The Slow and the Dead

by Joey Payne

Ben screamed as the top of the thing’s head flew off from the gunshot. He stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, the old colt revolver still held out in front of him. As smoke lazily rolled from the barrel Ben shook his head. The ringing in his ears from the shot sounded like a siren’s wail. “What the hell…” Ben said to himself  as he tried unsuccessfully to make his feet move forward. After a few moments he swallowed hard, and this time was able to force himself to move forward slowly.

As he approached the creature on the ground he kept the gun pointed at it even though his hand was shaking uncontrollably. As he approached he was scared that it was one of his friends or neighbors in a costume, a prank that had gone horribly awry. Ben shook his head again to try and clear it of adrenaline and think clearly. It couldn’t have been a costume he told himself. After two tours in Afghanistan he knew what real wounds looked like… didn’t he? His suspicions were confirmed as he got a clearer look. As his eyes scanned the body his training kicked in and his mind was suddenly crystal clear. The thing’s skin was gray and glistening, slimy almost. Under the skin were spider web patterns of bluish purple veins. He noted that it looked like ruptures under the skin. A bite-sized chunk was missing from his arm that no makeup could replicate. A green, thick, puss oozed from the wound. By the time he assessed the thing’s face he did not doubt it wasn’t a costume.

It was his neighbor, Carl, or at least it resembled Carl’s face. Besides the half dollar-sized hole in his head, his face had the same deathly gray pallor. Blood poured from his eyes and like tears. The eyes themselves were a dark red where all the white should be. Ben knew that a head wound from his revolver wouldn’t cause that kind of wound pattern. Trying to make sense of it, Ben played the morning through in his head again.

He had woken up and was going to go the shooting range to test out his new colt revolver. As he walked out to his car he saw Carl across the street in his other neighbor’s back yard. He remembered calling out a friendly good morning and waved in a neighborly fashion. Next thing Ben knew Carl screamed like an animal and ran at Ben while wielding a hammer. He was fast, his feet pumping like a sprinters even when Ben screamed “Whoa hang on!” Ben had fumbled for his keys and dropped them as Carl closed the distance. As Carl had reached the top of the driveway Ben knew he would have no time to retrieve his keys and raised his Colt. He remembered saying “Stop or I will shoot!” clearly as Carl ran at him, slavering and bleeding from the eyes. Ben fired when Carl was halfway down the driveway ending Carl’s assault with one shot.

“But what the fuck happened to you Carl?” Ben whispered to himself as he fumbled for his cell phone to dial 911. Ben’s mind warred with itself, as he didn’t want to say the one word he knew described the situation. A deep fear Ben had carried his whole life, Carl had become a zombie. Since he was young Ben had suffered from nightmares about a zombie horde ripping him limb from limb… Their sharp teeth tearing into his flesh… Of his dead friends and enemies clamoring and groaning as one for him to join them. He had fought it down for years but after a zombie resurgence on the internet he could do almost nothing without seeing a reference to the coming zombie apocalypse and the nightmares had returned. Ben shook his head to clear it of the troubling thoughts as he held his cell phone to his ear and listened to the steady, rhythmic ring on the other end.

“Come on!” he growled as the phone rang over and over. And breathed a sigh of relief as the ring was interrupted by someone picking it up. “Hello,” Ben said, “I need help, I’ve had to shoot someone.” Ben waited for a second for any reply to his statement but was met with silence. “Hello?” he asked again and was met by a low groaning sound from the other end. A lump formed in Ben’s throat as the monotonous groan continued. Ben looked at his phone slowly to make sure he had dialed right. The animal growl from the other end audible as he saw he had indeed called 911. His attention was torn from his phone as another scream was heard at the top of his driveway.

Two more creatures stood there, a woman and a child, pointing and screaming like banshees. The child began to run at him with her arms thrown wide. Blood poured from her eyes and her teeth were, chipped and jagged. The woman was right on the little one’s heels with arms outstretched. The nails on her hand were like talons and dripped with blood. Ben didn’t waste a moment and fired off two quick shots. The first caught the smaller zombie square in the forehead. The other bullet caught the woman in the shoulder causing her to spin as she fell to the ground. She writhed on the ground, her back arching and hands clawing as she screamed.

Ben cursed as he saw that her screams were attracting more of them. Bloody hands smeared windows as they peered out at the commotion. They ran out into their yards and were pointing bloody hands at him. They were all screaming their gurgling, animal-like screams, drawing more and more of them out of hiding.

With another deep curse Ben ran back into his home and slammed the door. His mind raced as he thought about what to do next. “Gotta be the rapture…” he said to himself in an attempt to figure out the situation.  “Reload…” he said, reminding himself. As he opened the cylinder on the old colt he let his mind wander to when he bought it yesterday.

He had bought it from an old Cheyenne man at a gun show. Ben had just gone to look; he didn’t own any guns and had not even touched one since the Army. As Ben handled it he could tell it was old and not a replica because of the patina on the metal and the worn front sight where it had been pulled from a holster many times. He had noticed the tick marks in the grip of the gun and when he asked about it the old man had shook his head sadly.

“My Grandfather told me those were left by the people who owned the gun throughout the years. Before it came to my Grandfather it was owned by a Calvary solider who was hanged for murder. Grandfather said the owner was a bad man and the gun held bad medicine.”

Ben wasn’t the superstitious sort and had bought the gun to shoot for fun and to brag about. Now he sat running his thumb over the 6 tick marks in the gun’s grip, worn down from years of use. Each one still a stark reminder of someone’s life. As he felt them he wondered who they were, why the gun’s owner had killed them. He was pulled from his thoughts by a banging on the door. A loud slam of meat against wood and the groans of something horrible wanting in.

“Go Away!” Ben screamed and shot a round from the gun through the wooden door. Suddenly the sound of glass breaking filled the room as the zombies shattered through in force. The loud crack of the back door breaking down and the sound of multiple footsteps seeking him out, demanding his life. Ben fired shot after shot at the lumbering dead, counting each one until he knew there was only bullet left. This last shot he had saved for himself and lifted the gun to his head as he pulled back the hammer. But before he could pull the trigger they were upon him, clawing at him with bleeding eyes and fetid breath.

“NO!” he screamed as they grabbed his arm, pulling the gun from his grip and forcing him to the ground. Ben closed his eyes and waited for the end.

“We got you now you bastard!” a voice said angrily in his ear and Ben opened his eyes suddenly. Police had him pinned down and were putting cuffs on him. “W…What’s going on??!!” Ben stammered

as he was pulled to his feet. “What the…” Ben began as he saw two dead and one wounded police officer in his living room. “No. No! But they were dead… I mean they were zombies… wait!!” he stammered on as he was dragged out of his home. “No! No! NO!” he screamed as he saw Carl lying in his driveway with the body of Carl’s daughter lying close by.

“Monster!” Carl’s wife screamed as paramedics tended the bullet wound in her shoulder.  “Went crazy…” his neighbors whispered. “Might have been bath salts,” they said as they pointed. Ben shook his head frantically as they pushed him in the patrol car. “You’re gonna fry for this!” the cop said and Ben tried to explain to them… tried to tell them that he had defended himself. That they had been zombies and he was innocent… they had to believe him!

From within the plastic evidence bag the old colt revolver lay still. If anyone had been listening to it they would have sworn that from somewhere inside the bag was a deep yet quiet laughter. And a faint scratching noise as a seventh tick mark appeared on the gun’s grip.

***

Joey Payne enjoys writing post-apocalyptic novels and horror short stories. His first release, a book set in a grim future world, entitled Love and Radiation (Book 1 of his Radiation Tales series) was published in October of 2012 and is currently available via Amazon’s Kindle and Kindle App Store. The second in the Radiation Tales Series—Death and Radiation—is expected out sometime in 2013. His latest published work, The Slow and The Dead, a horror short, appears in this year’s 13 Stories Till Halloween 2012 edition.
Joey is a Georgia boy and lives with his wife and children in his beloved home state. He also loves river boating, fishing and collecting antique firearms, which he shoots often to help him concentrate.

The Hiding Chant

by III

The children gather;
the pumpkins stare.
They beg for treasure
but never they share.

And so my brothers,
we shall embark
and go a’questing
when it gets dark.

They don their masks;
they play at fear.
But what they forget
will let us draw near.

We’ll show them our faces,
though see them they shan’t.
Because we are singing
the hiding chant.

Now go out among them
and into the night.
Go now my goblins;
it is time to unite!

***

III (Trey Martin) is a local, Atlanta-area poet with interests in neoclassical forms as as free verse.  Trey is a proud LGBT artist, with a penchant for taking an “alternative” view of the world both around and within us.

Attached

by Kayanne Smith

As a young reporter, Ella Case was eager to take on any story to come across her desk, so when her Editor in Chief breezed into the office and requested she do the annual Haunting Story for the paper’s Halloween edition, she happily agreed.

Ella stepped out into the crisp autumn air and made her way down to the local library. Sure, she could stay chained to her desk and find just about any information she would need right at her fingertips, but she always enjoyed the hunt for information, thumbing through old books, newspapers, and microfilm, and of course her greatest source, the local people of Temple.

The Annual Halloween Haunting Story was usually something one would expect to hear around a campfire or in the wee hours of the morning at a slumber party, nothing with any depth, and definitely short on actual fact or history. Ella was determined to make this year’s story different, to write something more than just a “fluff” or “filler” piece, maybe even uncover a real life ghost story right there in Temple.

“Good afternoon Ms. Case,” the librarian trilled as she approached the front desk, “tell me dear, what exciting story are you working on today?”

“Well if you must know I’ve been assigned the task of writing the paper’s yearly Halloween Haunting story, and I really want it to be special this year, so I decided I’d begin as I always do with some honest to goodness research.”

Mrs. Cox clasped her hands in excitement. Ella never quite knew if she was really ever excited to hear about her assignments, or if she was simply being kind, nevertheless, it always made her feel someone actually did in fact care what she had to say.

“What creepy tale will you be sharing with the people of Temple this year?”

“I’ll be doing a piece on the old Wingarten Place,” Ella offered, when suddenly the old librarian’s whole demeanor changed. She had never seen this side of her, didn’t even think she was capable of having any emotion other than happiness.

“Mrs. Cox, are you okay? Did I say something to upset you?”

“Be careful my dear, there are some things – some stories, that should remain buried.” And with that, she turned and left Ella standing there not really knowing what occurred between them. All she did know was she absolutely had to find out what made that sweet, unassuming lady react as she had.

Ella combed through town histories, newspaper clippings, taking notes and making copies of anything that seemed odd and relevant to the topic at hand. As her research continued she learned the Wingarten Place was originally owned and built by Joseph Wingarten. It operated as a plantation and after the Civil War he’d been forced to sell the property and home to the state. After a few years it was restored and made into a hospital for the mentally challenged. Those members of society who were different – not necessarily dangerous, but perhaps misunderstood.

She hurried home, eager to go over her notes and do some research on the internet, thinking how she could take this story to the next level. It was rumored to be haunted, but had it ever been confirmed by anyone other than the local kids who had broken onto the property as a dare? Not that she could find. But amid all the supposed paranormal experiences recorded she not only discovered it was one of the most sought after locations to be investigated, but what exactly made Mrs. Cox react in the way she had earlier that day, her daughter, Sara Rue Cox  a patient at the hospital before it been closed down for good, and had died as a result of “unknown causes”, which actually meant they’had taken one of those experimental treatments too far.

Over the next few hours she researched various paranormal groups and decided on one that seemed to have the best knowledge, equipment, and experience of any of the others. She jotted down their information and made a point to contact them the next morning. Ella spoke with the team leader and soon all the details were set for the upcoming investigation of the Wingarten Place.

On a gray and chilly October afternoon Ella met with the paranormal team to go over the process of the investigation, where to place cameras and audio recorders, and who would be teamed up to investigate. Ella would be joining each pair, observing how they gathered their data, and hoping to have her very on experience.

Throughout the course of the night each team seemed to be having unexplained experiences, but nothing more than what she would learn was a residual haunt. As she followed the final team through what used to be a beautiful home a chill came over her, and all the energy seemed to be sucked out of her. Had she just had a paranormal experience or was it just that she was standing in a drafty old home after a very long night? The common sense side of her leaned toward the latter, but it didn’t stop the nagging feeling that something wasn’t quite right.

After all the equipment had been gathered they parted ways, promising to get back to her as soon as all the data had been analyzed with a fine tooth comb. They were all hoping to find some extraordinary evidence!

Ella arrived home as the sun was just beginning to peek its head over the horizon. She was so tired, but energized at the same time, she just knew it had been a successful venture. She crawled into bed, falling into a deep sleep. She awoke later that afternoon and as she brewed a strong pot of coffee she stood under the stream of the shower allowing the warm water to envelop her and soothe the ache and chill that seemed to reach down to her bones, a cold she just couldn’t seem to shake.

She returned to work the following week and finally received the call she had been waiting on from the paranormal team she worked with. They found some pretty compelling evidence and were very excited to share all they found with her. Ella met with them the next afternoon and was overwhelmed with what they found, she couldn’t wrap her mind around all that was going on around them, not having heard most of it during the investigation. The team members gave her copies of all the data, which Ella would put up on the paper’s website for those who dared to listen.

Now that she had everything she needed, Ella began feverishly writing the story that was turning out to be all she hoped it would.

“Mr. Thompson, here it is, the BEST Halloween Haunting Story ever to be published in The Daily Temple,” Ella chided as she plopped the finished copy of her story onto his desk.

With a sigh, he glanced up at her with a bewildered look, “I’ll be the judge of that, Ms. Case. Now go home and get some rest, you look as if you need it.”

“Um, thanks?”

“Now don’t be a girl and get all sensitive and take it the wrong way. It’s just that you’ve been looking a little pale and drawn lately and I know how much you’ve put into this, though I can’t seem to understand why.”

For whatever reason, his last statement infuriated her. Yes, she put a lot of time and effort into this, but it was no different than any other story assigned to her. She didn’t half-ass any other assignment, why would she start now?

Spinning on her heels, and taking her boss completely off guard, she laid into him, “Well, maybe if everyone else around here put in the same kind of effort we’d have a much better paper!” She could not believe what she’d just done. Ella was usually mild mannered, never wanting to rock the proverbial boat, what was going on with her, she felt as if something was taking over, something she didn’t have any control over.

“Ms. Case I suggest you leave this office immediately and go home for an extended vacation! This is not a request, it’s an order!”

She ran out, not looking back, not wanting to see the disappointment on his face. She wondered if he would even run the story after the way she had behaved. Ella arrived home and threw her belongings on the ground, not caring about the mess it made, just wanting, no craving rest. She looked in the mirror and saw for the first time just how sick and tired she appeared and made an appointment for the following day to see the local physician. Over the past week Ella had barely been able to sleep, haunted by dreams which were beginning to feel more like memories than the nightmares they were. As badly as she wanted to sleep, she feared it at the same time.

The next morning she went to the doctor and was told just what she thought she would hear, “what you have dear is the common cold, all you need is rest and to let it run it’s course.” Feeling even more defeated Ella returned home where she stayed for the next two weeks, seeing no one, speaking to no one, living in what was becoming a daily hell. Nightmares becoming ever increasingly more vivid and horrible, being so cold no amount of clothing or blankets could warm her, and her appetite seemed to disappear more and more every day. She had to get some help, Ella felt as if her very self was being taken over by something, or was it someone? But who could help her, who would help her? She’d pushed everyone away, except for one person, Mrs. Cox. For reasons she couldn’t explain she was more and more compelled to reach out to her every day. Maybe it was because of her kind nature, or because she’d always to have some interest in her life, but it felt like so much more than that. Something far deeper than she could even begin to grasp. Ella grabbed her phone and dialed the number for the library, she had to see her, now.

“Temple Library, this is Mrs. Cox, how may I help you?” It was a greeting Ella had heard countless times, but today it almost brought her to tears, “Hello, hello? Is anyone there?”

Ella gathered herself, “Yes, Mrs. Cox, it’s Ella, could you come over? I-”…

Before she could finish her thought the sweet librarian interrupted her, “I’ll be right there.”

Her heart raced, Mrs. Cox just couldn’t believe what she’d heard over the phone. This had to be some horrible prank, or maybe it was the horrible memories Ella’s story and conjured up, the years of grief over losing her only child taking it’s toll. As she turned into Ella’s driveway she took in a deep, slow breath and made her way towards her door.

The door opened. Mrs. Cox let out a shriek. Standing before her was not the young, vibrant reporter she had come to love, but her dear deceased daughter Sara Rue Cox.

“Hi Mom.”

***

Kayanne Smith lives in Gainesville and works at The Coffee Shop, one of the few remaining drug store lunch counters, minus the soda fountain. When she isn’t working she enjoys reading, listening to music, traveling (which she wishes she could do more of), going to the theater and concerts, spending time with friends and family, and coming up with new creations in the kitchen. Kayanne has always enjoyed writing (admittedly it has been awhile), and is very excited to be included among so many talented writers!!

The Watcher

This is not your typical, ordinary ghost story. This is the story of a ghost who wanted to be a real little boy. The ghost’s name was Dustin, and he was a very unhappy little ghost because he wanted to be a real live, normal little boy — to be able to play ball with his friends, and to go to school. He wanted to ride the bus, and have sleepovers, and tell secrets with his friends.

Dustin did have a life at some point, but if you ever asked him, he wouldn’t be able to tell you much about it. See, he didn’t have many friends. He kept to himself. He was too afraid to put himself out there, risking his heart. He always wanted what others had, but was never really happy. Being a ghost, Dustin now longed for a chance to change things. He wished he could be who he should have been, and stand out instead of always trying to find purpose in someone else’s life or dream.

Dustin hid in the shadows and corners. He followed people and watched them as they lived out their lives. “I wish I had friends like that,” he would say to himself. He watched boys playing ball together, and how they would choose their teams. Sometimes, Dustin would float onto the field with the boys as they played and he would pretend to play with them — pretend they were his friends. “I’ve got it!” he would yell as he dashed to catch a pop fly, almost forgetting he wasn’t really a part of the game. It felt good for a little while, but then the game would end, and everyone would go home, then the little ghost Dustin was all alone.

At night, he’d watch through windows while kids had dinner with their families. He listened as bedtime stories were told, and wish it were him getting tucked into bed. “Ugh! I wish my life could have been different,” he would say with a sigh.

Each day, Dustin would travel to different places just watching and listening to the children. He visited the school, and pretended he too was part of the class. Sometimes he would spend the whole day there, among all the other kids. Learning, going to art and science, and recess. He pretended what it would be like if he were there too. At lunch he would sit and listen to the kids laugh, and talk and act like they were his buddies. He would even tell jokes and stories, although no one ever laughed at his jokes or heard his stories. After all, he was still a ghost.

On the weekends, Dustin would visit the lake, or following around the boys as they played, went fishing, had sleepovers, and played pine cone wars in each other’s yards. He loved being a part of this group, laughing at them, playing along beside them. He got so wrapped up in following them and pretending to be in their world, that he often forgot that he wasn’t one of them.

One day Dustin saw a little boy sitting by himself on the porch of an old country store. He looked sad, and Dustin wondered what might be wrong. He stopped to check him out. Dustin watched as the little boy sat on a bench and cried. A few moments passed and an angry man left the store holding a paper bag with the shape of a bottle inside. The man jerked up the boy by his collar and yelled at him. “Get your butt up from there boy! You stupid child!”  He shoved the boy and smacked the back of the head before they started to walk away.

Dustin didn’t like the way the man treated the little boy, who looked so scared. He followed them as they walked away. As they arrived at their house, Dustin saw the man drag the boy inside, yelling at him. The man ordered the boy to do many chores, and the boy did them. If things were not done properly, or something was out of place, the boy got yelled at more. “You can’t do anything right, you good for nothing piece of dirt! I don’t know why I put up with you!”  Dustin didn’t like the way this made him feel, so he left. But the boy was the only thing he could think about all night.

The next morning, Dustin returned to the house to see the boy, who was walking all alone to school. The boy seemed to stay back from the other kids. He sat in the back of the class, didn’t try very hard on his school work, and never played with anyone at recess. He just sat around watching others, always to shy or scared to get involved or make friends. Dustin followed him home after school, and watched as the boy tried to stay out of the man’s way. The boy would just sit in the corner in his room, and daydream until he fell asleep. Dustin wished he could help him.

Dustin decided that he wanted to do whatever it took to appear to this little boy, even if it meant for only a moment, or that he would never be able to watch the other kids ever again.

So that night when he went home he approached the “Elders”.

The Elders were the older ghosts, who looked after the younger ones — telling them what was and wasn’t allowed in the “ghost” world. Dustin had never approached them before because even in his ghost life he’d been too busy following happy, living children he wanted to be like instead of meeting anyone like him.

There were six elders. They varied from different times and places on earth. There was Mort, Stephen, Yar Yang, Clara, and Ruth. Dustin visited them and told them his story – pleading with them to allow him to break the rules to appear to this boy. “Please!” he begged. “I need to speak to him. I need to tell him that life is better than what he thinks it is. You see, I lived that life. I was made fun of, beat up, and pushed around. I was the outsider. I felt alone and no one liked me.  I can’t let this happen to him!” At first they were hesitant but they continued to listen to Dustin’s story and felt sorry for him as they felt Dustin’s pain through the story of this boy. They could feel the physical pain Dustin felt, and the empathy he now felt for this young child.

“We will allow it,” Ruth said, “but… you will never be able to watch anyone, or hear anyone, or follow anyone from the living world again. You will be nothing but a ghost of space, like the wind in an empty room.”

Dustin didn’t care and he agreed. If it meant he could help this boy, he wanted to do it.

Later that night, while the man slept and the boy cried in his room, Dustin appeared to the boy. He told him about his own life and struggles. How he was picked on, and pushed aside. How he needed to tell someone about his dad so he could find some peace, and learn to try and to grow. He told him no matter how hard life seemed to be that it was still worth living and making the most of it. That there were people out there that would touch the boy’s life. He told the boy, “Don’t give up.” The boy listened to Dustin, and they talked for a long time. The boy began to cry, but he thanked Dustin for visiting him, for he now saw hope.

Suddenly, a gust of wind came out of nowhere. Dustin and the boy were confused. “What is that?” the boy asked, puzzled. The boy’s bed started to shake, pictures fell off the walls. The boy was very scared. “What is going to happen to me?” he cried.

Dustin assured him everything was fine. “It is my elders. They are here for me not you. Do not worry.”

Another figure appeared in the corner of the room. The boy tried to focus on it, but no matter how hard he tried, it seemed to just be a blur of white. Then they heard a voice. “Dustin,” the voice called.

“Yes Ruth,” Dustin replied. “I know what must happen now,” Dustin told her.

Ruth spoke very strong, yet quiet to Dustin. “Because you have put another beings’ interest above your own and shown that you would sacrifice yourself for the well being of another, we have decided that we will give you another chance.”

“What?” Dustin questioned. “You mean I will still be able to watch all of the people? I won’t have to go into the nowhere place?”

Ruth looked at Dustin and smiled. “No, honey, another chance at life.” And before anyone could say anything else a tornado of wind circled the room… and with a loud clap of thunder and a flash of light — Ruth was gone.

Dustin sat, confused for a moment. Then he looked at the boy, who was sitting with his mouth wide open in awe. “It is ok,” Dustin told him. “They are gone. You do not have to be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” the boy replied. Then he pointed at Dustin. “You’re different. I can’t see through you anymore,” he told Dustin. “It’s like, like… You’re real!” The boy reached his hand out and touched Dustin. “I can touch you, you are real!” the boy yelled.

Dustin jumped up and looked into the mirror. He saw himself, and he was a real boy! He cried with happiness. Then he sat down, reached out his hand and said, “Hi, I am Dustin, It’s nice to meet you.”

The boy smiled. “Hi Dustin, I’m Sean, Nice to meet you too!”

New found friends, the boys talked until they fell asleep.

Over the next few days, Sean told the police about his father, and his father was arrested. The cops found and reunited his mother and Sean. He told his mother what Dustin had done for him. She was so pleased and grateful; she adopted the boy as her own son. The boys grew up, happy healthy and had a bond that no one could explain.

***

Dylan Lee is a thriving 6 year old boy with a great imagination. He loves reading, riding his bike and playing with his friends. He likes to draw and come up with stories all his own. He enjoyed helping his mom with this short story

Deborah Lee is a wife and mother of two.She writes music and poetry, and decided to attempt a short story with her son. She hopes to one day write a stories based on a troubled past.

Two Blinks

by TrickWild

As I sit in my favorite chair, by the lake, at my most favorite place on earth, the ache of my muscles, the pain in my head, the twinge in my neck, all remind me of last night’s restless sleep. Five acres of nothing but trees, encircling a lake that had never known a rod and reel. Inherited from my grandmother, it was the one place where I felt remotely normal, safe.  I rolled out of the bed early, because I had to. Life doesn’t stop, it goes on, appointments have to be kept and bills have to be paid.

I am a photographer by trade, mostly because it affords me an outlet for my creativity, but also because it enables me to meet a client, do my necessary work, and then move on. I don’t have to deal with co-workers or family, I don’t have to explain my life, my choices, or explain why I am 30 years old and single. For some reason, it’s expected that I should have a husband and 2.5 kids. But in my life, there is no room for more faces. The faces I see day to day in my head are enough to fill a dozen photo albums, to be placed on a coffee table and shared with guests. If I had a coffee table, and if I ever had guests.

My name is Lena, by the way. As I said, I am 30 years old, and alone. I walked away from my family 10 years ago, with just my camera and a duffle bag. The next milestone for Mother to write in her book that she cherished so, was my admittance into a psychiatric hospital, and I was not going to stick around for that. No amount of therapy can help me, believe me, they’ve tried it all. Doctors have diagnosed me with schizophrenia, which is bogus, because I do not live in a fantasy world, the fantasy world lives around me. I am fully functional; I just can’t and won’t deal with someone else’s interpretations of what I see, what I hear, and what I go through. Another Doctor in another state diagnosed me with Depersonalization Disorder. Beep, wrong answer again, I don’t think or feel that I am in a dream world — my dreams are just more vivid than others. I have taken numerous antipsychotic medications, but none took the faces away, if anything, it made them much more animated. Sleep studies, and being hooked up to machines and analyzed like an insect, is not my idea of a normal childhood. So I walked away.

My visions began when I was 5 years old. What started out as “awake dreams”, slowly turned into a nightmare. The first one that I remember began on a normal night. I had just began kindergarten that day, and was settling in my bed for the night with my dog, a German shepherd named Major. Being an only child, and somewhat a loner, I was allowed to have whatever pets I wanted, to keep me occupied, and it seems that it was always a dog. I chose the bigger breeds, because I relished the feeling of security that a burly canine provided.

Major awoke me growling. That low, guttural, snarl that usually indicated he was startled from sleep. Without opening my eyes, and thinking he was having a dream, I just patted his back and told him it was okay, and nestled back into slumber. I awoke again to another growl, this one more gravely and louder. As I sat up in the bed, I startled Major and he jumped up and planted himself beside me. I looked to find that my cover had been pulled from my bed, leaving me exposed, and my legs and feet like ice. That is when I heard another loud growl.

My eyes darted around the room, searching for what could be making that noise, and Major jumped off the bed with his hair standing on end, and starting barking. I jumped off the bed, and gathered all the covers and jumped back onto the it and pulled them up over my head. I trembled with fear, wide-eyed and my heart pounded out of my chest. I mustered my courage and peered out. In all his enormous glory, stood a grizzly bear. Yes, a bear, in my bedroom, at the foot of my bed staring back at me. I yanked the covers back over my head, and raised my legs straight up and then back down so that the covers enveloped me like a sleeping bag. My mind raced, and my hands got tingly, and I knew this had to be a dream. It had to be. There are no bears around here, and how on earth would one end up in my bedroom, at the foot of my bed, staring back at me? It occurred to me that Major had quit barking and I knew I must be brave and coax him back into bed, under the covers, ’til this nightmare was over. I jumped straight up and off the bed, only to find him lying in the floor, sound asleep. Had I dreamed   he was barking

I looked over my shoulder. The bear reared up on his hind legs, like it was human. I blinked. I blinked again. I rubbed my eyes frantically, hoping that this illusion or nightmare or whatever it is would disappear. I don’t know why I could not muster a voice or why I did not run from the room and wake my mother, it just occurred to me to climb back in bed and it would go away. I venture to guess that I was asleep before my head hit the pillow, and I slept soundly until my mother came to wake me for school. All through class that day, as I was struggling to keep my eyes open and wanting very badly to go back home and go to sleep, I pondered just exactly what I saw, and the even at such a young age, I reasoned that it had to be a nightmare, that there was no other logical explanation. That night, I slept like a baby. And the next. Over time, I would continue to see what I learned to call my visions. But none have ever been as scary as the first.

Let’s skip ahead 10 years. High school. Freshman year. A whole other world, different challenges and deeper pitfalls. I didn’t fit in. This was the time to try and conform to all the others around you, belong. The harder I tried the more of an outcast I was, so instead of yielding to the trends and making-nice with the cliques, I drew myself inward, and that is pretty much the bulk of my high school years. I made excellent grades, and having no friends or social life, I had plenty of time to study. My grandmother purchased a second-hand camera and a bag of film for my birthday, and photography became my escape. I read everything I could get my hands on, and I practiced every day.

If I could not have been a normal teenager, I would be an extraordinary photographer. My mother, ever worried about me fitting in, believed the tales I told of visiting friends, all the while I was hiking, photographing landscapes, bugs, rabbits, anything that crossed my path. She truly believed that I was a popular girl, and rather than break her heart, I allowed her to believe that I had many friends and that my social calendar was always full. Fair? Probably not, but I truly didn’t want her to be as miserable as I was.

My Dad, you ask? My parents divorced before I was born and he remarried when I was two. He lives in another town with another family. I’ve never laid eyes on him. My mother threw away all photographs of him, so I have no idea what he looks like, if I took after him or if he thinks of me as his daughter, or if he even thinks of me at all.

I do know from the grapevine that he has two other children, a boy and a girl, and that they live in a fine house, the American Dream. Am I bitter? No, really. I would not call it bitterness, just an acceptance; knowing that I was cast aside for whatever reason and moving on. If I dwelled on it, it would not change it. Nothing could erase or make up for the years lost.

As I grew older, my visions matured as well. The visions not only came as nightmares at night, but also manifested into daydreams, so that it all seemed an appendage to my life. Something that I had to learn to accept, conquer, interpret. I saw normal, everyday looking people, bloody cadavers, soldiers in war zones, patients in hospital beds. It was all so much to conceive, but as time went on and the visions became more prominent I began to understand that I was a messenger of sorts, and that the people in these visions were looking to me for comfort, support, to be their voice. I gained an understanding and learned to not be afraid.

One day, as I was hiking and snapping pictures, an old man appeared to me on the path before me and asked if I could help him. I knew that this was an apparition and that he was not real, but I asked him what he needed help with. He told me in the time before his death, he had hidden a gun in fear that his grandchildren would find it and be injured. He had placed it in a brown paper sack and placed it in a metal box and buried it behind his home. His wife had since passed away and their home and land was sold to be developed, and he worried that the gun would be found and end up in the wrong hands. He simply wanted me to go and dig it up and throw it in the river. He gave me the address, and I went and dug it up and threw it away, pleased that this was an easy assignment.

While I believe there are a thousand miracles to behold each and every day, it still troubles me how I play into the whole scheme of things. Why did I receive this “gift”, and is this what I am to expect for the rest of my life? Will there ever be a day or night when my daydreams will be of puppy dogs dancing in fields of wildflowers or children frolicking and jumping rope? If this is my destiny, am I supposed to give up the hope of ever finding my true love? Should I bring a child into my world of illusions?

I have a photography assignment, product imaging for a local jewelry store, so I must tear myself away from this serenity and gather my gear. The assignment should only require a few hours and maybe I can finish up early, knock the editing out and still have some daylight left to hike. I load my jeep and head out. Traffic is heavy and anxiety kicks in. It seems that the panic attacks I’ve acquired over the years only rear their ugly heads when I’m driving, so that’s became another of my many dilemmas- I have to drive to assignments, I have to pay bills, I have to eat.  After battling the congestion of early morning road chaos, I finally reach the store and the employees help me load the boxes of the goodies I am to photograph. They requested a fresh, outdoorsy feel, and that is my specialty. I decide that I will go back home and utilize the beauty of my own property, so I drive to the backside of my lake and unload the boxes, and sit down on a fallen tree and take it all in, seek my inspiration.

As I am pondering, I hear a splash behind me, which startles me. I turn around to find a man, in his thirties, dirty and scruffy making his way out of the lake. He’s staring at me with cold eyes, and as I always do, I smile. I wonder what he will “need help with.” I blink and he’s gone. I blink again, and still, he’s disappeared. I look around, positive that he will appear again, but nothing, no sounds, and he’s nowhere to be found.

I get up and start unpacking the boxes, and on an oak trunk scattered by a pile of oak leaves, I see a spider’s web. I find a beautiful charm pendant unusual shape, looks almost custom made, and place it carefully in the web. The lighting is perfect at this time, so I grab my camera and kneel down to get just the right angle. Compose, focus, click. Adjust my aperture, compose, focus, click. Perfect.

Behind me, I hear another splash. I stand and am paralyzed by the scene before me. The man I saw only moments ago is in the lake, to his waist, and is holding someone or something under the water. He looks at me, with a cold, hard stare. I don’t know what to do. My visions have never been so vivid, and the splashing and gurgling, attempts at breathe I hear makes this scene look as it’s happening in this moment. I have to do something, but I feel an anxiety attack gripping me and each time I try to take a step, a pain runs through my chest, taking all the air from my lungs.  Who is he trying to drown, and how am I supposed to use this vision for the good, save this person?? What benefit is this vision, if I am helpless to stop this? My heart is beating so hard, I can feel the thump in my ears, and I cry out for him to stop! “Who are you, why are you doing this?” I scream. I blink, I close my eyes so hard it hurts, and blink again, only to find his glare, still aimed at me, and a slow, evil grin creeps across his face. It is a woman struggling. I can see her long hair, as her head bobs up from the water, trying to claw at her assailant, trying to get to her feet to get away.

I sit down, frozen in my panic, and scream to persons unknown for help. No one can hear me. I am miles from another house. My head is throbbing, I cannot breathe and my legs feel as though they are glued together and I am helpless to do anything. The scene before me brings tears to my eyes, my throat is raw, and my body is doused with sweat.

I hear a scream, the woman has her head above water and she is gripping the man’s arms and clawing and tearing, “Who are you, why are you doing this?” she breathlessly wails. She has almost gotten her footing and he pushes her back down, attempting to place all his weight on her and take her life. Adrenaline kicks in and her strength is gaining, as she stands to face him, still slapping and struggling to break free. But she is no match for his strength, and her determination only fuels his fervor. He pushed her down once again and her arms go limp, as I scream for her not to give up.  It is at this moment I realize that the woman before me, fighting for her life, is me.

Darkness falls over my vision like a veil… a black, mourning veil.

***

TrickWild (AKA Angie Callahan) is a mother, wife, photographer, and bookworm. Click here to check out some of her work at her TrickWild stalker page!

A Perfect Night

by Becky Sain

The dogs bark constantly. They see a cat and bark. They see a squirrel and bark. They see a bird, a bug, a leaf blowing, a child walking… they bark. This gives her comfort, a living security system. She feels safe on the nights she stays up late editing the campus paper – the only freshman to have ever been named editor. She stays away from the sororities and fraternities, no late night trips to the local bars. Her world doesn’t involve friends or people even… her world is here, in her little house at the end of the street, in front of her computer with no one to bother her… just her and her dogs.

The dogs always stay at her feet while she sits at her desk, springing up and running to the window, barking at whatever catches their attention. Each night is the same as all the nights before, her school newspaper is all she is interested in, a doorway into the world of journalism. She doesn’t notice the world all around her, her world revolves around her computer –here, she is lost in her own words.

She sits in her chair at her hand-me-down desk, typing away. The words flow effortlessly this night. It is magical. Every thought makes its way to the computer screen flawlessly, no misspelled words, no unnecessary words, no pausing — just perfect writing, as if she is being taken over by something, something no one can see but she can feel.

It is Fall. A chill has just recently begun to show itself in the nighttime breeze. She has her windows open; it’s so quiet on her street. All the houses are tucked in and sleeping, the street lights are faintly bright, no sounds in her neighborhood. The absence of outside noise means her dogs haven’t jumped up to bark in hours — she is lost in the writing and has forgotten about their nightly walk until one of her dogs barely nudges her leg, bringing her out of her hypnotic state.

She looks at the clock and is shocked to see it is 2:30 am. She has been sitting at her computer since 7:00 that evening — never moving. She reluctantly pulls herself away from the computer, grabbing the leashes as she opens the door. The dogs smile and turn in circles with excitement, biting each others tails. She starts down the street on her usual path around the neighborhood, her thoughts are back at her desk, designing her next sentence, naming her next story — she smirks as she thinks about how amazing this writing session has been. She walks once around the block and heads back down towards her little house at the end of the street, barely visible under the fading street light. She thinks her house looks unusually dark from the street, she pauses before going in.

Settling back in, she grabs a bottle of water and positions herself into her chair, reigning over the computer in front of her — this is her kingdom — hoping she can return to the unbelievable writing zone she has been in that night. She pulls herself close to her old desk and looks hopeful at the screen, then begins typing again — once again the words flow effortlessly and she is lost in her own arrogance.

Barely 15 minutes has passed since they returned from their walk when the dogs jump up and start barking. She reaches down with one hand to calm them while still staring at the screen and typing with the other. They stop barking and put their heads back down. Another 5 minutes passes and the dogs start barking again. Again she calms them with the touch of her hand while never taking her eyes off the screen filled with the words she is creating. Almost instantly, the dogs jump up and start barking once again… this time with sharp growls and snarls, their hair standing up on their necks, rearing back on their haunches.

The anger in their barks startles her as she rotates her chair around to look at them… their barking grows louder. She walks over and closes the window she has open, hoping that blocks out the mysterious noise that is creating havoc for the dogs. She looks intently into the night to see whatever cat is causing her dogs to be so alarmed, but there is nothing. The streets are bare. As she turns around, expecting the dogs to be beside her, staring out the window at the phantom noise, she realizes they are still standing next to her desk, staring at her computer, their ears perked, their teeth bared, the bright glow from the computer screen making their eyes flash with anger.

She kneels down to pat the dogs as she eases back into her chair and begins to write… again the dogs bark wildly, gnashing their teeth, nipping at the air. She turns quickly to look at them, still unaware of what is making them so upset. She touches their heads and they stop snarling, look at her, then back to the glowing computer screen… their ears are perked.

She turns to look at her computer, not at the perfect words that she has been typing out all night, just to look at the screen — a spider maybe. She could feel her neck pulsate with each beat of her heart, she tries to hold her breath, listening and scanning for the cause of the nervousness that now envelopes her entire house. There is nothing, she sees nothing; she takes a deep breath, and begins her writing again. Immediately the dogs become vicious with their barks, baring their teeth, jumping at the screen, protecting her from something that isn’t there. She jerks around to quiet the dogs once again, it doesn’t work. They continue their assault on the air in front of the screen. She turns back to the screen, staring at it, moving her eyes from corner to corner, up and down, examining the screen so fast it makes her dizzy… trying desperately to see something only visible to the dogs.

There.

A flash, something moving across the bottom of the screen.

A face.

She leans in closer to the screen, wiping her eyes, wiping the screen. The dogs’ barks are becoming increasingly louder, they are frenzied; drooling, jumping, and rearing back.

There it is again, a blurry form, not quite a face – something more distorted.

She turns to the dogs but they are no longer willing to quiet at her command, their animal instincts more prominent than their domesticated obedience.

Quickly reeling around to face the screen again, the words are gone… all her flawless words, gone. The only thing there is the cause of all the frenzied behavior — a blurred outline of a face darting around on the screen, too fast to decipher its age or if it is a man or a child, too fast for her brain to register what it is. The dogs’ agitation heightens as she jumps out of her chair, tripping over them, falling clumsily to the floor.

The dogs continue their attack, trying to get in between her and the screen. She scrambles on the floor, crawling towards the front door, her legs refusing to allow her to stand. But, it’s too late, the distorted face grabs the back of her neck by its abyss of a mouth, and with a movement too quick to time, it pulls her into the screen, into the stories she is effortlessly typing out.

The room is quiet.

The computer screen glows.

The dogs stop their raucous attack immediately, confused, whining, whimpering — licking the screen in hopes of bringing her back.

They nestle down at the foot of her chair, waiting for her to return and type out the rest of her stories, waiting for her to take them on their next walk, waiting…

***

Becky Brewster Sain lives in the Nashville area with her three joyfully imaginative children and two large willful dogs, or is that large willful children and joyfully imaginative dogs? She writes poetry and prose on her blog, First Pages ( http://bsain.wordpress.com/ ) as well as a few scattered short stories. She is feverishly submitting poems and stories and trying to expand her creative boundaries. You can stalk her on twitter @beckysain or follow her Facebook page, First Pages.

Into The Dark

by Jay N. Daniel

I will disappear to nothing…

No pain…

No tears…

No rage…

No fears…

Nothing in my way, but myself…

Broken and used…

Sifting through the pieces of my heart, I see you…

One last thought…

One flickering memory…

Into the dark I walk.

***

No bio was given for Jay, however if you would like to know more about Jay, feel free to send 13Stories a message, and we will make sure he gets it!