta send somebody. I’m at . . .” Up ahead on his right, Jack spotted a billboard that displayed a state trooper in a tan uniform smiling at a child in a wheelchair. The words on the ad asked Floridians to support the Florida State Trooper’s Association Fund and help a child in need. “He’s wearing tan, but they wore blue.”

Suddenly, out of nowhere, red and blue lights flashed in the dark night. Jack’s heart crashed against his chest as if trying to escape, his shaking intensified. His eyes widened as he watched a police cruiser materialize out of the darkness and screech to a stop behind him.

In the rearview mirror, Jack clearly saw the unmistakable Ford logo.

Expiration Time

By Don Santiago

My eyes popped open. Someone was there. A sense of dread roiling in my stomach and the dramatic decrease in temperature told me so. Then, heavy footsteps. I shivered, pulling the duvet to the tip of my chin, too drunk and afraid to do more than that.

The footsteps, sounding like a death warning, drew closer, then stopped outside my bedroom door. I wanted to get up and grab something to protect myself but couldn’t stop shaking long enough to organize myself. I hid, cowering beneath the covers, straining to see with only one source of light - moonlight filtering around the edges of the curtains. When time stretched as taut as my beer-and-whiskey-filled belly, a man seeped through my bedroom door, a being with black holes where the eyes should have been, an unnaturally pale face, and wearing an outfit fitting the eighteenth or early nineteenth century.

My heart thumped violently and again the urge to reach for something to protect myself ripped through me. I wanted to scream or shout. I could do nothing.

The intruder marched purposefully to the foot of my bed and stopped. He stared at me and me at it, noting he was tall with a thick, stocky body, like mine. The entity raised an arm, extended an index

Don Santiago, a Filipino, was born and raised in Canada and now resides in Arizona. He has been published in various small market magazines. Besides writing screenplays, he has also written plays, a comic book, and a novel. Check out his portfolio here.

finger, pointed at me, and beckoned. Frozen in place, I couldn’t move even if I wanted to accept his offer. He crooked his finger again and this time I managed to shake my head or maybe it was a natural movement of the shivering. He spun on his heels, marched off, and disappeared through the door.

I exhaled loudly and closed my eyes, but immediately opened them afraid the ghost might come back. Questions filled my head. Where had he come from? What did he want? Why was he dressed like that? Where or what was he inviting me to? I brought his face to mind, trying to make a family connection to his broad forehead, long, slim nose, and thin lips. No family resemblance there. Had I hit my head when stumbling out the bar last night? Had something been slipped into one of my drinks? The former sounded more likely. I scrunched deeper into my bed and after a time of fixating on the door, fell back to sleep.

The next morning, I woke with the ghostly visit on my mind. I decided I had definitely conjured the apparition in my mind and since I was not given to such creativity, blamed it

on tiredness—we, the IT department at work, had just wrapped up a long test and launch schedule—and alcoholic spirits. I harrumphed at my own joke and headed for the shower. Maybe I would bypass the bar tonight after work and come home instead to begin sanding the hardwood floors of my new house. Well, new to me. Only eight months in and stillpacked moving boxes and unarranged furniture proved it.

w

I stumbled in the house after midnight and after tossing my keys on the kitchen counter, climbed the stairs, bouncing off the wall with one step and off the railing with another until I reached the landing. I overshot my bedroom but finally made it there and while shutting the door, remembered last night’s ghostly visitor. The terrifying memory flew out of mind the second I pulled back the duvet and crawled into bed - clothes, shoes, and all. I had barely closed my eyes when the same sensations— dread, gurgling in my stomach and an icebox temperature in the room—forced my eyes open. I rolled onto my back, wrapping myself in the bed covers, and focused on the door. Someone was there. Footsteps, heavy and widely spaced sounded. My heart lurched, then raced. My breathing caught as I tightened the covers around me, leaving only my eyes exposed.

He entered, passing through the door. I shivered violently and stared at him. The ghost halted at the foot of my sleigh bed and leered at me. With

slivers of moonlight as my single light source, I could not tell if his lips moved, but I clearly saw the beckoning of a single finger. I shook my head and closed my eyes. A second later, I opened them and the ghost was gone. I exhaled and soon fell into a drunken sleep.

w

The following night, the same thing, a visit from the apparition, an invitation to “come,” my refusal, his departure. And the next night and the next—the same routine, again and again until the act became as reliable as the moon rising and falling. Acceptance replaced fear. I began to anticipate his company around 2:20 a.m., but never accepted his invitation. I didn’t like the uncertainty associated with acceptance. The interrupted nights—or should I say mornings?—soon got to me. I felt physically tired all the time. My brain grew so foggy that even ordering a drink at my favorite bar turned into a chore. I was jittery and anxious and drinking no longer relaxed me. So, one night, after the ghost’s visit, I got up, threw on my bathrobe that looked as ratty as my untended backyard and unfinished floors and opened my laptop. I launched a search engine and typed in “Revolutionary War ghost,” remembering my resident ghost always appeared in a soldier’s uniform from that time period. An historical figure, a list of paranormal shows and sites, and links to books came up.

I started at the first entry on the page and read

about Benjamin Martin. Although he was known as the legendary “Ghost” during the Revolutionary War, he was not my ghost. His face, build, location—in South Carolina; me, in Arizona—did not match. I continued down the page, clicking on links and reading until a kink in my back demanded I take a break. I glanced at the clock and did a double take. If I didn’t get going, I’d be late for work.

I made it through work, but my mind had been full of ghosts, war heroes, and paranormal stories. Thank God it was Friday! I could continue my research tonight without the burden of time or work.

After the ghost left me around 2:20 on Saturday morning, I got up and resumed my research. (A stop at the neighborhood bar after work yesterday waylaid my well-intentioned plans to research last night.) Tapping into the cliché plot lines that knitted most paranormal books and movies together—that my old house, which I was supposed to be restoring, might rest on a historical battlefield, a Native American burial ground, the site of an unjustified killing, or a fissure that connected this world to that of the unseen—I accessed land surveys, city records, old news stories, and other historical documents. Hours later, when my stomach grumbled reminding me I’d had neither food nor drink since the night before when I’d gobbled a cheeseburger with enough beers and whiskey to make folks think I was hollow inside, I showered, dressed, and left the house,

ignoring the dishes still in boxes, the furniture that remained where the movers had dropped it, the paint yet to be applied to walls. While wolfing down a burger from a fast-food joint, I drove to the local library.

The librarians were great. After confessing a partial truth, that I wanted to learn more about the history of my new house, they pulled out reference material, shared helpful tips, and helped me work equipment I hadn’t operated since high school, over twenty years ago. Several hours later, I learned my Victorian house and the land on which it sat was famous for nothing. There were no legends or disturbing incidents attached to my address.

“Call the former owners, interview them,” a librarian offered.

I left the library, thinking about her suggestion. The seventy-seven-year-old couple who’d sold the self-labelled “family heirloom” to me were now living the grand retirement life in Florida. They’d given me a great deal on the house because they’d gotten a great deal on their condo and needed the cash quick. Or so they said. Now, I wondered. I had seen the secret look they’d shared, which at the time didn’t seem sinister. Had the ghost bothered them as he bothered me? Had they seen the word ‘sucker’ scrawled across my forehead? I was undecided about calling them. I mean, how did one broach the subject of a resident ghost?

Later that evening, after unpacking a few boxes

and moving furniture around to my liking—I guess all that research into the house pricked my conscious about my state of living—I plopped down in my recliner, popped open a beer, and bing-watched ghost hunting shows. The notes I’d taken at the library rested by my elbow on a side table. Occasionally, I’d peek at them and wonder why. Why me? Why now? I’d been in the house for months now.

Maybe I was on the wrong path, crediting the house or the location with the haunting. Maybe some of the items I possessed or had inherited with the old house had a haunted past. Or maybe during one of my frequent and boisterous drunken rages, I’d unintentionally conjured an ancient curse or worshipped the devil. As far as I could remember, my only cursing or worshipping involved the porcelain bowl in the bathroom. I shrugged that off and thought maybe I’d sweet-talked the wrong store clerk into a good deal that got them fired and they were now taking supernatural revenge. Okay, that was a stretch. Or was it? I sighed, dismissing the entire line of questions and speculation. “A man could lose his mind sorting through all the reasons for a ghost in the house,” I said to the TV.

Shortly after two a.m., I clicked off the TV, bored by a movie about a shape shifter. I pushed out of the chair and tumbled to my knees. When the world stopped spinning, I picked myself up, and ignoring all the empty beer cans, climbed the stairs. I made it to my bedroom, stripped to

my skivvies, drained the last sip of beer from the can I’d carried with me, and crawled under the sheets. In the dark, I decided that although I didn’t think my nightly visitor was demonic in nature, I would still play it safe and have the house blessed. And I knew the right blessorFather Joseph. He was a regular at one of the bars I frequented. “I’ll call him tomorrow. Have him meet me here for blessings and beers.” I chuckled at my catchy alliteration and rolled over to my back. Just before closing my eyes, I thought to also invite over my co-worker, Sheila. We’d gone on one date, but she was a whack job, an upside-down weirdo who was into past lives and Feng Shui and such. But, to rid my house of the Revolutionary War ghost and get some rest, I’d risk any fallout.

When the ghost came at 2:20, I woke, sensing his presence even in deep sleep. The war soldier stared at me from the foot of my bed, pointed that bony finger, and beckoned. I said, “Not gonna happen, fellow. But here’s what’s gonna happen . . . “ I filled him in on the plan that would send him packing for good. I hoped. I resettled all the covers around me to ward off the chill and fell back into the sleep of the dead.

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The next day dawned gloomy and gray, just like the inside of my head. I passed on breakfast— the thought of eggs and bacon made my stomach turn—and called my Ghostbusters squad. I was surprised Father Joseph answered his home

phone. I expected him to be at church, leading the good people through their heavenly paces. But, after hearing him slur through our brief conversation, I knew why he was sitting out today’s mass. To his credit, he promised to come in the afternoon with his little, black book of sacred words and bless my new abode. Sheila, too, agreed to come around dinnertime with her bag of tricks.

I hung up the phone and sat on the side of the bed, willing myself to make the house and myself more presentable. But the best I managed to do was shower, dress, and discard the empty beer cans littering the house.

True to his word, the father came and went through his ritual—reciting a bunch of words and drawing crosses in the air—in about fifteen minutes. Then we downed a few beers before he left to make hospital visits.

A few hours later, Sheila showed up with a huge beach bag on her shoulder. “Really adorable house,” she exclaimed, looking all around. She chatted non-stop as she pulled items out of her bag. I listened at first and quickly remembered why I’d never asked her out again. She talked too much. I predicted by the time she left, my ears would be bleeding.

“Ready?” she asked. I’d been thinking about the football pool at work and had no idea what had preceded ‘ready.’ It was probably better I agree rather than admit

I had tuned out. I nodded and Sheila lit the biggest joint I’d ever seen.

“Is that what I think it is?” I eyed the cigarshaped roll of dried leaves and took a big inhale.

“It’s sage, silly. For smudging.” I nodded like I knew what that meant. “Follow me,” she commanded. Sheila walked in and out of every nook and cranny in the house, waving the sage cigar and a feather, while saying prayers and affirmations. I followed meekly, waving smoke out of my face. When she finished, the house was thick with foggy smoke.

“Let’s move a few pieces of furniture to achieve harmonious balance,” Sheila suggested. Again, I nodded like I knew what she was talking about. Following her lead, we moved the sofa to nearly the same spot where the movers had dropped it. She rearranged a few plants and helped me unpack a couple of boxes to “declutter and let the chi flow.” Then we tromped upstairs and moved my desk to a “more optimal positive position.” By this time, I was tired and in desperate need of a drink.

“How about a pizza? I’m starved,” Sheila asked.

I groaned internally. I wanted to kick her out, but I reminded myself she’d come at my request. The least I could do was feed her.

We headed downstairs and in the living room, I handed her my debit card and backed out of the room, leaving her to order. I retreated to the kitchen and downed a beer in three big

gulps. I grabbed two more and returned to the living room. While we waited for the pizza to be delivered, Sheila talked relentlessly. When she wasn’t doing that, she was opening more of my boxes and placing books on shelves and whatnots on furniture. Every once in a while, I excused myself to down beers at the kitchen sink. Finally, the doorbell pealed and I rushed to retrieve dinner. I set us up in the dining room and dove into the pizza, realizing I hadn’t eaten anything all day. I took one bit of the glutenfree, vegetarian pizza and nearly choked. It was the grossest thing I’d ever eaten. Sheila, on the other hand, ate four healthy slices. When she reached for a fifth, I snapped the lid closed and said, “I’ll put the rest in a baggie for you.”

“Oh, yeah, great idea.”

I was glad she couldn’t see my eye roll as I carried the box into the kitchen. I made quick work of the task, left the kitchen, and headed straight for the front door. “Thanks a lot, Sheila,” I said, opening the door and holding up the baggie. I watched as her face fell flat. “The house . . .” What does one say after a smudging? “. . . smells clean and . . . um . . . yeah, it feels good. Thanks.”

Glaring, she slung her bag over her shoulder, walked past me, snatching the bag out of my hand, and didn’t say good-bye. I closed and locked the door, flipped off the lights, and slowly climbed the stairs. With all the sacrifices I’d made today, if the ghost showed tonight, I was going to be pissed.

I clicked on the TV and flung myself across the bed, anticipating an uninterrupted night of rest. I drifted off before the sports highlights show ended and woke up at 2:20 a.m. when my stomach roiled, the cold descended, and the footsteps sounded. I sat up and shouted, “WHAT . . . DO . . . YOU . . . WANT?”

The Revolutionary War ghost seeped through the door and stopped at the foot of my bed. He did something he’d never done before. He pointed at his wrist. I knew they did not have wristwatches back in his time, but I was too frustrated to try and figure out this new move. I fell back, gathered the covers around me, and pulled a pillow over my head, blocking him out.

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Every night thereafter, the war ghost added the new movement to his repertoire. I ignored him, pulling the covers over my head or giving him my back. Then one night at 2:20 a.m., a heaviness, like a concrete slab, fell on me. “Humph,” I exclaimed, then heard a hissing sound like air escaping a tire, then a rustling sound, followed by footsteps. I opened my eyes and looked around. Darkness surrounded me. Not even moonlight fragments. Although I could not see, I sensed my vantage point had changed. I seemed to be floating several feet above the worn floorboards, yet I was walking.

I passed through my bedroom door, sensing microscopic wood particles, air, and space filtering through me. I exited the door into a darkness that was different from that of my

bedroom. It was a deeper black and softer, welcoming even. Immediately, I bumped into a barrier, a soft stoppage that did no harm yet propelled me back from where I’d come. I passed back through the bedroom door and floated to the foot of a platform bed. A platform bed? This is not my bed, I thought. The bedroom, however, was mine—two big windows framing the bed, bathroom on the left, dressing area to the right of it. But, the decorations were wrong. Where were the curtains I had hung? Where was my duvet? And . . . another man with disbelief written on his face stared at me. I glared at him, ready to verbally assault him when suddenly, I knew things. His name: Sylvester Drayer. His history: second generation immigrant. His profession: bus driver. His health: failing. His time on earth was running out due to a poorly functioning kidney. He was not aware of this. He was, however, aware of his out-of-control drinking.

I yelled at him, trying to impress upon him the seriousness of his condition. “Go to AA, man. Save yourself! Do you wanna die young?”

He just stared at me, slack-jawed, wide-eyed, shaking.

I tried again, repeating myself, shouting so loudly the veins in my neck bulged and my vocal cords strained. I tried moving closer to him, but I couldn’t move beyond the foot of the bed. I beckoned with my finger for him to come to me. I desperately wanted to share the truths I knew about his life and its imminent end if he didn’t change his ways. But he refused, shook

his head or maybe it was his wild shivering that made his head shake. I beckoned again. He stayed put. I tapped my watch. It was gone. In fact, my wrist was unnaturally white. I checked myself all over, surprised to see my bare feet and arms were the same super white. The blue jeans and gray T-shirt I wore were the only splashes of color on me.

I stumbled back, shocked. I was dead! Dead! And in death, I had become him, the Revolutionary War ghost. I was now the supernatural being, the messenger from the other side. Had I made any attempt to understand my predecessor’s message, I might be living still in good health like the couple I’d bought the house from. Instead, I was staring upon the new me, a young man who, like the old me, was an alcoholic and oblivious about his compromised health. l looked at him, cowering beneath the sheets, and knew one night he would replace me if he did not heed my warning.

I had not saved myself, but I decided I would save him even if it meant I would remain a ghostmessenger for centuries, as the Revolutionary War ghost had. I spun around and float-walked downstairs, out of the disheveled house to the backyard. I hovered over the yellowish-brown grass and soaked in the signs of rebirth - a few green blades sprouting here and there, moon flowers peeking out among the weeds in the flower bed, a nest filled with eggs. I would be back the next night—early morning, really, at 3:55 a.m.—with a new way to tell him his expiration date neared.

The Senior Ghost

by David Berger

On the north side of West Sixteenth Street between Sixth and Seventh avenues in the Chelsea neighborhood of Manhattan is a row of six identical apartment buildings. They’re what we New Yorkers call “pre-war” buildings, which means they were built between WWI and WWII. Living in one of these houses is a joy. The walls are thick enough to stop a cannon ball; hence, complete privacy from neighbors. The floors are supported by beams so strong they can support you and your pet elephant. The nine-foot ceilings give a sense of space. That’s a premium in a city of over eight million people packed in 321 square miles.

A unique feature not mentioned in realtor brochures is ghosts. Since Chelsea’s first apartment building was built, residents have reported ghosts. There’s been two Terrifying Ghosts, one in 1948 and the other in 1952 and one Murderous Ghost in the late 1920s. Whether or not there’s ever been a Friendly Ghost is in dispute, but a ghost that’s never been in dispute is the Senior Ghost, so-named because its length of time dwelling in and haunting the Chelsea row of buildings is legendary. The usual “death span” of ghosts, the time they spend on Earth after the person’s demise, varies from days (most of the ghosts) to about ten years. Anecdotal reports, passed from neighbor to neighbor, reveal the Senior Ghost’s presence for at least twenty-five years!

The Senior Ghost is harmless. Those who have seen the specter state he appears as a confused, baffled, old man; a grandfather figure muttering to himself as he turns one way yet exits another.

Residents have learned to live with the Senior Ghost and have even tried to engage it. One time he emerged from a dumb waiter. A young woman cooking spaghetti bolognese for dinner turned from the stove and nearly dropped her saucepan when she saw him. She screamed. Of course, no one heard! (Remember the thick walls?) In little time she calmed, reconciling the shadowy figure before her to the ghost stories she’d heard. The bent-back, gray-haired old man, mumbling to himself and turning this way and that as if searching for something was real.

“Joining me for dinner?” she asked in a voice that trembled.

The Senior Ghost stumbled about her apartment, declaring, “I’ll find you. I didn’t kill her. Ripped apart when Robbie disappeared.”

He kept her company for a minute or two, then vanished into the dumbwaiter shaft. That encounter, freely shared around the neighborhood, cemented the residents’ belief that a dramatic incident had happened back in the day, something bad that rattled the Senior Ghost to its

David is an old Brooklyn lefty, living in Manhattan with his wife of 26 years, the finest jazz singer in NYC, and a father and grandfather. He’s been a caseworker, construction worker, letter carrier, teacher, proofreader and union organizer. David loves life, his wife, and the world. He hopes to help us all escape destruction.

David’s publishing credits include:

• Bohemians, a graphic history of American bohemia published in VERSO with Paul Buhle

• “Pages Missing From the Diary of Samuel Pepys, Esq.,” published in Metamorphosis magazine.

• “Hotel Room,” published in MysteryTribune, an MWOA-approved publication

core. “Maybe he killed his wife,” one resident offered. Another suggested, “Or, she killed him.” And yet another speculated, “I wonder if Robbie, whoever that is, murdered them both.” Oh, the possibilities when truth was absent!

Shortly after that sighting, a high school junior living with his grandparents in the next building over had just moved a load of whites from the washer to the dryer when he glanced up and saw the Senior Ghost stumble through a wall of the large, well-lit laundry room. The boy stood petrified as the ghost stared through him and shuffled past, within touching distance, to melt into the closed-off, filled-in tunnel that had once connected all six buildings. Forgetting his wet clothes, the teen raced up the stairs, taking them two at a time. On the ninth floor, he burst through the stairwell door, yelling, “I saw him! I saw him!” He barreled into apartment 9A, yelling the same refrain, “I saw him! I saw him! The Senior Ghost just passed me in the laundry room.” The young man rushed through

the living room, past his grandparents who paused mid sip, teacups suspended in the air. He didn’t slow until he sat at the desk in his bedroom. Impatiently, he pressed the power button on his laptop and bounced a knee up and down. When a search screen appeared, he typed, “Chelsea ghost Manhattan news and events 25 years ago.” The usual outpour of social announcements, political shenanigans, ads, rentals and the like filled his screen. He spent the rest of the afternoon scouring the internet for the Senior Ghost’s story and found nothing. From that day till the following year when he graduated and went off to college, the young man used every free minute to search for the origin story of the old man-ghost.

It took Father Herman, a priest who lives in building three to finally settle the matter. A nature lover, the priest spent as much time in the backyards that stretched the entire length of the block as he did at his church, which anchored the block.

While planting yet another rose bush in a neighbor’s yard, heirloom roses this time, a shadow passed Father Herman’s—or Herman as the kids in the neighborhood called him— periphery. He glanced around and locked on the Senior Ghost. The aged apparition was turning in circles, head down, studying the ground, all the while muttering under his breath, “I’ll find you. I didn’t kill her. Ripped apart when Robbie disappeared.”

Herman’s mouth fell open. His eyes grew larger than his round, wireframe glasses. “Mother Mary and Jesus,” he said softly, crossing himself. On unsteady legs, he rose and faced the Senior Ghost.

“You . . . you’re not real. Yet, here . . . here you are.”

Although a purveyor of spiritual matters, the priest had scoffed at the stories of the Senior Ghost, categorizing the character as another Halloween figure and the story as urban myth. Like Doubting Thomas in the Bible story, he reached out to touch the ghost. His hand trembled as it passed through the ghost.

The specter looked at the priest, not through him as he had the teenage boy, not all around as he had the young woman. The ghost made true, lasting eye contact. In an old, worn voice, he said, “Someday you will walk through a long-forgotten tunnel. You will be confused and baffled. Others you pass in the tunnel will not know you. You will not know them. And, you will not know yourself.”

A cool calm fell upon Herman as he connected the current situation to his life’s calling. “Here is a man in need of comfort and release,” he said.

Herman laid a hand on the Senior Ghost’s shoulder, surprised that this time the old manghost was solid, as human as he. With strong conviction in his voice, he said, “Whatever caused your confusion, whatever happened in your past is forgotten. Exist in peace.”

The Senior Ghost cried, real tears that fell fast and dampened his plaid flannel shirt. He shook his head and said, “No peace. No peace for the wretched.”

“Tell me. Let me judge on behalf of our Lord and Savior.”

The Senior Ghost pointed at building two. “The police came to our apartment. Told us Robbie had been abducted, snatched off the street while playing with friends. Our dear Robbie, our only child, eight years old without his parents.” The Senior Ghost covered his mouth with a fisted hand, but that did not stop his soulful wail. “We searched. We hoped. We prayed. The years passed. My wife withdrew. From me. From life. One day she, too, disappeared. Left only her wedding ring. The police came a second time and accused me of killing her. I didn’t. I couldn’t. I love her as deeply as I love Robbie. I’m looking for them. Can you help me find them?”

Father Herman lovingly squeezed the ghost’s shoulder. “My son, travel the tunnel. Follow the light. Go, be free, and reunite with your loved

The Raven

ones.”

A brilliant light shone from the Senior Ghost’s eyes. His bent back seemed to straighten. “Follow the tunnel. To find my loved ones.”

Father Herman nodded, smiled, and patted the old ghost’s shoulder. “The light will guide you. Go, my child, you are free. Be at peace.”

The Senior Ghost backed away from the priest, nodding his head, half bowing. At the nearest wall leading to the closed-off, filled-in tunnel, he turned and shuffled through.

For the first and only time in the fifty-plus years since his ordination, Father Herman prayed for a ghost.

EF

You’ve probably guessed that the Senior Ghost has not been seen since. In fact, since Father Herman’s intervention, no ghosts have been seen in any of the six pre-war apartment buildings in Chelsea. We, residents guess the realtors were right to not list ghosts as a feature of the buildings.

Ghost Ships: A True Ghost Story

By Dr. E. B. Jones

“In the 1960s, my father was a young man, fresh out of school in Jamaica, when he signed up to be a sailor to “travel the world and get some skills.” Later in life, he met and married my mother, and when I was born, he became my bedtime parent, meaning, he was the parent who put me to bed at night. Included in our bedtime routine was storytelling, the regaling of his adventures on the seas. One particular story about ghost ships became my favorite.”

One evening, as I was about to start night watch, one of my shipmates told me about ghost ships; ships with crews that had been deceased for centuries and yet sailed routes off the west coast of Africa, seeking to lure other ships to destruction by drawing them to the shallows or reefs. I thought my shipmate was joking or trying to scare me until I recalled the stories I’d heard from my mama and others about spirits that travelled the world at night. I became a believer and stuck closely to my night watch buddy, Cal.

Feeling nervous, I took my position on deck and was commanded to “stay alert.” Our ship was headed toward the Tropic of Cancer and the Tropic of Capricorn. The Tropics were considered magical and dangerous, fairytale like and eerie, beautiful and deadly, all at the same time. Really odd and unusual things happened between the tropics. Hence, the command.

Dr. E. B. Jones is a retired professor of Educational Leadership. She considers Florida her home base, but Texas is where her grandchildren reside. So guess who spends most of her time in Texas? And guess who writes children’s books?

In addition to picture books, E. B. writes short stories, poetry, and essays. Her publications include Nathan and his Magical Tablet and Breathe – Earth Day 2020. E. B. can be reached online at Facebook: Pam Enid Jones or Twitter: @ JonesEbmjones.

I stared in every direction, gazing intently into the deep dark. On the seas at night, there is no light, only the reflection of the moon when it is full, and even then, the moonlight illuminates the water’s surface only. Without sight, I relied on my hearing and keenly tuned in to the wind whistling, the hum of the ship’s powerful engine, and the occasional chatter of my crewmates.

At first, all went well. The breeze wafted across my face, making my nose twitch with its salty aroma. The rhythmic thrumming of the ship’s mechanics relaxed me, and I began to hum, joyful songs of life on my native island. I was in the middle of a refrain when I sensed movement on the leeward side of the ship. I turned the scope in that direction and saw nothing on the screen. I stood up tall to look through the port hole, and there it was, the silhouette of an ancient cargo ship, plowing directly towards us at a rapid pace. Afraid my naked eyes deceived me, I turned back to the scope for a more telling view and did not see anything on the screen. A keen wailing like that of people in grief reached me and I knew instinctively it came from the ship that threatened us.

“Come, look!” I shouted to my mate. “Do you see a ship leeward?”

Cal hurried over and looked through the scope. He shook his head and teased, “The ghost ship story playing with your mind.” He tapped his temple and made to walk off.

“Are you sure? Look through the port hole. There is a ship out there!”

Grinning at me, my mate looked, shook his head and walked off, laughing.

I grabbed the scope and scanned the darkness. Nothing. I peered through the port window. The ship was gone. Where’d it go? I asked myself. I know a ship was there! Sighing, I resumed my position, remembering I had not asked Cal about the wailing sound. I opened my mouth to call out to him, but shut it, deciding all of it— the ship, the crying, the threat—must have been my imagination coming alive after weeks and weeks of staring at water.

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The next night, I stepped to my position at the scope and scouted the deep dark void, wondering if my imagination would play tricks

on me again. As soon as I thought this, out in the distance, I saw movement. I was afraid to take a proper look, but I had to. My job required it. I turned the scope and adjusted it. An old ship with voluminous sails came into view, emerging from a thin, veil-like fog. The ship was headed towards us, fast like the previous night and gaining, which made no sense because there was only a slight breeze tonight. The tortuous sound of sobbing, wailing, and thrashing reached me, more intense than the night before, so much so it filled my mind. And yet that was not the most disturbing feature of the ship. That distinction went to the water, streaming like tears, down the front and sides of the ship. Confident the ship would ram us this time, I shouted, “Look! Look, everyone! There’s a ship heading for us. It’s the same one from last night! It’s going to sink us.”

I expected the PA system to crackle to life with the command, “All men on deck! All men on deck!” But only two of my shipmates rushed to my side and looked to where I pointed. They stared and searched and gawked and squinted, and saw nothing. They turned to me, one with a confused expression on his face and Cal, wearing anger on his. “There’s no ship out there, Freddie,” said Cal. “You’re taking this ghost ship story too far. It’s a high seas tale. Now quit with the false alarms or Captain will confine you for sea hallucination sickness. Take deep breaths and calm down.” I was stunned. What was going on with me?

Did I have sea hallucination sickness? Could that account for my false visions? Or, maybe I was one of the unusual people that Papa and Uncle Ben used to talk about, people who could see spiritual matter when others couldn’t. I looked beyond the shoulders of my shipmates and like them, saw nothing.

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On the third night of watch, I made sure I was well-rested and sharp. I’d slept more hours than usual during the day and had eaten just enough to maintain a modicum of hunger. Hunger always gave me an edge.

At the start of my shift, a shipmate told me we would be crossing the equator and entering the next Tropic. He warned me several times, “Be alert! Stay sharp! The workings of the ship get odd on the center line that splits earth.” I nodded, thinking us fortunate that we had a bold, harvest moon whose blindingly bright light lit up the sea like a summer afternoon. Nothing strange or mysterious dare happen in such light. And yet my gut mocked my positivity. It warned of something frightening soon to come.

With each passing minute, my nerves wound tighter and tighter. I alternated between the scope and the port hole, looking for the slightest shadow or movement. Just as I’d shifted from one to the other, I saw it, the thing my gut warned of.

A ship from the 1800s faced us, bow to bow, and cleaved through the water as if it had wings

instead of sails. It glowed, giving the impression it had been crafted from embers of coal. The closer it got, the bigger it grew in in size and the more brilliantly it shone, even outshining the moon’s unusual brightness. Though still many nautical miles away, a deep, sorrowful lamentation filled the skies, reaching us in a cacophony of weeping, moaning, and keening. The water-tears streaming down the ship’s surface were now a ghastly shade of red and flowed so violently, they created sheets that looked like tiered waterfalls. The thin veil from the previous night had been replaced by a translucent pink mist that surrounded the ship like gauze.

Finally finding my voice, I yelled, “Stop! Stop! Turn around! Go windward!”

The captain, whose presence I had been unaware of, followed my orders with his own. “All hands on deck! Man your stations! But do NOT change course. Steady as we go. Call out to the ship.”

I glanced around the deck noting the crew of

few had indeed multiplied. An awed officer behind me informed the captain, “There is no record on file for the ship. It should not be there.”

“Prepare to board the ship,” directed the captain.

I faced the immense, glowing ship and cupped my ears to shut out the shrieking, sobbing, and wailing from the frightful ship. I wondered if we would be swallowed whole by the oncoming ship or rammed, broken into pieces of wood, metal, and flesh. The captain seemed determined to make the latter our fate.

“Increase speed,” he shouted over the din. A sailor enacted the captain’s orders and I could feel the ship respond beneath my feet.

In reaction to us, the death ship grew in size, reaching halfway to the moon.

“Captain!” a panicky voice from the bridge yelled, “We cannot avoid the ship. Shall I turn windward before the ship blocks our path or destroys us?”

“Stay the course,” commanded the captain. “If we turn windward our ship will be torn to bits by rocks below the surface. The ship threatening us is a ghost ship. It wants to wreck us.”

My heart pounded so hard and loudly, I pressed my hands over it to keep it from jumping out of my chest. I wasn’t the only one who was afraid. I should have felt vindicated that at last the crew saw the ghost ship I had warned of, but I

only felt fear.

My gut told me to look up. I did and saw an albatross circling the old ship. All sailors knew this to be a sign of dead bodies aboard. I shuddered, feeling cold on this warm night.

A navigator called out, “Approaching the equator, Captain, sir.”

I refocused on the ship and nearly lost my mind when the ghost ship suddenly curved away from us and the pink shroud surrounding it fell away. The ship began shrinking and losing its brilliance, and the water-tears ceased and dried up. The sounds of grief and terror diminished to whispers.

A stunned, collective silence filled the bridge, but I could still feel tension vibrating in the air. I imagined the crew wondered as I did – were we out of danger? What had made the ghost ship retreat?

“Follow her,” the captain commanded.

We followed the ship’s wake but could not keep up with the ghost ship’s speed. The ship winked out of existence at the point where water meets sky at the equator.

The captain called off the chase and we, the crew, cheered, relieved.

The captain interrupted our revelry. “You just saw a ghost ship. They roam the waters between the tropics, trying to force ships to destruction. The ships are manned by a skeleton crew and carries cargo of enslaved people. You are privileged to have seen this. You now know the tale is true.”

The Raven

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For your little monsters

We admit we were a little skeptical when we first heard about this one. “Me Time with Niki” is a puppet and storyteller channel for kids on YouTube.

Check out Halloween Special | Cheeku & Peeku at the Haunted House| I Am A Witch’s Cat and I’m a Little Vampire | Halloween Special Rhyme

Go to your computer, phone, or tablet RIGHT NOW and check out Nightmare Realm on Etsy. They have some seriously awesome stuff that no Poe fan should be without. Like these seriously creepy bookends. Or this coffin-shaped backpack. Because who doesn’t need a coffinshaped backpack!

We love this one-of-a-kind Poe-themed charm bracelet by ItsGeektastic, also on Etsy Maybe Santa Krampus will indulge us!

Still scary after all these years

We would be remiss in our duties, dear readers, if we failed to point out that one of the creepiest classic horror movies of all times hits the big 1-0-0 this year. Nosferatu (German title Nosferatu –Eine Symphonie des Grauens) was directed by F. W. Murnau and released by German film studio Prana Film in 1922, Old movies, especially silent ones, tend not to age especially well, But Noferatu is weird enough to (cliché alert!) stand the test of time.

It almost didn’t make it past the first release. Despite a few cosmetic changes, Nosferatu is a barely disguised rip-off of Dracula. Bram Stoker’s widow sued for coyright infringement and the court ordered Prana Film to destroy all copies. Luckily for us, some prints survived. There’s an interesting article in The Guardian that explains it all and contains a link to the entire movie on YouTube. It’s worth a watch.

Possibly the creepiest thing about Nosferatu, as pointed out here, is that the principal character, Count Orlok—portrayed by the equally creepy-in-real-life Max Schrek—only blinks once in the entire movie.

Book Review The Raven

In this issue, we bring you a book review of that perennial classic, The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson. And may we just say, hats off to whoever designed the book cover for this edition.

by Ann Fields

If you research “best horror books of all time,” The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson will appear every time. For good reason! It’s scary. It’s disturbing. It’s creepy. It’s understated simplicity attacks on every level –emotional, physical, psychological. In short, it is a perfectly wicked horror story.

The tale opens with Eleanor leaving her family in the city to work as a summer research assistant at an estate in the country. It’s just the assignment Eleanor needs to restart her life after years of dedication to her ailing mother who recently died. Eleanor arrives at Hill House and is immediately afraid of its sinister façade. To quote, “Hill House is vile; it is diseased.” She almost turns her car around but finds the courage to shove fear aside and enter the house where soon, joined by other people who are also participating in the months-long study, she faces physical and psychological, natural and supernatural threats. How does Eleanor manage the threats? Not well.

The Haunting of Hill House falls under the

heading of haunted house horror. It can also be categorized as American Gothic horror because of its focus on a spooky old house – estate, really – deep, tragic secrets, and a dark atmosphere. Hill House, the main character in the story, comes complete with weird and unfriendly caretakers, cold spots and doors that won’t stay open, a history of death and loss, and isolation. Other features that fulfill both the haunted house and gothic sub-genre requirements

include a nearby village filled with people who are willing, albeit begrudgingly, to perpetuate the house’s legacy, and a cast of characters who possess their own interesting yet troubling backgrounds. There’s Eleanor, a sheltered city girl with unexplored psychic abilities, Theodora, a footloose and flighty artist with ESP tendencies, Dr. Montague, a professor eager to validate his work and by extension, himself, and Luke, heir to Hill House but best known as a liar and a thief, but according to Luke, “only when circumstances warrant it.”

The story itself is gripping and well planned. Disconcerting events unfold on every page and that, along with reports of the house’s disquieting past and present, ratchets the suspense to a heart-imploding level. I welcomed the slivers of gaiety and pure fun, such as that provided by the doctor’s wife who visits for a few days. The ending is fitting yet surprising . . . at least until you think about the buildup. Masterful!

It’s difficult—okay, impossible—to find weakness in the story (perhaps that’s why it’s been in print for 62 years) so I’ll just mention the writing style. Keep in mind the story was originally written in the 1950s. Just like culture morphs and changes over time so, too, does writing styles. Back in the fifties, the writing style leaned to excess and subtlety, a stark contrast to today’s writing style, which is crisp and obvious. The writing style of the fifties may be a distraction for some, but I enjoyed the step back. It added to the mystique and appeal of

the story.

Another warning: the series on Netflix, which is based on the book and carries the same title is not a play-by-play of the book. The only book-related items that make it into the video series are names of the characters, a quote at the beginning of the book, and an eerie house. The creators of the series took great liberties. What a shame!

The Haunting of Hill House is the perfect book to add to your Halloween (really, any time you’re craving a bone-chilling read) reading list. I highly recommend it but for this one, you’ll want to read with the lights on.

Speaking of Art

If you’re a fan of New Queer Cinema or a lover of independent horror films, then you know Curtis Harrington. If you’re not a devourer of either of these genres, then meet Curtis Harrington, Hollywood director, writer, cinematographer, and actor; a man whose works were heavily influenced by Edgar Allan Poe.

Harrington was born September 17, 1926, in Los Angeles, California, the perfect birthplace for anyone passionate about films. And that Harrington was, catching the film bug early, around the age of 14.

Like most students in America, Harrington read Edgar Allan Poe’s short story, “The Fall of the House of Usher” in an English Lit class. He fell in love with Poe’s atmospheric setting and flawed characters, which later in life Harrington would consider a not-sosubtle stand-in for society. Combining his passion for film and Poe, Harrington wrote his first screenplay, based on “The Fall of the House of Usher,” in high school. He shot the short film himself, using 8mm. When his family learned of his debut film, they were surprised, his mother in particular who tells of Harrington diving under his chair when watching his first horror film years before.

Harrington attended UCLA and majored in film studies. Upon graduation, he went to work as a film critic—much like Poe, whose

professional resume’ includes stints as a critic. (Visit issue two of The Raven for more on Poe’s professional career.) Harrington soon laid down his critic’s pen and turned back to his true love – filmmaking. After meeting and working with leading avant-garde film directors and writers, Kenneth Anger and Maya Deren, Harrington began creating experimental underground shorts. That work, in the ‘40s and ‘50s, earned him the title “Pioneer of New Queer Cinema.” His films focused on the gay, lesbian, transgender lifestyle and movement. Harrington’s talents and achievements caught the notice of famed Hollywood writer/producer Jerry Wald (Mildred Pierce, Key Largo, and many other classics). Hollywood beckoned and Harrington answered, signing on as a production assistant. The move effectively shifted his career from independent to major studio films, from low to blockbuster budgets, from working with unknown talents to working with marquee names - Cary Grant, Joan Crawford, Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, and more. Luckily for us, what did not shift was

Harrington’s love for horror. He continued to write in the genre he loved.

In the late ‘50s, Harrington pitched a screenplay, Night Tide to a young, influential actor, Dennis Hopper, who agreed to star in the film. Night Tide, inspired by Edgar Allan Poe’s poem, “Annabel Lee,” is about a man who falls in love with a woman who claims to be a mermaid. Previous boyfriends died under her spell. Would Hopper? In 1961, the movie was released and garnered widespread praise for its atmospheric setting and talented acting. The film’s success led to Harrington’s next move –director of major motion pictures.

In the ‘70s, Harrington directed two features for which he’ll be forever known, Whoever Slew Auntie Roo? (1972) and  What’s the Matter with Helen? (1971). The latter film is the one that snagged the attention of the Ghost Scribes and made us instant fans of Harrington. We still remember the tension that gripped us while watching Shelley Winters, the lead actress in the film, sink deeper and deeper into madness.

According to Harrington, “When it comes to fear, I usually go by instinct. know what will affect me, but I don’t have a formula. I avoid the cheap effect—adding a loud noise to the soundtrack that startles the audience, for example. I still think the Val Lewton approach is the best one, and that is the power of suggestion. What you don’t see is more unsettling than what you do see.”

In the ‘80s, Harrington decided to try his hand at television work. He made TV movies and shows, Charlie’s Angels and Dynasty to name a few. Though engaged in small screen productions, he continued to create short, mind-bending films, a collection of which is available at Watch The Curtis Harrington Short Film Collection Online | Vimeo On Demand on Vimeo. A standout among his later shorts is one titled Usher, which he wrote and shot in 2000. As you probably guessed, Usher is another tribute film to Poe’s “The Fall of the House of Usher,” and fittingly, it is the last film Harrington made.

In May 2007, Harrington died from complications of a stroke. Since then, industry players, artists, and film organizations have been involved in preserving Harrington’s independent works so that future generations may know and marvel at the talents of the man Time magazine called, “Poe with a megaphone.”

Sources:

Curtis Harrington - Biography - IMDb

Curtis Harrington | Drag City

Curtis Harrington - Obituary - Movies - The New York Times (nytimes.com)

Curtis Harrington - Wikipedia

The Surreal Films of Curtis Harrington | Unframed (lacma.org)

Poetry Corner

— Inspired by “Annabel Lee,” the last complete poem written by Edgar Allan Poe

It was too many years ago that he, Dishonorably discharged, introduced Himself to me. I ran a B and B Then: “Kingdom by the Sea” in Miami.

He claimed he’d shield me from the “Tyranny Of Ordinary.” I replied, “Can you Clean drains, fix pipes with a mortician’s care?”

“Winged seraphs,” he sighed, adding, “Sounds dreamy.”

He wasn’t in touch with reality, Describing my inn as a sepulcher. Since this is Florida, the morbid term Eluded tourists. Still. It rankled me.

His nihilism had reached the nth degree, Always contemplating mortality. A swell mechanic, sure, but his morose Mindset was only fit for poetry.

Then hurricanes uprooted my palm trees, Chilling and killing income by the sea, Chilling and killing my prized B and B. While sweeping up debris, we disagreed.

Storm winds rushed me into the sounding sea. How strange. He calls me bride, sees my bright eyes, Mourns by my sepulcher built near the sea. Famous, he’s published now by FSG.

Annabel Lee Breaks Her Silence by the Sea

Lady Madeline Usher’s Revenge

“We have put her living in the tomb!” – Poe, “The Fall of the House of Usher,” 1839

Poe’s story didn’t cover Roderick With glory, shoving me inside that crypt Alive though bored to death — shut up, my sole Companion him, doomed gloomy twin. How droll

To dream he’d benefit —sole ownership — As if our home, with that décor, was hip: Dark passages, frayed somber tapestries, Tarnished armorial mementoes. He’s A hoarder. Junk became his “rare antiques.”

Insipid arguments were his technique

For keeping me unmarried and distressed About his health, discouraging my guests, Manipulative, daring suicide Each time I saddled up my horse. A bride I might have been, a beauty in my youth.

Native New Yorker LindaAnn LoSchiavo, a Pushcart Prize, Rhysling Award, Best of the Net, and Dwarf Stars nominee, is a member of SFPA, The British Fantasy Society, and The Dramatists Guild. She won the Elgin Award for “A Route Obscure and Lonely,” a line from Edgar Allan Poe’s “Dream-Land.” Her latest poetry titles are “Concupiscent Consumption,” “Women Who Were Warned,” and “Messengers of the Macabre” which appear in her soon-to-bereleased book. Up next:  a tombstone-heavy collection in hardcover by Beacon Books.

To reach LindaAnn online: https://linktr.ee/LindaAnn.LoSchiavo

@Mae_Westside

LindaAnn Literary on YouTube

Poe and His Women, a video-poem written by LindaAnn LoSchiavo, narrated by Dylan Bagenais.

Rod got what he deserved and that’s the truth.

Messengers of the Macabre: Halloween Poems by SFPA poets LindaAnn LoSchiavo & David Davies: USA: Nat 1 LLC, October 22, 2022

Women Who Were Warned  [U.K.: Cerasus, June 2022]

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