Steve the Self Help Wiz!

This Week’s Prompt107. Wall paper cracks off in sinister shape—man dies of fright.

The Resulting Research:In The Walls

This story in part brought to you by our patrons on Pateron

Blog Day 1.

Hey busy bodies! It’s Steve the Self Help Wiz here again. Now I know I usually do outdoors stuff[1]

You don’t really know your house until your stuck in it. And I don’t mean “I have to wait for several hours for my plumber to arrive” stuck, I mean “if I leave the house the police will send me to jail where I’ll die[2]” stuck. Keeping a blog helps keep you sane, though, so I’ve started this little thing.

I figure while I’m stuck, I can get some housework done at least. I got the dishes done, dusted most of the living room, got the wobbly leg of the dinner table fixed. I really think that just having something to do, even if its small, can help keep the mind when your isolated. And video tutorials make great company when your unclogging your sink.

Turns out, hardware stores are essential retailers too. Which means I can get some new wallpaper for the upstairs rooms. They’d started to peel years ago, and to be honest I just never really used them. I was gonna look into an Airbnb or something like that, but well. Guess it’s time to get that whole thing fixed up.

I do think it’s time to fix this old sea-shell print with something a bit more…land locked. I’m thinking some seashells—especially to cover up some of the places that have peeled. I swear this one here looks like a skull, creeps[3] me out.

Bird of Pray 1

What kind of wallpaper do you guys use? Or is it just paint? Let me know in the comments!

 

Blog 2

Hey Self-Helpers! Your favorite DIY home guy is here. Managed to find what was causing the problem with that squeaky chair—got the screws tightened and everything is A-Okay. And I’ve unclogged the sink—turns out you shouldn’t use a plunger, who knew right? But I got all the old grease out of there, made things right as rain.

And speaking of, the rain today was something wasn’t it? Found a few leaks I’ll have to patch up. Hard to do that inside, of course, but I think I’ll manage. Laid some pots out, might boil the water it later—I think rain water’s still safe these days. Boiling should get rid of anything, a quick nuke in the microwave gets rid of most any problems[4].

Now, there was one more thing that came up today—and I’d like your guys help with it! So, you guys know I put up more wallpaper up in those rooms I was going to rent out—and thanks to everyone warning me about Airbnb’s practices, really, but now’s not the time. Anyway, the wallpaper’s peeling again—apparently the previous owners tried patching it up too, there’s some weird triangle pattern beneath the flowers that came off. Anyway, I’m going to try and get all the wallpaper off and layer over it. Any suggestions for what I should put up instead?

P.S. I swear it keeps making creepy stuff. Like, everyone else sees a spider or something like that right?

Bird of Pray 2

Blog Post 3

Hello Busy Bees! Thanks to everyone who let me know that spray can masks can act as effective face masks, in a pinch—I’ll link the modifications they need below[5]. You might still find some at Home Depot and Lowes—although act fast. Anything through the grapevines bound to dry up. Remember that anti-biotic stuff?

Anyway, to the main event. Yes, the wallpaper’s torn again—and thanks to the wonderful suggestion that I just make the photos into a gallery piece. I mean it that’s great. Positive thinking like that can get you through a lot, especially three weeks into something like this, when you can go a bit batty. Walks to the grocery store aren’t always enough, you know?

But you asked, so here it is!

Bird of Pray 3

And here’s the special surprise—yeah, the normal peeling point has moved. Here’s a close up.

Bird of Pray 4

So yeah, it’s spread out a bit—and the weird peelings are getting, yeah, a bit weirder. I mean, I’ve got to just be seeing things right? These don’t look like skulls, but as the helpful commentor JoeBeshi1990 pointed out, they do kinda look like skulls if your rotate them ninety degrees. Anyway, going to try some more heavy duty stuff.

And while I appreciate the concern for my health, I can’t really move right now can I? Already having trouble keeping my routine going,  what with the party across the street. And no, I can’t “call a priest”. I did look into it, but even the Hospitals are down priests lately. Something about health hazards, but that’s just the news lately?

Anyway, that’s today’s news. Let me know  if you have any other tips and tricks for your fellow DIY enthusiast out there!

Post 4

Hey DIY fans! We’ve been inside for over two months now, so I’ve got some more ways to fix that furniture you might have knocked over. And here[6] you have some of my advice on how to properly repair the glasses you might have also knocked over, especially if the local store has run out of replacements[7].

So I think we can rule out structural problems here, I think. It is probably a mold in retrospect. Spreads like mold. So we’re going to try  tearing back what’s left, then peeling back the dry wall to see if there’s something growing in there that we can dis-infect. It’s going to be loud but theirs been worse. See my prior post about sound proofing your bedroom, that can help keep that sort of things quieter, especially moving things around in relatively interior spaces.

And for the ghouls[8] out there, yes there are new pictures. Here you go:

Bird of Pray 3

This one’s really weird. Seems…fractally?

Bird of Pray 5

Now again, I want to stress this—I cannot leave the house except for Lowes and getting groceries without getting in trouble with the police[9]. That means no, I can’t go to some empath or buy some crystals. I’ve looked online, but for now shipping across state lines isn’t easy, and its pretty expensive to buy these crystals. Moneys tight with only your generous donations to patreonand some small ad revenue—and, yeah, emergency fees but that’s not going to cover weird New Age stuff.

Bird of Pray 1

If anyone has DIY solutions for stuff like healing crystals, let me know! I heard it’s pretty easy to grow crystals and if you can buy the supplies from an essential retail office, then I’m game! Comment below!

5

I’ve just boarded up the entire upstairs. It’s gotten too much. I’ll get it fumigated or whatever when this blows over. I drew some of those drawings as straight as I could—great use for a standard compass by the way, along with a straight edge and a ruler. Don’t know if I got all the words right, but hey, if it keeps it upstairs, all the better. There isn’t much wall paper downstairs—I was going to put new wallpaper in but this fiasco’s kept me occupied. Honestly, probably better that I didn’t right? At this rate, who knows what will happen.

Bird of Pray 1

Now, DIY fans, I’m going to get to work on that old shed I promised. Here[10]’s some old pictures I have of the interior, but tomorrow I’m going to check in and see if it’s changed much recently.

Bird of Pray 4

 

[1] Steve’s prior entries include one on the construction of a porch, and various types of chairs, predominantly red.

[2] Jails and other confined places were common vectors of diseases at the time, resulting in an increased frequency of cases there.

[3] A curious bird, sometimes called the yo-yo bird reported in a few mountain areas, particuarly in the Rockies. The awal is said to grip its prey, and fly high into the air. Unlike most birds, however, it does not tear into its food. Rather, it drops the morsel from a great height and dives after it. The awal bird does this many times, until the poor mouse—or larger creature—suffers a heart attack and dies. Then, the awal bird feasts on the perfectly preserved remains. Stories suggest that a larger bird, or that flocks of them, will seize small children for meals.

[4] Viral infections, and the common housefly, are actually too small to meaningfully be affected by microwave ovens. Microwaving one’s mail or water will kill some bacterial infections, but not much else. Paper however can carry the infection for several hours unless properly observed.

[5] Link no longer available.

[6] Link no longer available

[7] Glass shortages are a commonly under-reported sign of social unrest, but not entirely unheard of.

[8] A ghouls is a creature of Arabic folklore, known for lurking in graveyards. The star Algol is named after a ghoul, and was thought to presage a vast and terrible battles, or other calamities, as the star ‘feasted’ on the dead.

[9] No outstanding warrants for Steve the Self Help Wiz have been located by our staff. Investigations are ongoing however.

[10] The first printing of  Moldovi’s Ancient and Classic Stories: Tall Tales and Exciting Adventures from Around the Globe contained a number of misprints and factual errors or outright forgeries. After some considerations, and much conversation, a number of pieces have been removed. Major alterations include: The Awal Bird* illustration, misprinted in one in three instances; the Jala dog*, which was determined to be a derogatory tale from local Spanish authorities and having no real basis in tales of the area; the Womi-tali*, a combination of nonsense syllables that again, appears to be an English invention of little providence; the illustration of Typhon, misprinted in one in four cases; an instance of the Grootslang* misprinted in one in five cases; the picture of the Faerie Queen, misprinted in six out of ten cases; the story of the Wandering Sword, rewritten after a second translation; and lastly the image of the dying Medusa, misprinted in one of five[10]*. In cases where originals could be found, they were printed. In cases where they could not be located, sadly, omissions had to be made. These are marked with a * above.

Nightrider

This Week’s Prompt:106. A thing that sat on a sleeper’s chest. Gone in morning, but something left behind.

The Prior Research:Terrors in the Night

This story in part brought to you by our patrons on Pateron

Regina was having the worst day in a long time. She was running on fumes, caffeine replacing at least six to eight hours of sleep. The tram was packed, people chatting and buzzing about. She slowly blinked as the doors opened and the wave of people exiting collided with the people trying to enter. There was shuffling as someone tried to push a wheel chair through.

There. A seat. Regina moved quickly, sitting down against the window before anyone else had a chance. It was only two more stops, but having a seat was worth a few angry grumbles and curses from passers by when they realized they missed their chance. With a chime, the tram began underway, trudging along.

One of the seats across from her opened up—she noticed when the kid and his dad got up for the next stop. Somehow, no one caught it until the next crowd pushed in. Regina wouldn’t have cared—more annoying chatter. And, oh, this one had an unhappy baby. Wonderful.

What did catch her attention was when someone took the seat. And started looking…at her? Some guy in a business suit, tie askew, hair starting to gray. Scuffed up shoes too. It took a moment to register if he was looking at her, or if he was looking out the window. But now. He was…leering at her.

The tram’s chipper automated voice called out her stop and she pushed her way out, glaring at the asshole. Later, Regina wasn’t entirely sure if she flipped him off or really wanted to flip him off. But whatever. She got home, almost an hour past sundown, and had some ramen, and collapsed on the bed after making sure the windows were closed. It was  humid and cold, and Regina barely noticed the fading handprint on the window.

*

“It was how big?” Carol asked. Regina held up her finger—and pointed at the approximate length of the glass shard that had cut her cheek when she woke up.

“No idea how it got there.” Regina muttered as she prepped the first batch of coffee for the day. “But yeah, not a great gash. Tossed it—don’t even remember breaking that bowl.”

PillowNightrider

“How do you forget shattering a bowl? Like, I know your house always looks like a hurricane hit but still.”

“It didn’t shatter—just like, chipped? That’s what its called right?” Regina muttered tapping the edge of the coffee pot. “Just a bit.”

“Yeah, but how did it—You know what, who knows.” Carol said, waving it off as the doors opened, and the first few customers drifted in. “Probably just weird.”

*

The day was exhausting. Her back hurt the entire time, she’d managed to pull something in her sleep apparently, and she felt her mind drifting out the back of her skull half the time. Coffee shop to call center, Regina felt herself wilting away. She barely had energy to eat when she got home. And then she tried to sleep.

There was something about her bed. Something that made her hands shake when she peeled back the covers. Suddenly alert, Regina searched her pillows for any other random bits that might have gotten there—she checked her jacket that she had tossed on it when she got home, she checked her shirt for any thistles or needles or pins. Nothing. She breathed in and out, and lied down to sleep.

*

There was something on her chest—something heavy as she struggled to open her eyes. As sunlight started to shine down from the window above her bed, she felt it shifting. Something heavy, her arms and legs numb. It was moving, it’s legs pushing beneath her ribs. She could barely breath, even as she felt something sharp.

It was stabbing in, stinging pain spreading up her side. Her hands were shaking as the warmth of the sun spread up her feet, up her legs, and slowly up her chest and hands. The weight and the pain faded, and Regina opened her eyes. For a moment she caught sight of a great shape, a leering grin of smoke vanishing into the night. She felt at the pain—nothing but a bruise. It as numb to touch at first, felt like hundreds of pin pricks when she tried to move.

And then she found it—a thumb tack, sitting there, point up. If she’d rolled the other way out of bed, it’ would have stabbed her.

Thumbtacks

*

It was a really ordinary thing, the mystery tack. Top was a bit rusted, and she knew she’d checked for this sort of thing before she went to bed. And that thing—that grinning lumbering thing in her bed. It was like a dog with people’s teeth.

“I—you know, I think I’ve heard of that.” Carol said, looking at the tack. “Yeah. Mom said Aunt Morgan had some trouble with that sort of thing, I think.”

“Oh yeah? What fixed it? Should I eat garlic before bed or something?” Regina asked, clicking the coffee machine on, as the loud grinding of beans began.

“Hey, that got rid of the cold, didn’t it?”

“Okay, fair enough, it did.” Regina sighed, rubbing her temple. “Sorry, no sleep sets me on edge. Did she say what it was?”

“Well…yeah. I mean. Aunt Morgan thought she was being cursed or haunted or something like that.” Carol said, scratching the back of her head. “I can probably give her a call for some remedies or something.”

“Cursed?”

“Yeah, or haunted, or something.” Carol said slowly, drawing out each word. “You know. Someone didn’t like her, sicced some sort angry cat ghost on her, nearly killed her, so she got some stuff together to—”

“Wait what? Nearly killed her? Go back, go back.” Regina said blinking. “I mean, a bruise and a small cut aren’t great but killed her?”

“I mean, Mom made it sound like she got stuffed full of stuff and couldn’t breathe.” Carol said, eyes locked on the sweets that were being put out. “I’m sure it’s you know. Something more like a panic attack or something.”

*

Regina still didn’t trust the…stuff Carol had brought over. Her mom swore by it though. One was…one of those dream catchers she’d had as a kid, over the door. Which she was pretty sure didn’t work like that? Then a fishing net to cover the curtains.  Some water to help her sleep, and at last some salt.

“Salt? Really? How is that supposed to help?” Regina asked, looking at the small jar.

“Ghosts don’t like salt. Neither do curses and other stuff, you know. C’mon, even TV gets that right.”

“…alright, so I just scatter the salt, and then it won’t get close.” Regina asked, frowning. “Assuming it gets through the nets and stuff.”

“Well, not quite. You’ve got to push the jar over it.” Carol said, shaking the salt. “Um. Well. Mom said you’ll wake up, and see it. And you’ve got to push the jar over it, then close it. Should trap the thing.”

“What’s going to wake me up?”

“She didn’t say, just you would.”

Regina sighed as she lay down in her bed to sleep. She’d scattered the salt all over the room, and the nets were all up. And so, nervously, she fell asleep.

*

She vaguely heard something snap in the darkness—but returned to sleep, too dream-addled to care. Regina woke again, a bit later, when she heard something like tearing cloth napkins. She’d always hated that sound.

It sounded like someone choking on their own phlegm. She woke up to the gurgling howling noise, and saw it there in the moonlight. Net torn around it’s shoulders, bubbling like a slug in the salt. It was slimey, mold thing, like rice vomited up. It saw her. It howled and stumbled towards the bed. She saw the flash of a knife in it’s hand.

She grabbed the jar and pulled herself up. The knife missed her wrist, barely, as she forced the jar on its head. It howled, but slid in, pulled itself in. Bits of it got on the edge of the jar, even as Regina forced it to the floor. Squirming green-black bits that a bit of salt burned off.

She put it on the shelf, after sealing the jar with the lid—there was something written on the underside of the lid, Regina didn’t know what. She put it on the shelf and stared at it in the dark. It squirmed, small and hateful. Yellowed eyes now blood shot stared back at her from the mass of rot.

Eyes in the Jar

She left it in the closet, and tried to forget that she’d ever seen it. Still there, every night, leering from behind the glass.



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St. Andrew’s Day

This Week’s Prompt: 105. Vampire visits man in ancestral abode—is his own father.

The Prior Research:Romanian Vampires

This story in part brought to you by our patrons on Pateron

Robert Dellsworth nearly dozing when he heard the knocking at his door. A man of his middling thirties, overworked from his office in town, he was slow to answer. Donning whatever clothes were nearby, at three in the morning, he finally made his way to the door. The infernal knocking door.

“Coming, coming! What in God’s name—” Robert began, before the sight cut through his thoughts. His father stood at the doorstep, for the first time in twenty-three years. There was silence on the November air.

“Can I come in?” Geoffrey Dellsworth said softly. In a daze, Robert stepped aside, gesturing for the man to come in. The wind whipped behind him, closing the door.

“I’m sorry, but you…you resemble an old relation of mine. But that can’t be. Please, why are you waking me up at such a late hour?” Robert said, the fire in the chimney crackling to life as his father knelt near it.

“It is no mere resemblance, Rob.” The man said, sighing as he stood and looked around the old Dellsworth entrance. “You removed my portrait.”

“Again, that can’t be. I know, certainly, that you can’t be him.” Robert said, his voice shaking. “He is long dead—or best be. When my mother died, he was no where to be seen, and never once did I hear of his inheritance or advice for two thirds my life. It would be nonsense to come back now. No, no, please sir, do not maintain this charade.”

“Hm. You seem unwell. Perhaps we should sit, and discuss this over tea?” Geoffrey said, walking into the kitchen. “You know my favorite I hope?”

TeaKettleBoiling

The whistle of the tea kettle did little to the silence. Robert studied the man, his father. He had grown a longer beard, but his face was the same—as if wandering free from a dream. His eyes the same warm brown hue, details he’d forgotten but seemed to fit. A small scar on his cheek. A spot above his eyebrow.

“You can’t be him. But if you are Geoffrey Dellsworth, why are you here? Why now? Why not ten years ago? Twenty?” Robert said, voice straining. “Do you know what happened when you left? The rumors that went round me and mother? What it did to her?”

“It was better than staying around long.” Geoffrey said, another flicker of wind striking the ground, scattering dust. “It was better, I had hoped, for you for me to be gone some. I hope you have not made things too good for yourself.”

“Too good? Oh don’t worry about that now. Not now.” Robert hissed. “I’ve made things plenty good without you. I had to leave town for studies, I had to work long hours and burn what little inheritance I had. But I’ve made things plenty good.”

“Have you now?” Geoffrey asked with raised eyebrow.

“Go around and ask someone else at three in the morning what the Dellsworth name is!” Robert said standing. “Go and ask any of the business men I financed, the charities I’ve run, the poet’s I’ve given patronage, the people I’ve fought for in court. Go and ask them if it’s the specter of your sordid past that looms over this house! I’ve fought for that, making things too good for me!”

Geoffrey was silent. His ears seemed to prick up, and a slow sigh escaped his lips.

“So. Why. Why now?” Robert said, slumping back in the chair. “What do you want? Money? A place to hide from some new family you’ve made overseas? What?”

“No, Robert, nothing like that.” Geoffrey said, shaking his head. “No, no. I’ve come for you. For your own sake.”

“Oh that’s—”

“You’ve said your piece. Now I will say mine.” Geoffrey cut in. “I wish I could say I regret leaving your mother all those years ago. But I knew it wouldn’t be for the best. I am…not an easy man to get along with, even in the best of cases. That isn’t why though.”

A wind blew again…but this time, something flicked up by his father’s side. It was a strange shape, but gone in an instant.

Demeneted Wolf Skull

“No, no that isn’t why.” Geoffrey repeated, clicking his tongue against teeth—teeth that looked all the sharper. “My long shadow is more than a shadow Robert—It’s true, what they said. I killed my wife in Ellingston. And my daughter, and my son, and my brother, and my cousin, and my niece, and my nephew. And I knew, if I stayed too long, I might do the same to you.”

“…Is that…” Robert stood and pointed at the shape, gone in a moment. Geoffrey’s back seemed hunched, his head longer and his teeth like needles for a moment—and then it was gone.

“So I left, without warning, hoping to spare you that fate. But I knew as well that one day I would have to come back. You’ve got the same blood. That is how it is with us.  We live our lives, as best we can. But the old blood, the hungry blood, it wakes up eventually. If we are lucky, like I was, it wakes when we die. But not always. It wakes, it feeds, it sleeps, it wakes. And it will wake in you.”

“…You’re a vampire.” Robert said, staring at Geoffery. “Is that it? You left because…what, because you thought you’d attack my mother? Attack me?”

“I left because I knew I would. I could feel it. Growing, more and more demanding. You’ll get used to it, you’ll learn to keep it under control and leave when you must.” Geoffery said, nodding. “That’s why I came back. You need to leave, soon. Walk the world. Learn how to handle yourself. I had hoped…but I hear others breathing here.”

Robert’s face went pale and his blood became ice. His wife and two children were upstairs—they were heavy sleepers, as was he usually. But the last few nights he had trouble sleeping, waking often and early.

“You’ll hurt them if you stay.” Geoffrey said calmly. “Worse than I could hurt you—you’ll kill them if you stay. For their sake, Rob, you should leave.”

“There’s got to be another way to…even if what you say is true, there’s another way to deal with this than running off, ruining everything I’ve had. I’ve already done better than you once, I’ll fix this mess to.” Robert said, voice shaking.

“You can try.” Geoffrey said standing. “You can fight, you can struggle—but you’ll only make it worse. Wolves must feed on sheep—and that is what you and I are, Rob. Wolves and worse. It hasn’t come yet—I can see in your eyes, its still sleeping. It’s there, the old blood never fails. Never has.”

Stone Coffins

“You think-you think you can just come in here and tell me what I’ll be? Get out of my house!” Robert said standing up. “Get you and your so-called advice out of my house! I have worked to hard and long to scrub your stain out of the family name to believe this, any of this!”

Geoffrey nodded and stood, adjusting his coat slightly.

“Well. It will come soon. And when it does, I will be waiting in Ellington. We can drink to ease the pain.” He said, with a toothy grin. “Enjoy your fight—every inch of ground you’ll end up giving. Every twitch, every glance, every drop of blood. It’ll be worth it, I’m sure.”

Without a word, he vanished like dissipating mist.

Robert was alone again. Shaking to pour a cup of tea—a bit splashed onto his hand. He hissed and impulsively brought it to his mouth. Had his teeth always been that sharp?



This story took a number of revisions to get right, both in character and in structure. It ended up getting into some potentially heavy subjects—but that seems to be the nature of horror stories about family and folklore. I’m fond of it and unlike most of my stories I don’t think it needs much expansion—refinement, rewording, and so on but no really extra scenes or the like.

Next week, we’ll be returning to the classic night terror, and discussing why you can’t sleep at night! See you then!

I’d be remiss not to mention that we discussed the fate of a very different vampire—a blood drinking dragon who could appear as a man—here on my Patreon, for 5 dollar patrons. You can get monthly research and stories, for five or one dollar each starting today!

 

 

The Flood

This Week’s Prompt: 104. Old sea tavern now far inland from made land. Strange occurrences—sound of lapping of waves. [“Vacancy at the Fenrick Inn” by F. Omar Telan]

The Prior Research:Dutch Tales About the Sea

This story brought to you by our patrons on Patreon.

The light house of the Shellburg family was the only famous thing they still had to their name. Old sea charms still hung from the poor family home, occasionally jostled by the playing children. Joseph and his brother, Maurice, remembered the jade statues from China, the gold from the New World, and ivory chess pieces from India. But then they killed the sea.

The children of the town often wonder at the lighthouse now, miles and miles away from and jutting out of  a church, a looming steeple. No light shines from it anymore, but a dolling sound is heard every hour, ringing from its sturdy foundations. They don’t rember that the rocking outcroppings they play on were once buried beneath the ocean waves, who’s shore washed over their school. When their older they learn such fanciful things, when the world feels more certain.

And when the sea died, the sailors moved with it. For the most part, they went with the tide, towards new docks and ports, where their trade was still of worth. But Captain Shellburg was growing old for the sea, and the work of a farm seemed to his liking. When the new land was laid, he set up home around the lighthouse his brother manned, and bought land from the Livington family.

Lighthouse1

Joseph Shellburg cursed his grandfather’s memory. For the Captain, as he was known among the family, knew little of land and was perhaps swept up in romantic memory. He bought land worth little, marshy land on which little grew. Nothing of worth, the Livingtons boasted in the bars, ever came from Shellburg soil.

And so fortunes dwindled, portion by portion. At last, they had to sell the land, retreating up into the great lighthouse that now looked over farmland for miles around. Joseph had protested the last indignity by the Livington family, who had asked that the house be scrapped. It was an unsightly thing, they said, and served no real purpose. The new church needed a steeple, they said, and there was plenty of stone to be found in the old light house.

It was the priest, Edward, who suggested otherwise.

“We perhaps do not need a new tower—rather, could we use the lighthouse itself? Build round it. It has such a lovely few of the town.” Father Edward said, his constantly shaking hands stroking his chin. “And of course, we are called to be fishers of men. The tower once lead ships to shore, perhaps its bell will call souls to salvation.”

Joseph was thankful, especially when he secured work for his son as the bell-ringer—he himself had found employment with the little food that did grow on the land. Still, he loathed that bell as it woke him from his recollections every hour. An ultimate charity, yes, but a reminder of what had been lost with the sea.

The bell tolled five times, as Joseph looked up from the field. The sun was still high in the sky. But he had worked the agreed amount, and collected his share from Coreman. The Coreman’s farms were not the best off, but Joseph would rather work to aid a poor man than beg for scraps from the Livingtons. He already had to see them at the inn, he would loath to see them during the day.

At Roger Coreman’s request, Joseph brought in some water from the well for the evening. And it was then, while walking to the well and the tree, that Joseph saw something strange. A gull circled over head, landing on the top of the well and squawking.

Seagull

“Run along, little bird.” Joseph said, tossing a stick at the gull. “There is no sea here, no fish for you.”

The gull fluttered away but stayed a moment longer, squawking defiantly. Joseph threw a stone to frighten the creature off. It would starve, Joseph thought, among the farms so far from the shore.

He lowered the bucket down into the well, deep into the fresh water. After a moment he raised it back up—and the rope shook violently. Staring down, Joseph saw…a shape in the water dark, moving and shaking the bucket. He frowned as the bucket came up—and found a squirming scaly fish within. Carefully, Joseph removed the fish.

“Ah, did he drop you in here? What a strange present from an old gull.” Joseph said, frowning. “But you need not suffer like me. Let me set you back, into your little sea.”

And he gently lowered the bucket back down. When he came up again, the water was clear and clean as it ever was.  He brought it back to Coreman, who thanked him and paid a little extra for the small favor.

Joseph set back towards the town center now, ragged and worn. He met Maurice at the entrance, as a toll rang out from the old light house. His younger brother was wideshoulder and prone to smiles—and had found an old sight in the town. A black cat, purring as he scratched beneath its chin.

“Ah, they’ll be calling us witches again if you do that.” Joseph said shaking his head.

“Oh, but look at the poor thing.” Maurice said, reaching behind the ears. “Remember, when there were dozens of these?”

“Yeah, two for a ship, catching rats and the like.” Joseph said, admiring the cat, it’s white star chest born proudly. “But people talk.”

“Let them talk.” Maurice said, waving his hand. “There isn’t any witchcraft in cats, no more than there was in our knots and charms from the ships, nor in the old driftwood we played with.”

Joseph nodded. The Livingtons liked cats—everyone in town liked cats. But black cats brought storms, and witches. Joseph had a hid a few wild ones as a child, but they all eventually vanished.

“Fair, fair. Keep it out of sight, I’m hitting the old Mermaid.” Joseph said, waving him off and holding up his extra pay. “Enough to make the place tolerable.”

“I’ll catch up.” Maurice said, the cat having settled and curled up on the barrel.

The old Mermaid had once been a rickety wooden tavern, but in the generations since the Captain, stone had been laid around it’s foundations. It was an impressive building now, pillars on the front, a carving of a twin-tailed mermaid atop the entrance. The lights inside were still warm, and the bartender still fond of the Shellburg family. Inside, it hadn’t changed at all. The tables were the same, some cracked and wobbly. The booths at the edge were new, but little else.

Joseph even heard the tide sometimes, sitting with his drink. A dull rumbling, sloshing sound beneath the floorboards. He took a drink and sighed, waiting for Maurice to come back. No doubt smuggling in the black cat.

He blinked at the taste of the beer, staring down at the cup. The taste of seaweed in it. And a salt-smelling wind battered on the doors and windows. As the bell tolled, he even heard…a dull roar. Foam rose from the cracks for a moment, a fog out of the floorboards.

FloodWaters

Joseph stood up, as the room seemed to rock. A roar grew outside. Louder and louder. He reached the door, the ground sinking beneath his feet. His shoe nearly stuck in the new muddy stone. The sound, the dreadful sound—there it was. Growing from the North, like a roused lion. Transfixed, he barely noticed Maurice pulling his jacket back, black cat around his back.

“Flood!” Maurice shouted, as he ran, to drunken patrons and confused  passersby. “Flood! Get to high ground!”

“Flood?” One of the Livingtons said, and laughed. “Don’t you know, boy—the sea is dead!”

Maurice was frantic in pulling his dullard older brother up and up to their only home, the tolling light house. He shouted and railed, but none would believe him that a flood was coming. Even as seagulls circled and settled atop the roofs. Even as the ground heaved and sank and slipped. Even as the darkness of night settled over the land, only the rounding bell to guide them up.

The sea roared to life, swallowing field and home, waves crashing over roofs—only the lighthouse remained.



This story is one of my favorites, even if I think it’s half finished. I think at the moment, its a bit too slow and not quite odd enough–the tension doesn’t build appropriately, and the ending is a bit sudden. But it has more promise than most! Next time, a return to a common topic of our research–the hungry dead!

The Dark Room

This Week’s Prompt:  103. Sealed room—or at least no lamp allowed there. Shadow on wall.

The Prior Research:A Lightless Room At Night

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4/20/2017

First day in the new apartment. Man, moving in never really get’s easier—but this should be the last time for a while. It’s a nice spot—I can walk to Uni. but I’m not being priced out too badly. Seems like most people around here have been here for a while. Met the landlord and my roommate—I think it was the landlord anyway. Same last name as on the ad, but he looked a little out of it. Excited to get everything done, but kinda zoned out.

Jim’s nice though. He’s working on some sort of photography masters or something, so he’s got some darkroom set up. Which makes the place a bit more cramped, but its not like I need more than a bed and bathroom at this point anyway. The photos look good though, and he’s been in some gallery’s nearby or something.

So, landed on my feet, got a decent gig starting tomorrow, things are looking up all in all.

The Dark Room

5/07/2017

God my knees are killing me. Three flights, without a working elevator, isn’t too bad but it hits hard after walking a mile a day. I’m sure it’ll level out though, build some strong leg muscles or something. Builds character, right?

Guy at the bagel place knows my name and preference now though, which is…well, a bit nice and a bit awkward. Will make it hard to change things up I think, but hey, its nice to have a somewhat friendly face outside the house. Work’s been a bit of a pain, to be honest, but data entry’s never exciting. I think I’m developing a hunch and staring at a screen all day isn’t helping me get sleep. Eye strains real I guess.

Oh yeah, there was some sort of…rally thing on campus today. Wasn’t clear about what, kinda focused on getting home and it was late, but there was someone taking signatures and stuff outside for volunteer work.  Kinda weird, I’d think college kids had less time than most to volunteer. God knows I didn’t have time to go door to door, but maybe the internet’s made that faster too.

5/13/2017

So I don’t know how to say this. But I think there’s something…weird about this apartment. I was walking home, a bit buzzed, but like. Attentive buzzed. And I think—okay, I did the layout of the apartment, and who has a darkroom facing the outside? That seems…weird. But okay, focus. So I’m walking home, checking every now and then because I’m sure there’s a coyote somewhere around here. And I see—the windows open to the darkroom—there’s a bit of red light peeking out from the curtains. Bright red light, in the middle of the night? Yeah, that got my attention. So I’m squinting at this weird red spot, and I swear something tugged the curtain.

And at first, okay, at first I was like you know what? Maybe there’s some secret to like. Fresh air helping photo’s develop. I don’t know, there’s all sorts of weird stuff in arts schools. Like once people made paint out of mummies—there were enough mummies you had a whole color made out of ground up mummy. I shrugged it off, even if it bugged me for a bit. But then I got up here.

And I had this thought. I’ll go see if Jim can tell me about how fresh air helps photos. He’s smart. And he’s kinda into talking about how photos work, what this and that thing does. I mean, I think he is. So I stumble up three flights of stairs, walk into the room—and its all dark. Whole house has it’s lights off. And I figure, maybe he needs it extra dark.

I knock on the door, and nothing. Nothing from the dark room, except a dim red light on the bottom. Which I shrug off and go back to slump down. But then I start thinking…And I start writing this. What is going on in there? I don’t know maybe it’s just like. A bird got stuck in there or something. But that doesn’t seem right. There aren’t owls here… Maybe a rat or something.

Keep having weird dreams of like…cattle being melted into guts and sausages. Somethings in the house, I think. Must be a rat, there’s this weird clicking tick sound in the walls, keeps waking me up.

Apartment Windows Exterior At Night

5/15/2017

Okay, I finally finally got a hold of Jim about the window thing. Finally. He said that yeah, the curtain gets caught on stuff sometimes, and that was it! That was all he’d say about it, nothing to worry about, but he was developing photos there tonight so fuck off basically. Such a headache.

And if that wasn’t enough, I passed another busted up building today. Cop cars and an ambulance outside. Don’t know if someone shot up the place or what, the glass door was shot up though. I don’t usually see cops that spooked either, and the guys in the ambulance were bringing out some buckets. I don’t think it has anything to do with the curtain, probably. I mean, the window was open when I got home. The curtains were shut tight though. I don’t know. I’m probably over thinking—I mean, nothing really going wrong in that room. Just some twitching curtains and ominous red light—which I think is normal? They have red lights there in the movies all the time.

5/20/2017

I know I’m supposed to be keeping this daily now. It helps keep things focused, right? Like a long anchor, or a memory back up or something. But I’ve been so tired lately, just utterly worn out. There was a weird noise Tuesday, kept waking me up. Not all the way up, but enough to just sort shamble around, meant I got like no sleep Wednesday. Someone’s doing some piping or something, it was this weird sucking sound. Like a drain or a garbage disposal left on. Maybe someone’s making some shitty new electronica or something, I don’t know.

I went into the kitchen, and there wasn’t anything. Then I thought I saw a big spider or something hanging from the ceiling…but that was just the fan. Still. Couldn’t sleep, kept thinking of giant spiders. And course finding a door back lit by red is comforting when your half way to dream land already.

Although I’m pretty sure the cats and coyotes would have gotten one by now. Last two days I’ve seen like…a dozen stray cats. They gave me the stink eye. I mean. More than cats normally do.

Haven’t seen those volunteer folks around uni lately…wonder what happened to them. I chatted with one of the kids that signed up—he said they wanted like, a full time jobs worth. Can’t afford that sort of volunteer work these days. Sounds exhausting, and with my sleep problems, can’t lose any rest.

Red Room Door 2

5/19/2017

Something lives in the room. I saw it. I saw it’s shadow on the curtain walking home. It was raining heavy and hard today, but there was a lighting bolt. A big flash—and I saw it. I saw it, just swaying there. I locked the door to write this. What else is Jim hiding in there? Why do the cats keep staring at me, watching me, all of them are watching me when I walk down the street I can feel it.

I’ve got to see what’s in there, right? I’ve got to see what—it had big wings. Big wings, like that spanned the window, but a fat body I think. Like some sort of owl bat thing. I’ve got to get out of here, I’ve got to get out of here.

6/11/2017

It found me. I woke up and I couldn’t move all night—and that thing…it only comes out at night. I can’t get a good look—big wings, and a long tongue. It stays in the dark, flicking it’s tongue on my chest or down my throat. When I had energy, I’d grab that fucking tongue, but it’s like it’s made of needles, its worse than a fucking cat.

I’ve tried running away during the day, I’ve tried, but my legs don’t seem to move right. Well, that’s not right. I’m so tired. I’m so tired, I forget it’s there. I just slump home and fall into bed. Sometimes I forget to eat. Jim doesn’t believe me when I remember to tell him—bastard’s probably in with it. He’s making dinner now, he makes most of the food now. I can barely sit up right and write.

I think it’s watching me in the corner. I think I saw the apartment listed again. God.

I’m going to die here.



I like this story. The idea of a dark room, as in one to develop photographs, seemed like an easier approach than the thunder storm. I struggled with how to end it, and I hope it’s not too sudden. If I was going to change anything, I’d try to play in the weirdness of the goings on around town more instead of just offhand messages.

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The Last Will

This Week’s Prompt: 102. Corpse in room performs some act—prompted by discussion in its presence. Tears up or hides will, etc.

The Prior Research:The Testimony of the Dead

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The first two cars arrived for the reading of Mr. Melane’s will at eight o’clock am. The last of the four cars arrived at half past eight. I was obliged, by prior arrangement, to wait until all six surviving members had all the gathered to read the will in full.

“Can’t you just…you know, skip to what’s mine and get it over with?” Mr. Melane’s son, Arthur Melane, said, peaking over the podium.

“I’m afraid not.” I said, shaking my head. I had taken the liberty of reading Mr. Melane’s will ahead of time—at his request, a number of things had been prepared. A pile of envelopes, labeled for each item on the will or collection of items. His own cascket, which lay next to me, his’ feet towards the audience. And a list of photos with names, in case I got confused.

“I just don’t see why we have to wait—listen she’s always late, no need for the rest of us to wait along for her nonse—” Arthur said, his cousin Shelia squirming in her seat a little. And then the eponymous she arrived, Katrina Melane. Not the same hair style as the photo, but the same color and face. And her associate, Mr. Leonard Alphonse. I was fairly certain that Alphonse was a first name, but who am I to ask.

There was grumbling as they sat. The wife of the deceased, Georgia Melane, and the last of the relations Jordy Melane, had stayed silent and upright the entire time. Patient and somewhat cold gazes.

As they took there seats in the chapel. I started to read the will.

Chapel Exterior 1.png

“Dear my remaining family and friends. As you know, during my life I devoted myself to true and honest virtues. A portion of my estate has been set aside already for the furthering of knowledge and understanding among mankind, in the form of donations and contributions to scientific research across Windgift proper—”

There was another small set of grumbles.

“However, I have not forgotten the most timeless and nurturing bonds of kinship—”

There was a suppressed cough, I believe from Katrina.

“And as such have appropriated the remainder of my estate for my relations, with a caveat. As a believer in the value of merit first and foremost, and of the importance of great deeds, I have allocated these to the most worthy—those who have achieved things that are in needing of such reparations. My executor has been given all the evidence I have for my suppositions of who preformed these deeds—however, he has been asked to not hand over the property until the perpetrators stand forward for their own actions.”

More shifting. I peered over them, and steeled my heart.

“A sum of two hundred and fifty thousand pounds was, over the course of three years, misplaced from the family funds. In particular, a considerable amount of scholarship money set aside for Katrina’s art classes and collegiate studies went missing. At the time of its disappearance, I was greatly ill and not able to correct the imbalance. I am sure you all suspect as much. Whoever, however, removed the funds and confesses as such—to you I bequeath the estate on the moor, which I am sure you are all familiar with. The one with the lovely grove of trees.”

“I knew it.” Katrina muttered, frowning. “I knew someone was making off with—oh just give it to mother dearest. I’m sure she knows where it’s all scattered.”

“I didn’t touch those funds and you know it.” Geogria said, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

“It isn’t mother’s fault you drank away half your fund.” Jordy cut in, leaning to look at Katrina.

“Do you think I failed my math classes?” Katrina growled, her hands balling into fists. Mr. Alphonese rested his hand on her shoulder.

“A grudge that long ago isn’t worth a house, Kat…” Sophia muttered. “Just fess up and take it.”

“No, no its fine. If she’s so insistent to throw away her father’s last gift, than its fine. Yes, I misplaced the fund. It wasn’t like it was doing much good at university anyway.” Georgia said. I tapped the envelop with the peach grove on it, and cut it open, pouring out the first letter, and nodded slightly.

“Very well. Onto the second matter. As some of you are aware, as my health declined, my esteemed wife Georgia became close to a man by the name Ludwig Birding. Mr. Birding was a charming man, by all accounts, and quite the successful businessman. His import and export operations were growing rather well, and my accountant Roger suggests they will be valued at over a million pounds or more within the year. “

Georgia sharply inhaled. Katrina looked to the aside. Sophia muttered something to Arthur.

Chapel-LudwigPortrait.png

“An exceptional man, who’s life was tragically cut short by his own bottled demons according to a police report filed the 3rd of November. While none of my family drew the knife on the man—certainly, confessing to murder would be improper at a funeral. But who was it that gave him that poisoned cup? To them I leave my associated properties in Windgift, the dozen tenanted houses and associated businesses.”

“Always so long winded, even past the grave.” Arthur sighed and looking over. “Well, that’s two I can’t take. I never met old Lud until his face was plastered over the dining room hall.”

“He was…infuriating.” Katrian muttered. “But that’s just Mother’s taste. I didn’t even think he was pushed off the wagon instead of fell.”

“I thought he was quite kind.” Sophia said, tapping her chin. “He seemed a bit too friendly though.”

Georgia was silent.

“I knew Ludwig took…But still. Pushed off…” She said, tears running down her cheek.

“Well, that is the way of the city sometimes.” Jordy said, giving his mother a comforting hug.

“Pushed off by my own kin though!” She hissed, glaring around. “Which one of you did it? He’d been fighting for years to get off that damned drink. Years!”

“Mother, you knew him scant nine months…”  Katrina said a bit softly. Mr. Alphones stroked his mustache.

“I think I knew Ludwig…he wasn’t too uncommon back in the day…a shame his abstinence didn’t last too long. The man seemed pleasant.”

“Well, that’s all good morning a man dead for half a decade.” Sophia said a bit louder. “But we still don’t know who gets the property.”

“…Jordy.” Georgia said, turning to the youngest of the Melane’s and pushing off his hand. “What’s this about the way of the city?”

“Sometimes charming men fall back on their vices.” Jordy said, shrugging.

“Oh God in heaven Jordy…” Georgia gasped. Katrina clicked her tongue.

“Charming men sometimes fall, hm?” She said. “Sometimes favorites get jealous?”

“Nothing of the sort.” Jordy said, looking down at his feet. “I-I didn’t know he had a problem. I was being…friendly? Hospitable.”

“Oh that’s bull, you hate the drink like a cat hates water.” Arthur said, sitting upright.

“I knew he liked it, I didn’t know he was an alcoholic.” Jordy said. “Perhaps it was for the best then.”

“You killed him…” Georgia muttered, moving a seat.

“I didn’t kill him! I didn’t trust him.” Jordy said, shaking his head. “He was too kind, and I knew he was hiding something. I got him drunk, to let the truth come out—find out whether he was dangerous. To find out if he was taking advantage of you.”

“I am your mother.” Georgia said standing. “Since when do you look out for  me?”

“What about that man in Belgrade! Where did all that money for his charming little business go, mother?” Jordy said, standing up. “Or the dress maker from Paris, who was going to give you a career as a model and muse? Where did all of his funds go?”

A silence hung in the air. I reached over the sarcophagus, and took the letter up, and held it out. Jordy snatched it from my hand.

“At least father appreciates my service.” He muttered.

I took up the final section.

Chapel Interior 1.png

“And the final section of my will and testament, given in my right and aware mind, I allocate to the member of my family that perhaps has preformed the most grievous and influential act upon my livelihood, perhaps barring my death. Two summers before the writing of this will, there was a dispute between two persons in my library, in the summer home on the coast. Neither of you were permitted on the premise at the time, but such things are marginal compared to what happened after. I was informed, that evening, that a fire had broken out in my library—and that several key items to my research, my truth seeking, and my works. To whoever confesses the cause of the fire, I will relinquish the rest of the estate.”

Arthur laughed.

“Of course. That’s what he’s shaking his fist at from beyond the grave. Not murder, not undermining the family name, not affairs…” Arthur gasped for breath. “No. For burning some books of long forgotten lore. Of course.”

“Well who—” Georgia began.

“I did.” Sophia sighed. “Me and Arthur were visiting to find some old books and…and we found some writings from Uncle Melane’s private life.”

“Some writings? Yes, well. We found quiet a few writing, by my memory. Father had gone deep into things that were too deep for me to let stand.”

“It was a bit extreme but we did not expect the fire to spread.” Sophia protested.

“Yes, fine. But we confess to—” Arthur began—until there was a loud scraping sound. A hand, long thin skeletal hand, reached from the sarcophagus, open a jar. It reached up and seized the final envelope. And slowly, to the horror of us gathered, retracted back down into the coffin. And the coffin was sealed shut, the last will of Mr. Melane trapped within.

I wonder if they dared open it later.



This story needs more room, I think. The idea, the conceit of a will dependent on confessions, seems appropriate. But I think peppering it with revealing flashbacks–I’ve heard the movie Knives Out has done something like this–or by expanding the conflicts between the family members some. I think the middle one, with Jordy, is my favorite. I think at the end, the characters aren’t…set up enough for this plot. Not in this version anyway.

Of course, if you like the idea of seeing a revision of this story and others, you can join our Patreon here.

My Father’s House

This Week’s prompt: 101. Hideous secret society—widespread—horrible rites in caverns under familiar scenes—one’s own neighbour may belong.

The Prior Research:Conspiracy!

After the fifth surveyor refused to go down to Elderbir, I just accepted I had to do it. I’d been down there already once this year—my pa insisted in being buried in the cemetery down there, with the rest of the Bulric family. It had been a bit harrowing, a lot of unfamiliar faces among the stones. Mom and I never really came back home. But they all knew me too—apparently my dad was proud of my practice. Talked all about it all the time.

That sort of reception made the first surveyor’s response a bit odd. They said they wouldn’t be able to complete the survey do to unexpected hazards. The next two just wouldn’t go out that far. Fourth sent me a bill for their trouble, and said it wasn’t possible to fully inspect the house without further payments. And number five just came clean with it.

“Yeah, listen, Bobby, listen. We went out there, started doing some measurements and such. And these guys—these guys started poking around. Asking questions. One of them was leaning against a truck, patting a hunting rifle. Another had a hammer—no a mallet, and was talking about some big holes they had dug to find a broken pipe. I’m not saying it was a dangerous situation. But I’m not heading back out there, no way no how.”

Which…okay. To be honest, as I pulled up outside the house, I had to admit. It was an isolated big house, atop a hill, nothing for a good half a mile. Not exactly a welcoming place. The survey info I did have—which was a bit old—said the entire place was on a limestone shelf. Which…well. Not a great place, all things considered.

I ran into Joe while I was going out for my second suitcase trip.

“So, finally moving back in?” Joe said, leaning over the wooden fence. “It’d be nice to have a Bulric back in the neighborhood.”

“For now, for now.” I said, sighing. “Just getting a feel for the place you know? Before I decide anything.”

“Decide anything…you’re not really thinking of selling it, are you? I thought those guys that came down worked for the bank.”

“Well, glad to know you gave them the Elderbir welcome.” I said, lifting the trunk out. “But I figure I’ll give it a try for a bit—I can work from home well enough, take a good hard look at it all you know?”

“C’mon Bob, wasn’t seven years a good enough look.” Joe said, laughing. “Remember that time you snuck into the cupboard and it fell down? Your dad and I had to both lift it all back up again.”

“Twenty years makes it tricky to remember.” I said.  And I was four at the time, Joe.

“You know, if your looking to sell…I think old Mr. Joneson would give a decent price.” Joe said, scratching his head. “Keep it in town you know.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” I said, raising an eyebrow. Mr. Joneson wasn’t exactly known for his generosity—I’d rather not sell to a miser.

HouseLimestone.png

 

The lights and gas and water were all still on—good for this brief habitation, although I wondered where the money was coming from. I hadn’t done the leg work of calling banks about…well. There was a few cable bills and advertisements in the mail. More awkward phone calls.

The wind battered at the window panes, and it was a bit hard to see outside. Most of the area was a field—the limestone around it meant the roots didn’t go too deep. Not great for farming, I understand, and even a brief walk around had found some sink holes and dips.  The entire house seemed to creak and moan under the weight of the storm. It was so bad, I could barely see the fence—and too loud to sleep well. An empty house is already far too loud.

The only thing I could make out that night was a small shape at the edge of the property—looked like a big dog poking at the fence. Too tired to really read, I focused on the shape for a bit as it prodded around. Poor thing was probably looking for shelter. I was sad the thunder scared it off.

 

I met with Mr. Joneson about his offer—about 15k for the whole place, which I politely said I’d consider. I mean, it was better than literally nothing. But a large quaint country house? I figured I could get more. Wasn’t like Mr. Joneson needed another house anyway. He and his owned like half the town even when I was growing up. I could cut down the price for someone needy but, well, he could do better.

Given the rain last night, I thought now was a time to get to know the land better. To walk about and see the newly formed lakes and dips that formed in the field. Not stuff to include when you sell a place, but you never know what you’ll need to know. Before I got far, however, I spotted a weird…color on the hill behind the house.

Not that weird, but…leaning down, it was a dull grey. The dirt had washed away to reveal a smooth gray—cement. I dug a little with my hands. Whatever it was, it was pretty big. I came back with a shovel and started clearing it out. It was a misshapen lump—about eight feet tall at the tallest. Tapping it, there wasn’t anything on the other side. There was a…well, something drawn on the front with faded chalk. I still have no clue what it means.

And well. Something beneath the house? That was something I needed to know more about.

“Doing some home improvement?” Joe asked as I took the heavy tool box out of the garage.

“Yeah, found some old planks that need to replaced.” I said, nodding a bit, and looking towards the cement.  “That and some rocks that need moving—hey, did pa mention anyone else living here? Do any improvements or the like since I left?”

There was something about Joe that had me a bit on edge. Something vaguely menacing about his stops…Maybe it was just this house putting me on edge.

“Not that I remember—I mean, he wasn’t toolsy, you know?” He said, shrugging. “Figure you’d know more than me, you know?”

“Yeah, well, he wasn’t always the quickest to talk about things.” I said, shrugging and heading back around the house. “Chat later, want to get this done while there’s still daylight.”

CaveEntranceHill1

 

It took twenty minutes of hammering—I’m sure someone noticed or heard the cement cracking as I hammered away. It two and a half inches thick, and I didn’t even clear out all of it. Just enough to get in and under, into an old limestone cave.

I remembered this, from when me and mom still lived here. I vaguely remember old caves in the hills, that I thought were full of dragons and treasure. I didn’t remember one beneath the house.

 

Taking a step in, I saw the remains of a wooden scaffold—probably what was used to hold the cement when dad poured it. But why seal up an old cave? I get filling it, I guess. You know, prevent a sink hole from forming right under the house. But this was…not that.

A bit of that childhood wonder took hold of me. Maybe there was treasure down here. Maybe some inheritance that had waited long forgotten. Maybe some old film reels covered in salt or books promising land somewhere far away. Who knows?

So I clicked on the flashlight, and began to go down deep. The tunnel was wide—and carved out in places, to keep it wider. Eventually the curves and almost organic appearance of the cave was chiseled away—and eventually, maybe five minutes of walking down the dark passages, I came across the arch.

The top was hewed from the rock—maybe from some huge broke stalagmite. The sides, though, were heavier and stronger—granite blocks. Carved on them were two great serpents, one uncoiling top to bottom, the other bottom to top. The snakes both ultimately emerged from the Janus like head at the top of the arch—a three-eyed figure, with a third eye between the two faces’ ears.

And from the room came strange smells, of burnt hair and alcohol. Walking through, I found wooden chairs arranged, and broken bottles of wine—mostly pushed or swept to the side. There was…a stone something there. I think. It was…porous to the touch. Felt almost like a big stone sponge…and as I touched it, I felt something sticky stained on it. Red…wine maybe?

Drawing Eyes

There were other tunnels from the big room—other carved arches. Along the walls were drawings in chalk—a few I think were portraits but others were just elaborate fractal shapes. So many looked like eyes…eyes in the great, dark, quiet place. I coughed a little—and heard it echo in all directions, bouncing around. It sounded like something growling in the dark.

This wasn’t old stuff. That meant someone had been here recently. And that therefore, someone had been beneath my house recently, and that someone couldn’t have left through concrete. So. Down into the echoing tunnels I went. Just me and the stone and the terrible echoes of my own footsteps. Always just behind me.

Two went nowhere. They went to just—more concrete…But the third. The third went to a big metal door. A big metal door that I heard sounds from the other side of. I think I heard Joe say something. I think it was Joe. It was hard to make out. It didn’t sound happy.

I heard something clatter behind me. Down back where I came. Some…maybe some wind had knocked something over. I slowly walked back down that cavernous route. I heard the crunch of broken glass beneath my feet, echoing out again. Echoing back, echoes in echoes. As I came back into the main chamber, with it’s  walls crowded in eyes and the sticky smell of alcohol and burnt hair. And there was…just a knocked over candle, dripping wax.

Dripping wax down…onto some squirming small shape. Something like a spider beneath the wax. A bunch of unfurling legs, pushing up against the wax. A breath of warm air in the deep…Something was here with me. Something was here, just out of sight, in one of the corridors, in the echoing. Something.

I don’t remember running out of the tunnel and pushing the concrete back into a crude covering. I just found myself forcing the layers of dirt onto the shards and chunks of concrete that I had piled at the exit. I locked the doors that night, locked the windows as best I could.

*

I turned all the house lights on. I couldn’t stand the dark. I still…there were these little patterns in the wall at night, that looked like they were eyes. They weren’t, just wears in the wall paper or tiles that had an odd crack. Just the normal shapes of an old house, that looked and felt like eyes.

I couldn’t sleep, so I just paced the halls that night. Still keeping all the lights on. I’d say I was going through some things if I was asked. I just couldn’t sleep. The storming outside had continued with earnest that night, rain pelting the roof and thunder shaking the walls.

It was while I was pacing, checking the window locks, that I saw something out back. There were five or six people down there, huddling at the bottom of the hill, around the concrete. That damned dog was with them too. I couldn’t hear them over the wind and rain. I could see one had a baseball bat slung over his back. He occasionally tested it’s weight.

They split up after a bit, and started walking around the house. I followed the one with the bat. He tested some of the windows, tapping them a bit. They marked a few spots with chalk. I followed them all the way around to the front, where they piled up into a truck. I think it was a red truck—maybe it was Joe’s? It was parked behind a big tree, branches and leaves covering their exit.

HouseLimestone2

I was at the local diner early that morning. I didn’t sleep after that little visit. I didn’t bother. I had showered, stretched, and in a haze made my way to get some food to ground me and some coffee to replace the lack of rest. As the waitress left, I heard the door chime open. In walked Joe, Mr. Joneson, and another guy wearing a black hoodie. I opened the menu to cover my face as they ordered—but I heard the other guy murmur something and some shuffling.

Sure enough, their they were in the booth across from me.

“Hey, Bobby. How’s the house going?” Joe said, smiling. His hair was still wet. Maybe he’d just gotten out of the shower.

“Going fine.” I said slowly, eyeing the other two for a moment.

“Yeah, Peter here says you were doing some digging out back.” Mr. Joneson said, nodding to the mystery man. “You gotta be careful doing that. Dig up too much, and you’ll hit the old limestone.”

“Dangerous, dangerous stuff.” Peter said, shaking his head. “Storms lately, that’ll wear down fast.”

“Might even open up a sinkhole or something beneath the house.”  Mr. Joneson said, nodding. “That’d be a damn shame really, costly too. Real costly, and a historic house gone too. Got to be careful what you start digging around town.”

I nodded slowly, bridging my fingers. I was too tired for this. Too tired to deal with any of this.

“Yeah.” I sighed. “Yeah. You know, I can’t be here keeping up with it constantly. And…well. Maybe it’d be best to leave it with someone who knew it as well as you do.”

“That quick a turn around?” Joe said, raising an eyebrow. I shrugged as I sipped my coffee.

“Fifteen thousand, it’s yours.” I said, waving my hand. “Can’t really sleep there anyway, and it might be falling apart. Sinkhole underneath the place would shatter the value. Take it off my hands, and were’ in the clear.”

*

I don’t know why Pa left it to me—maybe he didn’t know about what was going down there. Maybe he thought I’d never check…or maybe he thought I’d be thrilled. Maybe it was some sort of attempt at a patch up. I don’t know. It was a nice house. But frankly, I think if  I was there another week, I’d have gone missing. Hell, no wonder half the surveyors ran off.

I’ll be glad if I never hear about the house again. I’ll be glad if it never rains again—and I never think, for half a second, I see someone at the door on a rainy night. And those eyes…those eyes.



I’m mixed on this end to the decade story. On the one hand, I like the build up to the discovery of the cave–and I even like parts of the cave. I think the ending, however, is far too sudden and anti-climatic. If I had an appropraite second prompt, I might follow up the ending, and have the horror follow Robert home or trap him in the town–just walking away is simply a bad ending. But the story had been delayed long enough…Perhaps next year for Patreon, I’ll come back to Elderbir a fourth time. Speaking of:

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