Category: Joe Stanley

January 8, 2018 Add Comment

Apocalypse Man

by Joe Stanley

WELL DOCTOR, I WON’T WASTE your time. I know what I want… what I need to talk about. I’m gripped by a growing fear, a phobia, perhaps, but more like an obsession. You see, I fear death. I’m afraid to die. While I can imagine that is very common, there is more to it and the reason I fear it, I think you will find, is quite uncommon.

As a boy, I came close to death many times. These were, of course, terrifying experiences, but they were all the more because I didn’t fully understand. I knew intuitively that something terrible almost happened but incapable of appreciating what they really meant.

When I grew into a young man, the horrible truth began to dawn on me. At first, I told myself it was nothing more than luck that kept me alive. But, eventually, fortune alone could not suffice to convince me. Against the fear, I rose to challenge it by telling myself that something, some unknown force, was protecting me. It simply would not allow me to die.

I am sure my youth can account for such a perspective; it is such a child-like notion. You may understand that I became somewhat daring, even reckless, so sure I was of my blessed invulnerability.

Among my friends, there was a joke that the only word needed to describe me was ‘balls’.

But those same friends and members of my family have slowly and steadily died. The thought of death, as I said, must be an awful idea to the human mind, but to lose the ones you love to that grim and ghastly reaper is far worse. I began to suspect that death had spared me but taken them, and I even believe that my own life is bought with each and every demise.

In the effort to convince myself that I was wrong, I made a study of my near-death experiences and the losses of life that had occurred around me. Rather than disproving it, I did the complete opposite. I confirmed it.

Thus began my obsession with staying alive. I feared that each time I was in danger another taken in my place. I started observing a strict regimen of diet and exercise. I worried endlessly about my health. I began to guard myself from all dangers. I even quit my job and I rarely leave my house.

Traveling here was an exercise in courage; the roads are so dangerous…

I can’t climb a ladder. I throw out good food for fear it has gone bad. I won’t allow any kind of toxic chemicals in my home. I’ve become a hypochondriac. My family doctor practically groans each time he sees me, and I see him quite often.

I know it’s ridiculous. I know it must sound insane, but… it gets even worse.

A rational man recognizes that, when he dies, the world will go on without him. I myself, knowing so many that have passed on, can attest that we are still here. But I can’t shake the idea that I only live because others have gone in my place. And I am getting older, my health is, despite my precautions, beginning to fade.

In short, eventually, I must die. And what will happen when I die?

If I am right, if the universe has somehow made an effort to keep me alive, I don’t think this is for my sake. I believe it has done this through an effort to preserve itself. I could almost laugh it off, it’s ridiculous. But year after year, I’ve watched the world grow darker and vile. People, societies, nations… they all seem bent on annihilation. All around are wars, climate changes, pandemics, gang violence, terrorism and terrors I can’t even conceive.

And I am terrified that… When I die, the universe will come to an end. It’s just a matter of time. When I walk out that door, when I go out into that bloody, violent world… I risk it all, for everyone.

But, no matter what I do or don’t do, eventually I must die and there’s nothing I can do about it.

I must die…
and we will die….

-end-

January 1, 2018 Add Comment

Sonata of Madness

by Joe Stanley

IN THE CITY, THERE WERE TWO types of people. These were the wealthy and the poor. And while there was always the chance for the affluent to slip into poverty, seldom could the unfortunate advance their place.

But Charles was among those blessed to rise up from his station, having done so through a modest talent with music. For the arts were in high fashion, and his skill with the piano made him a man in demand for the gatherings of high society.

He was the greatest, he was a wizard with the keys of ebony and ivory. Respect and admiration were heaped upon him as was money and the attention of many a noble lady. They whispered in wonder for the true talent of his hands. His place among musicians brought to him all his lowly birth had failed to provide.

But to his ears there came a sound most vile. A rumor spoke of another whose hands were gifted by the gods. Seeking him out, Charles found this newcomer, this upstart, was younger and more handsome. Soon, only withered grandams lustily eyed the poor Charles. Like a lightning stroke, he discovered his good fortune could wane as well as wax.

Second best would not do for Charles, who wisely and treacherously kept this enemy close to his heart. He embraced him as a friend and took a place as his mentor and guide. Though he praised him, he despised him, and he pushed his protégé to play only the most difficult pieces in the hope he could discourage the boy or engineer a public failure. But the boy rose to meet the challenge every time.

This Damion, was little more than a child and his considerable talent could only grow. Already Charles was being eclipsed by this savant and he knew in time he would be forgotten. Thus, he began to plot and scheme, and the thought of murder even crossed his mind. His jealous rage grew until one night he was forced to quit a party while the younger man played on.

He wandered the dark and lonely streets. As he crossed the great bridge, he even contemplated throwing himself into the water. Staring down into the moon’s reflection, he swore he’d part with his very soul to be rid of his rival.

Though the night there came the clicking of a cane on the cobblestones and a gentleman who tipped his hat but suddenly stopped.
“I say,” he began with a twinkle in his eye, “Are you not the great pianist, the legendary Charles?”
“A legend soon to be forgotten…” grumbled Charles in reply.
“Ah,” said the stranger, “so, then, this Damion is indeed as good as I have heard?”
“Bah!” spat Charles.
“Oh, please forgive my thoughtlessness. I meant no offense. For I am seeking a musician, one of great talent and one who is courageous in heart.”
“Courageous?”
“Indeed. I have acquired sheets of music supposedly composed by Ludwig the Mad.”
“Impossible!”
“I should think so myself, for Ludwig seems to be more legend than fact,” he noted with a friendly chuckle. “They said his music was composed by a demon summoned up from Hell. But I tell you, having no talent of my own, I have sought any who could reveal this cryptic sound. None have been able to play the piece, most claim it is beyond the talent of mortal man. Some have even driven themselves quite insane with the effort.”
“The great Damion,” said Charles with a twinkle now in his eye, “is a student of mine. If you provide the piece, Mr…”
“Call me Nick.”
“If you provide the piece, Nick, I will provide the imminent Damion.”
“I think we have a deal,” said Nick. “Here is my card. You will find me at the address, say… tomorrow night?”
“That can be arranged.”
“And do be sure to warn the boy, I should hate for him to be ignorant of the risk.”
“I surely shall.”
“I would be a terrible fiend to deprive the world of a talent such as his. Would I not? On the morrow, then.”
Charles watched as Nick went clicking back into the night.

The address was a lonely place, but grand. Towering and broad, it put to shame the veritable palaces that once had brought them awe. The two agreed there must be royalty in the blood of Old Nick.

Lead by a servant, they soon found themselves in a great chamber. They did not wait for long. While Damion inspected the beautiful grand piano, Nick pulled Charles aside.
“You have warned him?”
“I have.” Charles lied.
“Well then, gentlemen, let us begin,” he said, as the servant placed the sheets on the stand.
Damion stared and for a moment his face wrinkled in confusion. But the instant Charles smiled in cruel satisfaction, Damion’s hands moved into place. And he played.

The sound began low and slow, like a dirge in Heaven, joined swiftly by higher notes that danced like bird’s song above the deeper chords. The melody and harmony were more beautiful, more perfectly suited for each other, than anything Charles had ever heard before. But more delightful still was the expression worn by Damion.

His concentrated labors brought sweat quickly to his brow. His mouth began to twitch, his eyes to dart, but he did not falter and pressed on.

And now the sound came faster like a falcon on the wing and like a falcon’s talons and beak it stuck with fury into the heart. It was a sound to make the thunder tremble, and angels singing could not match the sweetness.

There was the ripping of cloth as Damion tore his shirt to meet his marks. His face was frightened and pained from the effort, but still the maniac music rumbled on. His fingers were so frenzied they left the keys vermilion.

Then the sound transcended beauty, becoming something far beyond. For in it was fury and pain given an unholy musical form. Charles almost shrieked as the notes stabbed his ears and pummeled him like the fists of an angry mob.

“Stop!” He screamed, clutching his hands to his ears. But his pleas were swallowed in a diabolical crescendo, one so unearthly it drove him to the floor. Too late he realized it was not merely playing it that made men mad, but hearing it as well.

Damion collapsed across the keyboard gasping and groaning, his hands and fingers broken.
From the floor Charles alternately laughed and sobbed. His ears were now deaf and would never again hear anything else but the sound stuck inside his head.

And Old Nick smiled, applauding softly.

-end-

December 21, 2017 Add Comment

The Vase

by Joe Stanley

THE OLD MAN COULD TALK FOR HOURS. Granted, his stories were highly amusing whether one took them to be true or not. Had he ever committed them to paper, I have no doubt he would have been received as one of the pre-eminent storytellers of our age. This made the investment of considerable time somewhat more bearable.

Of his stories, those of a mundane nature showed him to be a man both worldly and wise, ergo, I took great caution in my approach. I gained much respect for the prowess which carried him on many adventures, for the intellect which guided him through the mysteries he had solved, and for the grandness of his heart which was no stranger to romance.

However, I discovered that his weakness was a common one, a love of spirits and an inability to hold them. Thus, whenever I wished, I could, with brandy or cognac, steer his focus to the tales of the preternatural sort. I was myself a materialist and gave no credence to the spiritual and mystic dross. Yet I indulged him, for among such fantasies was buried the key to a great treasure.

I would sit for hours listening until dusk was upon us and, feigning a chill, I would ask if I might pour us a drink. This he never declined. As appropriate to the somber setting of the later hours, I would be treated to the ghostly and macabre narrations of the darker thing uncovered in his many years abroad.
I will concede that I found them unnerving and disconcerting, not merely for the sake of his sanity, but for the sincerity and thoroughness with which he discussed such things as ghosts, vampires, shape-shifters, and a variety of curses and magical practices. A shudder often clung to me as I digested them before my sleep, a rest not achieved without effort.

No clue was given, my motives were as hidden as such things may be, and it was just a matter of time before he offered the object of my desires to me.

“All labors of men,” he began, “leave upon the world an unseen mark. In his artifice, his soul still breathes. The men of old were cut from different cloth, and their greatness endures from antiquity. Knowing what I have told you of those outer forces which foolish men have called gods, you may surmise that there are objects consecrated to beings of which no antiquarian has any knowledge.

“There is a world,” he went on, “which is to modern man considered ancient, but to these ancient men there was a world of even vaster remoteness. They knew both of the degenerate beast-men who were their great forefathers, and of those things which were not men but like men who had long since quit our earthly realm to leave almost nothing save dust.

“I say almost nothing,” he continued, but now his eyes were distant as though they looked back through time. “But there still lingers relics which were shaped by no human hand. In the desert that once cradled civilization, beneath the sand is a tomb reserved for the accursed, the condemned, the damned. At rest within this tomb was a fragment of that eldritch time. Sacred to gods no man has known or can name was a simple vase.”

It was this! This was why I had endured his company. It was this I meant to have.

“When we pried the ancient stone from the door, the very air that met us brought death and sickness. It was days later, and only by forcing in servants at gunpoint, that we found it safe to venture inside. We expected to find the remains of countless bodies, but there was not a bone in sight. It was a large but nearly vacant chamber, at the center of which was a pedestal and the vase.

“Three of us entered, but I alone emerged and the vase was mine. With it my fortune was secured and by it my misery assured. It has been a burden far greater than the boon I sought. From its possession I have been blessed with every treasure a man could want, but it has cost me things that no treasure could buy.

“You wish to see it…” he said, and I could only nod. “…Of course, follow me.”

We walked in silence through the manor, a sliver of the moon falling through the towering windows was our only light. I could scarcely contain my eagerness, following my elder’s pace. I licked my lips and checked my pockets, impatient to enact the final portion of my plot.

At the end of this structure’s wing, stairs descended into a circular vault. With the throwing of a single switch, I saw treasures in such numbers that my mind could not hope to recall them all. Most of these were placed along or hanging from the walls. But at the center of the room was a pedestal and upon it was the vase.

“You will not need that pistol,” he informed me, which only prompted me to produce it. And training it upon him, I met his smile.
“You will disable the alarm.” I commanded.
“There is none,” he replied.
“I don’t believe you. A man of your intellect, would just leave it to be seized by anyone who happens along?”
“You would do me a great service to take it, but I must plead with you to forget it. Take anything else. What you could carry from here would leave you wealthy beyond your dreams. Take the rest of these treasures, if you would rob me. But I would ask only two things, that you leave an old man with his last few years of life and that you would spare yourself the burden of the vase.”

At this I sneered and retorted, “That is a generous offer, but my client has hired me for no other purpose than to obtain it.”
“That is but the least of its curses. That it will be ever sought by villains. That none who know of it may ever be trusted as a friend.”
“Enough of this!” I thundered as I strode toward my goal. “Your tale is patently fiction. The vase is ancient, it is true, but… fashioned by nonhuman hands? Pray tell, why does it not differ from other examples of its kind?”
“Has it occurred to you that the others are but the imitation of an ancient art? Do events not convince you that its curse is playing out, even now? All this time, I knew you sought it. I tried to prepare you to understand that there is more to this world than can be known to eyes or hand. For the love of your own life! I will forgive you, my friend, but you must not…”
“Nonsense.” I interrupted, reaching out with my free hand, but as my fingers closed around it I heard him say… “The true secret is inside.”

It was beautiful, creamy white with countless subtle streaks of color that delicately slithered up and down its sides. But it was cold, icy to the touch, and it seemed that my fingers had frozen solid to it. I could not release my clutching hand.

Nor could I lift it, it was as though the weight of the world held it down. Too late did I notice the golden tray beneath it and understand.
An unseen fire blazed up my arm, my blood a hellish venom in my veins. Within me, the bones cracked and shattered like glass. I heard a shrieking wail of torment and recognized it as my own. The sound was distant, reaching me from a world that vanished into a creamy, white haze.

From that world.
I was lost forever…
Lost within the vase.

-end-

December 18, 2017 Add Comment

Heart of the Night – part three

by Joe Stanley

“If we are to save him, we must act now. We may already be too late.”
“Fool that I was not to have seen this sooner. Now I understand why he refused further treatment.”
“What shall we need?”

We scrambled out, into the heart of the night. The changes to the place had been unnerving, even beneath the sun, but now the darkness swallowed almost everything. Beyond the dim, yellow ring of our lantern light what glimpses I caught were distorted, nightmarish visions.

Against the faint horizon, trees turned and twisted though I felt no wind. The grass, long and wild, clutched at our feet and legs as though to slow our progress. Even the lifeline of light from the house behind us was seen as through smoked glass. It faded with each step and with each diminishing increment hope evaporated and fear grew.

Ahead, the family graveyard crawled slowly into view. The rusted, iron spikes of the fence permitted us to enter but as we passed they seemed to vow to hold us in forever. The gravestones, dark with age and mold, leaned as though disturbed from below. At last, the mausoleum stood before us. Its silence bespoke the keeping of unearthly secrets, its darkness nothing less than the promise of death.

It was impossible to speak, we progressed by some primal pattern known instinctively but mercifully discarded in everyday life. We simply moved, daring not to think, for to do so would force us to ponder the horror that lay ahead. As we forced the door, its sound was the groaning of a wound.

We paused only a moment making ready and sharing a look at each other. Then we stormed the darkness. The Reverend held the lantern and the crucifix, as the doctor and I searched for and found the refuge of the monster. The doctor kept the stake in hand, and I the mallet, as we forced the heavy lid.

As the hollow inched wider, my mind began to slip into panic. What horrid visions teased from the darkness in my mind. Would we find her whole and free of corruption? Or would a horrid corpse leap up and tear us to pieces with grave-honed claws? Of all the nightmares that flashed before me, none were so terrible as what we really saw.

Within, there was nothing, neither body nor bones.

Only too late did we realize that if she was not here then surely she must be…
One of us wailed and we tore back through the night. From the tomb and the field of the dead, through the serpent grass and toward the mocking lights. I had not run so fast or feared so much since I was a child.

The halls were longer, the stairs were taller and steeper. Every form and feature mocked my eyes, the house gave no more comfort than the tomb. Hence, I knew beforehand what we would find. As we tore into the bedroom, our hideous quest was done.

He lay still and quiet, looking up with open eyes. His face now free of his earthly burden, it wore a smile of utter and absolute peace. Numbly, I understood this was what he wanted, that the love he so cherished meant more to him than his life, than his soul itself. Perhaps he was right and we three fools were but villains whose failure was just.

We stood, silent and stunned, unable to ponder what dreadful things should be done. And then I heard, or thought I heard, as from a great distance, the happy laughter of Annabelle.

-end-