Category: Joe Stanley

August 29, 2019 Add Comment

A Desperate Kiss

by Joe Stanley

Like the night before, my trip into town had found me at the tavern. Also like the night before, I had more ale than food. How I managed, in such a state, to walk the miles home through the dark and twisting forest, is something I can’t say.

Perhaps I needed the chill night air to sober me. The drink I needed to quench the smoldering anger, of a jealous fire within me. It worked for a time, numbing me to my shameful sense of failure and allowing me to pretend that I didn’t care. But it dawned on me eventually how out of place I was among the married men and happy couples around.

I believed it all would pass, that my heart would mend. If I stayed the course, undaunted by the anguish, then I would become the man that I was not. What could come from misery so conquered, if not the wisdom to appreciate whatever joy I might find later in life?

Beneath my feet, the trail lost its double and became somewhat familiar. I looked ahead and saw the roof of the barn where I slept. I thought of the soft heap of hay I would climb into and I pledged to sleep for a hundred years if not forevermore. But this simple plan could not withstand the memory of her smiling face and laughing eyes.

Those wondrous eyes had once looked on me with love and in those times, I believed in magic. I could see it in the sweetness of her features, an invisible light that made the whole world beautiful. Every sky was a painting made from heaven, every tree, every rock a priceless sculpture, and when the light of her shining eyes fell on me, I knew what it was to truly love, to live. How simple and right it had all seemed.

But with a terrible speed all of it had changed. She no longer laughed or smiled for me. She pulled away when I tried to take her hand in mine. She would not tell me, at first, what it was that troubled her, and I, a trusting fool, knew nothing else to do but grant her time. But in truth, I knew what was wrong, and it was me.

I was a common man, a poor man. Until this time that had meant little, for all men in our town were poor. Still, I was young and able-bodied so I was not without some prospects. It was the arrival of a wealthy bachelor that placed those prospects as near to nothing as could be. Within a few months, he had bought most of the farmland and began construction on a grand house overlooking the town.

Most of the better families courted his favor, offering their daughters as brides. As fate would have it, he chose the woman I loved, and she chose him over me. I tried to move on, but this humiliation lingered. It haunted my quiet moments, tormenting me with memories of happiness and love, constantly reminding me of what had been lost forever.

It was her face I saw when I closed my eyes. And when her voice called out through the darkness, I could scarcely believe it was real.

In the dark, I sat holding my breath and cursing my heart for pounding so loudly in my ears. The aching silence compelled me, in a voice almost too timid to be heard, to call back to her. Again, the silence surrounded me, but my heart screamed out into the night with neither word nor sound.

And to a joy so sharp that it pained me, I heard again, like faint and distant music, the voice of the only woman I will ever love. I was overwhelmed in the moment, thinking nothing of the oddness of the situation. With some effort, I lifted myself and stumbled toward the door.

Throwing it open, I gazed on an earth bathed in golden moonlight. My heart, lifted high by hope, came crashing down as my desperate eyes searched in vain. I saw no one and nothing. Yet, I was certain she was there.

“Mad,” I whispered to myself, “I have taken leave of my senses.”

Despair and rage swelled within me until I trembled. Tears blurred the scene before me, and I clutched my head while choking on a wail of misery.

“Invisible light,” I whispered, wishing for the impossible.

“Invisible light.” she whispered back.

As my hands slowly dropped from my eyes, I saw her standing there. She glowed with a radiance that put to shame even the full moon above. She was even more beautiful than I remembered and I shut my eyes and shook my head, unable to believe she was real. But she remained when I looked again, though she stood closer now, just beyond my reach.

“Help me,” she begged, and the sound of the pain in her words moved me in ways my own could not. But before I could say anything or even step toward her, she continued.

“Death has come to me tonight. In the form of a terrible hag, she stood over me and claimed the life of my child, even as he was born.”

I had no words. All I could do was reach out to take her hand in mine. This time she did not pull away.

“What a fool I have been.” she sighed, her eyes cast down, “I have ruined things for us. I’m so sorry…”

“No, no,” I tried, certain the fault was mine, that I had failed her and myself in being no more than I was. She would have none of it, though, and she stepped in. The closeness of her body woke every nerve in me and held me paralyzed, transfixed.

“I offered him the best years of my life, and why? His are already all but behind him. I should have stayed with you, you so young, so warm, so alive…”

Her hand, tniy, gentle, delicate, brushed across my chest until the open palm rested on my heart. A soft gasp escaped her lips as though the rare and priceless gift of life had made its splendor known.

“Will you come with me, my love? Can you forgive me?”

In truth, there had been times when I hated her. In weak moments, I had cursed her. Her rejection had been not only a condemnation from the one I loved more than life, it had been a denouncement from life itself.

But with her before me, I felt no more anger. My pain meant nothing, all I wanted was to make her happy, to ease her suffering. My words were unnecessary, she knew the answer having drawn it from my very heart itself.

I did not care that she was married. I had no concern for what the hateful gossips would say. Even of the God who presumed providence over their union, I cared nothing. All that mattered was the meeting of two hearts that were meant for each other.

Her arms wound themselves around me and mine around her. She was cold and I clutched her closer to me, trying to warm her from the night. Her cheek against my jaw felt like ice but I had no time to ponder this as she turned her face up to me and her cold lips met mine.

Such a desperate kiss, I have never known. I tasted her kiss, so sweet and yet so strong. Her grip tightened, her nails dug into me, I did not care. To hold her, to kiss her, and in this simple act, to become one with her… This was all I cared for.

I did not even care when I tasted blood.

I heard the ripping of cloth as her nails cut into my flesh. My body now fought to escape, but it was too late. She held me with the arms of a statue, as if her body was made of steel. My head turned and I gasped for air, exposing my neck to her hungry fangs.

The world disappeared in two blazing points of pain. Agony surged with each pulse of my racing heart. I could feel my life escaping, blazing in the fire of her love. Steadily, the beats slowed.

I fell into darkness…

And into eternal love.

-end-

August 15, 2019 Add Comment

How does your garden grow?

by Joe Stanley

Above the roar of the tiller, he mopped the sweat from his eyes. He glanced at the nearby houses, sure that eyes were staring back. The neighbors were always watching, always concerned with whatever business wasn’t their own. Still, if he waited for privacy, he’d never get anything done. There were eyes always watching, even the pebbles beneath his feet were looking up, staring expectantly. Grind them back down, he thought, eyes always watching, even when there were no eyes… grind them back down…

The new guy seemed alright. He kept himself to himself, just looking for a place to retire, to be left alone. It took weeks for him to catch on to the grapevine, where he had already been a popular subject. In gossip from the neighbors, something was revealed that the real estate agent had failed to disclose, that the former owner had killed himself in the residence.

But there was no time for such tragedy and drama, there was something else, something real, going on. Strange noises suggested someone was prowling around the yard in the dark. Yanking back the curtain one night, he saw nothing but heard the sound of heavy steps running away.

The garden had been going well, so well, in fact, he couldn’t give all the vegetables away. Just the same, they wouldn’t want them if they knew… But maybe things were going too well. The grass grew faster, the weeds cropped up taller, and even the flowers, the enormous blossoms that made him proud and his neighbors jealous, now nauseated him with their sickly-sweet scent. The neighbors got a show when he went screeching across the yard after battering one of the gigantic things down with a rake. No one knew what it was all about, it made no sense… He was screaming about its face, about its staring eyes.

The heat grew and grew. The endless rain fed the sprawling green around him. The two in conspiracy turned the air into a stifling, suffocating mugginess that left him weaker by the day. Caring for the yard pushed him to his limits, the jokes he made about a heart attack or heat stroke were indeed only half jokes.

It was almost like the place was stealing his life away as the weeds grew greener and taller. The rain was not enough, they were thirsty for sweat… and even blood. He watched from the windows at all hours, convinced someone was there, but to his horror they no longer ran away. He longed to confront these invaders, but to his shame he was too frightened to go outside after dark.

They say, towards the end, that he disappeared into the house. He was never a friendly person, so no one missed him for a long time. All they knew, or cared about, was that he let the yard go to hell.

It became a twisted tangle of weeds, vines, and saplings with the hideously large and grotesque flowers peeking up and out of the mess. Once the growth slacked off in fall, a particularly determined (and nosey) evangelical made the discovery. After pushing aside a blue monstrosity and peeping through a gap in the blinds, he saw a sight that even his savior could never erase from his mind.

He saw the moldy splatter blown up the wall and the leathery corpse less those parts of the head lost to the shotgun blast. The withered hands still clutched it, as though still hoping that it could grant mercy and peace.

They say the new guy didn’t last too long, either. He had taken to patrolling the property at night. They did not know or care that his fear had grown so great that any price to know the truth was better than to tremble in the dark. There was someone there, he knew there was, but he had long since abandoned the belief that they were living. Before his eyes, ghostly forms had taken shape, stepping from the leaves to stare, then stepping back again. But the night would keep its secrets cold and quiet. The truth was only found in a daylight stroll when he stepped off the path his steps had worn along the garden. His eyes had turned from a giant blue flower, a loathsome thing he wished to avoid, drawn down to a snapping noise beneath his foot. Staring up from the soil, one of but many that would be found, was a fragment of a human skull. It was staring up, even without its eyes…

-end-

August 1, 2019 Add Comment

Entombed

by Joe Stanley

The tomb offered refuge from the burning heat of the desert day. The freezing chill of night, however, went equally unnoticed. Engrossed in the work, he sat for hours carefully cleaning and thoroughly documenting every fragment he came across. This was a life’s dream realized, and he savored every moment regardless if the moment was hot or cold.

To see hieroglyphs and the iconic art firsthand had left him in this state of rapture, but even since the first glance, something troubled him. He was only beginning to admit to himself that he had ordered his examination in a strange way. Typically, there would be a priority, where some things were placed before others. As he reviewed his mental list, he found it suggested that some things had been given a kind of negative priority, placed behind or after all others.

Why? He asked himself, What am I afraid of? Am I really… afraid?

Slowly, his eyes went to their corners, followed by a cautious turn of his head. Immediately, he wanted to turn away, to go back to the artifacts before him, back to his careful notes. But what kind of archaeologist would he be to fail to investigate something he knew or believed might be wrong? That very uniqueness would set a find apart from others and make it more valuable to the world…

Drawing in a deep breath, he rose from his seat, taking a lantern and a brush. Stepping to the wall where the funerary spells were inscribed, he gave one the first careful inspection it had known for thousands of years. He nearly cried out.

This can’t be, he argued with himself, a mistake like this is impossible, unthinkable. By the time this tomb had been built, the spells had long been formalized… In fact, it seemed like more than a mere error. Moving to the next spell, he found another, and yet another in the third. As the truth dawned on him, he whispered aloud.

“This was no accident.”

The echo of his voice hissed back from the shadowy corners and the hateful walls. His stomach twisted in a knot, his head throbbed with a pulse that ran faster and faster. The silence that engulfed him spoke as though with the voice of thunder. It grew thicker and heavier, as if to crush him in the grip of a giant, invisible fist. For a moment, he thought he would die and fall among the cursed dust.

But a sound called loudly from the night. A winding engine announced a rare visitor to the remote site. He took this chance and staggered from the tomb for what felt like the first time in eons. But his reprieve would be short-lived, as soon he and his guest stood once again in the heart of the tomb.

“Indeed,” observed the minister, “Your dig is going quite well. Such a splendid find! And such a pity that your work may all be in vain.” To the confused look this provoked, he went on.

“There was a terrible mistake made in allowing you to work here, an oversight. This region has been specially reserved by the council for generations of archaeologists to come. Native archaeologists.”

The words struck like a dagger into his heart. He could not contain the puerile outrage that warped his features.

“I’m afraid the excavation will have to cease. There is simply no channel by which your discoveries can reach the public. No official channels, at any rate.”

He didn’t have to ask what that meant. The black-market was always open, always available.

“Perhaps,” said his visitor, removing a bottle and two clinking glasses from his satchel, “you and I can make a special arrangement. Perhaps, if you help me, I can help you. Is it not better to salvage what you can rather than lose it all?”

He took the glass and downed it with a long, slow swallow. He needed it. More than for his contempt for this parasite, the tomb felt more unfriendly than before. Had he been a religious man, he might have noted that the painted figures on the walls seemed like devils or demons, things in the shape of men, but not men.

“Perhaps, if you’ve found something valuable, you were mistaken… Perhaps there was no such thing, eh?”

“I haven’t been through it all yet, but…” he gestured to a cabinet where processed items had been placed. He felt sick. But why shouldn’t he, for what he really offered was his integrity. With this, he threw away a lifetime’s work.

“Mostly junk, trinkets, bah!” spat the minister, “What did you find in the mummy’s wrappings?”

“I haven’t unwrapped it.”

The man’s eyes nearly popped from his head. Then his face softened and the hint of a hateful smile touched his lips. It was condescending pity, judgement that held more venom than a thousand insults could.

“Then, for the sake of your labors, I would say it is time we did.”

He watched with horror as the minister pryed and levered the sarcophagus open, doing irreparable harm. How the man could be so irreverent was a shock. He grunted and cursed and practically flung the lid across the chamber.

“Help me, you damned fool. Clear the table.” he commanded, and then took it upon himself to sweep the contents to the floor, “Help me get the mummy on the table. Here, have the bottle, finish it.”

He took another drink. He needed it, he felt awful.

“You had better hope we find something in here, or you will leave this country empty handed and will never return as a professional.” his laugh was deep, “I have seen it so many times, the western expert unapproachable in his legitimacy. How quickly it goes out the window when things become difficult. Not feeling so well?”

Pain doubled him over and his vision faded for a moment. He heard the sound of linen tearing and a triumphant laugh.

“Ha! Minister of antiquities! My name is Mustafa! And this is a gem. I’ve never seen a heart scarab like this one before. A unique find! I congratulate you. Too bad no one will ever know it was your discovery.”

He slumped to his knees and Mustafa’s arm lifted him with no effort.

“Perhaps there is some consolation,” he grunted after dumping him in the sarcophagus, “That you will get to be with your beloved history forever. Perhaps someday someone will discover you. Goodbye.”

The silhouette disappeared but a moment, returning with the lid. The shadow swelled until the light had died. To the mystical-seeing eyes of the ancients, this place would be unclean, unholy… obscene. He tried to scream, but a weak groan was all that escaped his lips. With the weakness of a newborn kitten, he batted at the lid and clawed helplessly.

But where he own screams had failed him, Mustafa’s rang loud. They were in his native tongue, terrified and pathetic wails of pain.

With a last effort, he struck again at the lid and saw a sliver of light. The screams had stopped. He faded into darkness.

When he finally awoke and crawled from the ancient coffin, neither Mustafa nor the mummy could be found. On the floor lay a priceless object, a unique heart-scarab just as the bandit had said.

Like the mangled spells which condemned the tomb and its occupants, the heart scarab was cursed to hold the dead in the tomb until such time as it had crumbled to dust.

-end-

July 2, 2019 Add Comment

Legacy

by Joe Stanley

1

In the dark, a tarnished door knob turns painfully slow. The hand that twists it is a patient one, one with years of practice. Little by little, the door creeps open, but only so far as to allow passage, not far enough for the ancient hinges to make their tell-tale squeal.

Slow, too, are the steps taken across the gray and splintering hardwood floors, avoiding the spots that creak and groan. But a nearly empty fifth of bourbon on the table beside the bed assures that the sleeper will not be easily roused.

To see the old man sleeping peacefully, one would not notice anything amiss about him. Even in slumber, his face seems friendly and kind. Of all nature’s cruel tricks, this may be her most vile. For a long moment, nothing happens, or at least nothing that can be seen.

Within, however, sadness, fear, and anger grow boundlessly and meld into a hatred that few hearts have ever known. This hatred raises a hand as high as it can reach. Rage brings it down, driving in the blade it clutches to the hilt.

The old man’s eyes and mouth pop open. A weak, pathetic noise escapes his lips. It is a sound of pain, of confusion, and one of mortal fear. He reaches for the wound and the hand pulls the blade away, slinging red across flaking, dull paint. Down it falls again and again… until all noise has ceased, until long after life has gone.

The killer pauses to regard the prey. Just like that, the burden is lifted, the fury has gone. The old man is nothing more than rotting meat now, a thought that prompts a bitter smile. But the night’s work isn’t over, there is one more task that must be done.

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The Ghostly World Fictional Ghost Stories

May 13, 2019 Add Comment

Reborn

by Joe Stanley

There was darkness, thick and inky, all around me. And there were other things in the darkness with me. I felt their fingers, or claws, tearing at me, it was the most awful sensation I’ve ever known. For what seemed like ages, I could not move and was at the mercy of beastly things which knew of no such thing.

I believed I was in Hell, that this would be my eternity, ravaged and violated until the end of time. I wanted to fade into that darkness. I wanted to become nothing. And I almost did.

But there came a light into this horrid Hades. Brilliant and pure, it held a power in itself like the rays of a million suns. At its touch, I could move and I fought and fought, scratching and climbing toward the light.

I found myself in a hospital bed with a mob of doctors and nurses scrambling around me. They said it was a miracle, that I had been in a coma, one from which I was not expected to recover. But when I asked what happened, how I got here, they looked at each other. In silent agreement this question they declined to answer. It would not be until I saw a psychiatrist that those details would be discussed.

But I had enough to keep me occupied. My body had atrophied while I “slumbered”. I had to learn how to use my arms and legs again, how to make my fingers work… It was slow and humiliating, but I was determined.

The doctor who saw to my mental state, Dr. Elizabeth, as she liked to be called, was a renowned expert, a specialist who helped battered women. Apparently, my boyfriend had tried to kill me. Something about this revelation rang true, I could almost remember fists and knuckles, hands around my neck… Naturally, I didn’t want to dwell on it. Dr. Elizabeth disagreed.

I was happy to forget. To think that someone I loved could do that to me is what really hurts. Why the doctor wanted me to regain these memories made no sense to me. She even went as far as to imply that my mental state might delay my eventual release. She seemed determined to “empower” me by dragging me back to a place I had no desire to revisit. She crossed a line when she slid a photograph across her desk to me, a picture of him.

I looked at it, at him. I felt nothing at all. There was no anger, no fear, no sadness. He was just a man. I almost laughed when I wondered why I would be with someone like him. After the attack, he had been tried and convicted of attempted murder. I didn’t care.

The life I had was over. Maybe the person I was really died or something. I felt no connection to that old life, no affinity for that person I once was. All I wanted was to move again, to walk and to walk out of that place. Once again I surprised the staff by making rapid progress. I was so proud when I could finally make it all the way around the floor.

I often passed an elderly man, a patient like myself. He had a kind, smiling face and he always encouraged me, as though my struggle was his own. Reaching his room felt like visiting an old friend. He always met me at the door. It was only when I spoke to the nurses about him that I knew something was wrong.

There was no patient by his name, at least not anymore. A man with the same name, one known well by the staff, had died two months before I woke up.

I knew what was happening. I knew to hide it from everyone, especially Dr. Elizabeth.

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The Ghostly World Fictional Ghost Stories