Category: Joe Stanley

Devil’s Iron

by Joe Stanley

IN THE SUMMER OF ’66, wounds were still fresh. The world had changed, but in a way not all saw as better. Though no armies remained to fight, there was a generation dulled to killing and full of resentment.

Some just couldn’t go back to an ordinary life, not after what they’d seen… what they’d done. Others had no life to go back to at all. Cropping up among them was a new breed of outlaw.

The town of Sommersmill, tucked away in the sleepy southern countryside, was a pot ready to boil over. It had survived the war intact only to begin feuding in the aftermath.

There was a young man by the name of James Wells. He was never quite right after the horrors of the battlefield and would become nearly unhinged at talk of restoration. One night, at the saloon, a heated argument broke out.

James, who was unarmed and frightfully thin, found himself against three large, well-fed men. They not only threw him out of the saloon, they beat him right in the middle of the street. Truthfully, they took it further than it needed to go.

He lay there for most of half an hour before he could crawl to his horse and ride away. Not a soul stirred to help him.

No one saw him for most of a month. Some said he was healing busted ribs, others said he went off to die. So when he came riding back into town, beneath the full moon, some were sure they’d seen a ghost.

He looked half dead, at least. His skin was gray, and his eyes were fixed in an eerie way. They’d snap toward the slightest movement, in a gaze cold and reptilian. People cleared the streets to escape those predatory, hunting eyes.

As the last light of the sun faded, he hitched his horse outside the saloon. I was near the door and when I saw him, I shivered.

He didn’t look like a man to me. He was some looming specter, like a shadow thrown tall against a wall. I put my whiskey down and didn’t touch it again. I couldn’t drink to death walking up those steps.

The saloon can get rambunctious, but normally it’s just a din of curses and laughter with piano tunes dancing on top of it all. As I was near the door, though, I could hear outside.

I could hear the voice of Sunny Boulder, the mayor. He had a loud voice, suitable to a politician.

“Glad to see you up on your feet, James.”

There was nothing in reply.

“Whoa, hang on,” came Sunny’s voice, “Where do you think you’re going wearing them?”

Again, no answer.

“Now, look here!” Sunny pressed, “You’re going to end up dead on the floor or at the end of a rope.”

Nothing still.

“Alright!” came Sunny’s last words, “You’re coming with me, I’m placing you under citizen’s arrest.”

The saloon fell silent as a single shot thundered just outside. Nobody moved or spoke, they just looked at each other, sick fear in their shocked eyes.

Then he stepped in, his boots were awful damn loud. He slid a fresh cartridge into his six-gun, then he lifted those eyes.

Two of the men that had beat him down stood with their backs to the bar. The other folks near them scampered away.

“Y-you g-gonna hang…” stuttered one, his voice cracking like some kid.

“It ain’t a fair fight!” said the other, larger man, “You come in already drawing on us!”

James said nothing, but thumbed the hammer back.

The larger man went for his gun and James dropped his hammer. A second boom roared. The mirror behind the bar cracked and shattered. The big man keeled over, hitting the floor with a heavy, lifeless plop.

The other man pissed his pants and tears were welling up in his eyes.

“Oh, come on Jimmy!” he begged with a childlike voice, “I’ve known you since we was kids! I’m sorry for what happened. We was wrong! Jimmy…”

James thumbed the hammer back again.

Outlaw or not, what happened next was the most astounding gunfight I have ever seen.

The third man, who had been upstairs in the company of one of those lovely soiled doves, made to ambush the killer from high. I don’t see how a careful shot could have missed, but the bellow faded and James was still standing.

He had turned and fired back. The third man fell into the railing and broke through it. The one at the bar tried to draw his pistol. It was only about halfway raised when James’ arm brought his own barrel back on target. The last man just froze.

In that instant, I could see the mortal fear in his eyes and at the shot that followed I saw life leave them. The falling man hit the ground right about the moment the last man slumped to the floor.

For the first time that night, James spoke. His voice was a gravelly growl, I would have sworn it wasn’t the voice of a man at all.

“You tell the sheriff, and any man that thinks he’s fit for a posse, that I’m looking forward to killing them all.”

He laughed, and by my God, I’ve never heard a sound like that.

“I made a deal,” he went on, “with the Prince of Darkness. Every one I get is coming to Hell with me.”

Then, he just turned and walked slowly out of the saloon and into the night. No one moved or spoke until his horse had galloped away.

From where he had stood, a trail of small, dark puddles marked his steps to the doors. But they weren’t blood, no, not red at all.

They were black, like the sky between the stars.

-end-

Waters Dark and Deep

by Joe Stanley

FROM THAT DISMAL WORLD, HE FLED. It asked too much and gave too little, nothing at all, in fact. True, there were friends and family but, while they cared and were kind, he was different. He had known this for as long as he had known anything. They tried to bring him into the fold, to help him join the world, but they didn’t understand the damage they were causing. They told him what to think, how to feel, and what to want, but in their eyes he could see the truth.

They were miserable, locked into a stagnant and sterile process called life. It was unfathomable to them to think he wanted no part of it. It was essential for him to flee, to break the stifling chains – even if only for a little while. His mind, his heart, his very soul needed to escape before he withered and became like them.

So he would grab his fishing pole and scurry off, down the train-tracks to a piece of the world that was as of yet not corrupted. What a contrast was made between the gentle curves of the river bank and the way the tracks cut savagely through the hillsides, leaving ragged walls of sharp and jagged blades. The trees stared in silent shock at the void where their fellows once stood. But just down the hill, behind the evergreen and ever vigilant watchers was their secret, his favorite and only place in the world.

They welcomed him with the hiss of the wind through their leaves. The murmur of the slow water called out its greeting. The sandy bank was a cushion no king had ever known, the pebbles at the water’s edge were gems that sparkled in the golden light of the sun. Here were the only friends and family he ever needed, the only treasure in all the world that mattered.

“Come and hide!” they all seemed to cry, knowing exactly what he desired. They crowded in to shelter and shield him. They loved him and, with all his heart, he loved them in return. He loved them so that he wished he might never have to go.

The fish were jumping happily and within moments of casting his line, there was a strike! Right away he knew it was heavier and stronger than anything he had ever caught before. It was hidden by the cloudy depths, but, little by little, he was hauling it to shore. As it rose from the deep, he saw that it was massive, and with horror he realized it was no fish, but the body of a girl.

He stood frozen as her pale face broke the surface. She looked like a life-sized doll, perfect and flawless. He had never known death before, but here she was radiant and brilliant. Her beauty and youth magnified the tragedy before him and left him still and silent for many moments.

He knew he must get help, that he must leave her, but he feared the waters would carry her away as quickly as they had produced her. With trembling steps on the slope, he inched down toward her, terrified but wanting to pull her to shore. The instant his fingers touched her, she spat water and began to gasp. As he watched in disbelief, having thrown himself back into the muddy bank, she sat up and began to cry. In a heartbeat he was beside her, patting her back, trying to comfort her.

She turned to him and the meeting of their eyes was magic. Hers were deep and dark, a wonderful earthy brown. They were strangely familiar and comforting, like his bed after a long and difficult day.

They said nothing to each other and yet said everything with nothing more than their breaths and the pounding of their hearts. They smiled and he was sure it was the first time in his life he had ever really smiled.

He took her hand and started up the bank, but as she tried to stand, she stumbled and pulled him into the water beside her. Even as he splashed up, she was beside him, her arms lifting him and the worry on her face nothing less than proof of genuine love. Her closeness was maddening and he could not keep his arms from returning her gentle clasp.

“Come with me,” he pleaded. But where, he wondered, back to the world I despise?

“I can’t,” she whispered, with the sadness of a truth that cannot be denied. “But you can come with me…”

Then her lips touched his, soft and sweet, and together they played and swam forever in waters dark and deep.

-end-

Shut in

by Joe Stanley

I‘VE HAD IT WITH THIS WORLD. I’m sick of this place and all the idiots out there. At this point, I look forward to the day when death grants me the peace of oblivion. I will rest far beyond the reach of stupidity. No, I’m not giving up. You won’t be rid of me so easily. I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of feeling sorry for me. You want someone to pity? Go look in a mirror, because you’re pathetic.

I wish you had listened to me. There’s so much I could tell you about things you can’t even conceive. I worked really hard in my studies. I unearthed some truths you wouldn’t believe. You had the chance to listen, as far as I’m concerned, it’s your loss.

I’m glad I own this house. This place is my fortress, its walls keep the world out. And that’s just the way I like it. No TV, no phone, no computer, I have everything I need, especially solitude.

I think I’m getting sick, though. I feel cold all the time and my appetite isn’t what it used to be. I haven’t eaten anything today. I don’t think my stomach can take it. After the last few days, especially…

I’ve never felt that kind of pain before. And I think…

I think there’s something wrong. Something is really, really wrong.

But I can’t go to the doctor. I can’t stand the thought of going outside, out into the world I despise, asking, no, begging for its help. And what if…

What if the doctor tells me I’m right?

Shouldn’t I face this with dignity? Haven’t I had a good, long life?

I’m probably making more out of it than I should.

It’s probably that smell, that sickening, unwashed, fetid, infected smell. It’s enough to turn a stomach of cast iron.

I’ve looked all over the house for what’s making that stink. I suspect it may be in the crawlspace beneath the floor. Or, oh God forbid, it’s in the ducts somewhere. That would explain it, why it smells so bad everywhere.

I’ll bet it would cost a pretty penny to have some “professional” come out and take care of that.

And how mortifying it would be to let them in here with all these gnats around. It’s not like I leave rotten food sitting around. They come from wherever that smell comes from. They’re almost as irritating as you are, buzzing in my face and ears all the time.

They’d cart me off to a home somewhere. I bet that would just make you smile, wouldn’t it? “That poor old man,” you’d say in that condescending, disingenuous way you have.

You want to see what’s really wretched, world? Like I said, you just go up to the mirror and you look in like this and…

Oh.

Well, I guess that explains the smell.

There are worms under my skin, I can see them crawling around. It doesn’t hurt, it’s just itchy.

It didn’t hurt until I tried to use the shotgun. Now it won’t stop hurting. And my head…

Do I have to go on forever like this?

Oh, how stupid I’ve been. I’m sorry. I hope you understand how sorry I am…

-end-

Silhouettes

by Joe Stanley

THE HOUSE WAS NEARLY A CENTURY OLD. It didn’t look unusual, there was no cloud of darkness hanging over it, or any other sign of things out of the ordinary. Nor can I say I was especially impressed by any of its features. It was just a house like any other, it seemed. Still, I somewhat resented the knowledge that it had already existed for a time likely to be longer than the longest life I might lead.

I had a room there and saw the coming and going of several others. They noticed things long before I did, things I dismissed at first. Science and my love for the understanding of the natural world would not permit me to indulge the claims I laughed off as puerile and ignorant superstition.

They said they saw things, things glimpsed from the corners of their eyes. Strange, shadowy things were said to peer around corners or from open door ways, vanishing when they turned toward images that they claimed had human form. At length, I began to notice them to, but I knew how suggestion plays upon the mind, especially in the long hours of the night, when silence and isolation conspire.

In the dreary dullness of my tedious and unfulfilling existence, I told myself, in my longing for a life, for companionship, I had stooped to the depths of desperation. Naturally, I ignored the strange things that became more and more frequent for fear of going mad, or rather for fear of admitting that I already had. Was I so pathetic, so lonely, and so stupid as to throw myself into what was unreal?

Besides, the world, the real world, was full of real problems and it was far more deserving of my concern. It was a troubled place, declining to a level of savagery that we had not known since we lived in caves instead of houses. So I turned my mind outward rather than inward, as if ignoring things would refute them. I reached out to friends, took up debate with noble enemies, all of whom were nothing more than electric phantoms, static images and typed words which I could pretend were evidence that I was not the failure I truly was.

For in my quest to sharpen my mind, I had closed it. I had murdered the very magic of life itself, the wonder and awe which alone make life worthwhile, the revelry of the endless mystery of it. And I found myself more and more alone when the day was done, or, to the point, not completely alone.

Storms had come for what seemed like weeks on end. While the sound of rain has always been a kind of music to me, soothing me and making the world seem clean and fresh again, the thunder was accompanied by other sounds, though I tried to deny them. These sounds, like scraping of heavy objects, became louder and more frequent and I reached the point where I could lie to myself no longer. They came not from the sky, but from the basement, from the attic, from the rooms around me, from rooms where no one should have been.

I’d arm myself and sweep the house, finding nothing again and again. But out of nowhere, the silhouettes would catch me off guard as soon as I had lowered it. I wondered what earthly weapons could protect me from my own insanity.

The crux came when one of these loomed in a door way. Heretofore they had been nothing but featureless shadows, an anonymous and gloomy dark gray. Though the vision was so brief as to be contained within a heartbeat, I saw a face. I saw eyes staring at me with a malign glee, eyes that knew I saw them and knew that they had seen me.

But they, like the world, had vanished all around me and at last I understood with an epiphany that broke my heart and sundered my soul. For those I had feared to be the dead coming to claim me, were the living I had left behind.

-end-

Specks

by Joe Stanley

THE INTERIOR WAS IN ORDER, unlike the exterior. Given its remoteness and few (if any) visitors, however, its state was understandable. My uncle’s life was a sad and lonely one. He saw me as the child he never had. I could barely recall him, but he had named me his heir.

Perhaps he knew how much alike we were. I also enjoyed long spans of solitude, as far from the world as I could manage. Lonely souls seem to recognize each other, but we give no more than a nod and then move on.

This place would suit me perfectly. It was filled with the treasures of a learned and well-adventured man. Each room was a museum that granted me hours of wonder.

Still, I often felt a presence while I wandered. In his study especially, I felt driven away by unseen eyes. For a time, I avoided that uncanny place.

One sleepless night, I set out to conquer that puerile fear.

He kept many journals with copious, scrawled notes. The difficulty of deciphering his handwriting was formidable, but the words uncovered made me weep.

It seems that he lost his mind near the end of his life. In light of this, his disappearance was all the more tragic. At least it made more sense.

Continuing my search, I found a strange pair of spectacles in his desk. They were more than lenses and a frame, sporting odd electronics or machinery. Trying them on, I found them quite blurry, but a knob allowed them to be focused.

A glimpse around the room was quite a different experience.

Certain things jumped out. Some were bathed in darkness, others seemed vivid, nearly luminescent. For a considerable time, I examined everything around me.

The lenses tired my eyes and gave me a headache. Absently, I stuck them in my pocket to scour the countless journals for any notes about them.

As I worked, I discovered that one of the bookshelves concealed a door. Beyond it, a staircase spiraled down into darkness. Finding a candle and matches, I soon had it burning and slowly descended the steps.

A large room spread out around me. Part was beneath the house and the remainder stretched on away from it. A fuse box near the bottom of the stairs flooded the cavernous chamber with light when I threw that venerable switch.

There were many benches covered in tools and the dust of years. But the center of this space captured my attention immediately.

Some bizarre contraption surrounded an arch of stone, apparently attached to it. This arch stood separate from any wall.

Seeing a control panel, I examined the dusty labels until I found a great button labeled ‘power.’ At the press of my thumb, it roared to life with a thundering raucous.

Instantly, I became aware of warm air. I would have thought I stood on a tropical beach instead of in that dusty vault. I began to fear the machine was burning.

A strange sense of presence confronted me again. I was certain that someone else stood with me, but all around, I saw nothing. I began to itch all over, maddeningly.

Suddenly, one of the light bulbs popped.

I scrambled to shut the machine down and panicked as the power button had no effect. Thankfully, I recalled the fuse box and threw the switch.

The machine fell silent and the lights went out, leaving me in darkness. I stumbled up the stairs scratching.

With the door sealed and concealed again, I examined my arms and hands and found them speckled with tiny, red welts.

Somehow, I must have blundered into a nest of spiders or mites. The thought of countless, tiny things crawling all over me drove me to the shower. The water was so soothing that I sat down and filled the tub.

I was thinking of hiring an exterminator when something caught my attention.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a strange, blurry speck. When I looked, there was nothing. As I settled back into the tub, I saw it again, zipping across the floor.

Again, when I looked, there was nothing. I waited, and, as nothing further happened, I put it out of mind.

While dressing, I recalled the spectacles and my task of sifting through the journals. The sun was up, and, though I was exhausted, I decided to press on.

While reading, I felt another bite. I searched but the culprit escaped me. I was on the edge of exasperation when I saw, in my periphery, another small, blurry speck.

Slipping on the spectacles, I was astounded.

Some small kidney or bean-shaped creature crawled along the floor. The cleft was pointed up and it went about on no fewer than nine spindly and multi-jointed legs. Using an empty jar, I captured this… bug.

Removing the glasses, it vanished, leaving an apparently empty jar. Through the lenses, I could see it plainly.

If this had been the biting creature, I wondered at the condition of the vault. With glasses ready and a lamp, I descended the stairs.

The walls, floor, and ceiling were covered in quivering beans.

Grabbing a board, I set about smashing every one I found. Many jumped on me, biting, but now I could see them!

Catching my breath, I turned to the arch.

Now that I knew what it was, the ravings of my uncle didn’t seem so far-fetched. I moved in to inspect it.

But, in the dusty floor, I found tracks leading away into the darkness. These were not the tracks of anything tiny. As I estimated its size, something scuttled slowly toward me.

I was right, it was the size of a couch.

They were mentioned in my uncle’s notes. Without their warm environment, they cannot last long. This is no comfort to me.

As I look at the countless tiny specks that cover me, I ponder his observation:

They do not bite to feed, but to lay their eggs.

-end-