TALES TO CHILL AND SCARE
Triangle Macabre by Joe Stanley
Synopsis
Hired to appraise a legendary collection, an antiquarian discovers the treasure of a lifetime. Torn between two impossible desires, he faces a simple choice.
TALES FOR THE HOURS OF DARKNESS
Read online fiction created by Joe Stanley
by Joe Stanley
one
Friday night came with the usual gathering in the camp’s meeting tent. A new stack of beer cans in cardboard cases waited, the reward for a hard week’s work. Through its lubrication, the stuffy, formal discussions drown in the music and swam in playful silliness.
This and a work-free weekend promised the Professor’s students a little vacation in paradise. Here on the Professor’s family land, they were surrounded by a wilderness that could be harsh. That even the natives of the region weren’t found out here was proof of it.
The Professor brought students out here for the chance to experience fieldwork. They represented each of the college’s departments, and their work went to the book the Professor had been working on. Contributing students would be credited in that work, for some it would be the first steps of many into scientific academia.
They had come for the chance to earn that credit. It was an invaluable experience that promised to lead them on to greater opportunities.
Harold sunk into his chair, peering through sunglasses across the shining aluminum can. Beer, he thought, was a diabolical poison. It would lure you into a false sense of comfort, make you forget your troubles for a while. It always seemed to be there, standing by like a reliable friend, ready to convince you everything’s okay. Then, one day, you wake up to find you’re an alcoholic, with a dying liver. You’re not as smart, or funny or desirable as you thought you were. It tricked you into making a fool of yourself, and now you’re hung over too. Not to mention the disgusting gas, ready to escape you from both ends. Beer, my old fiend, he thought, you’re prince charming in a can.
He eyed them all with an intuitive suspicion, for intelligent people they were quick to ridicule and insult each other. As amusing as it was to watch intellectuals psycho-morph into drooling idiots, however, he had to admit it was more fun to join them. He promised himself that he’d try to keep his wits, he knew he was swimming with sharks in a sea of ethanol.
The music had died down and a discussion was hopping around the room, from person to person. He closed his eyes and listened, paying little attention to who said what, but following the journey from fact to fantasy with a strange sense of intrigue.
“They seem kind of typical, beliefs of cycles in nature, that the world has been made and remade. I think that at least smacks of the idea of evolution.”
“Science in the guise of superstition?” punctuated with laughter.
“I don’t think so, evolution is gradual, a world remade sounds like a sudden change. It hints that something existed before, people before people, so in the end nothing has really changed.”
“People before people, sounds like a reference to the predecessors of modern man. It is believed that we coexisted with other ‘things’ early in our history, and it’s almost implied that we not only knew of them, but that we had something to do with their disappearance.”
“It is a common idea, there’s a reference in the bible, something about giants, giants in the earth. I never really paid attention in Sunday school though. Then there’s the eternal headache of the story of Atlantis, though that’s obviously fiction…”
“Obviously?”
“It’s just a literary device to illustrate some point…political, social, cultural propaganda. Who cares?”
“These are from the dawn of recorded history, Stories of the old world before us. I think it’s to the point.”
“Atlantis isn’t just Plato’s story, it was obtained from the Egyptians. We know that they practiced the selective recording of history, that they omitted aspects they didn’t like. Are we really supposed to believe that they also didn’t indulge the urge to include things that weren’t true? I think it’s an issue to their credibility. If anything is suspect then all of it is questionable.”
“At any rate, you can’t even discover history in Egypt. It has to be approved by their historical society. Findings that contradict established beliefs are discredited, ridiculed and buried in the sand so to speak. Careers had been destroyed there.”
The thought of a dead career elicited a moment of silence.
“Sounds like they still have issues with the truth. I guess the Pharaohs still rule Egypt, despite the remade world.”
“It seems that without constant maintenance, the modern world would be largely gone in a few decades, and the last, lingering traces would be lucky to remain for a few centuries. If we just vanished, there’d be nothing to prove we were here for long. Really, who can say what might have been lost millions of years ago? The earth has seen multiple mass extinctions…”
“I think we can presume we’re the first of our kind, and the greatest so far.”
“Why though? If we’ve actually achieved anything significant… Remember that we have a ready means to self-disposal. What if there were, before us, other beings that had done the same?”
“Imagine that. Tempted by the ultimate evil they succumb! In the flashing fires of war, they burn their own civilization to ashes. Nature just rolls on, century by century, and the traces of them fade into nothing. Less than ghosts, lost forever.”
“But that’s why we’re here. That’s why we dig in the dirt and sweat in the burning sun. We’re not just looking for fossils or artifacts, we’re looking for the truth. When we find it, once we’ve decoded its lost language, we bring that truth to the world. We’re bearing the greatest gift.”
“Well, as long as Egyptologists agree with it…”
“Our lost friends believed it.”
Natives were a tricky subject. There were none out here, and those nearest had a questionable pedigree. They weren’t the authentic culture of the region, but a mixture of old and new worlds.
What they were like before was anyone’s guess. Even the Professor had little to say on the subject. After decades of research on the land itself, he offered nothing to pierce the veil of the unknown that shrouded them. Although a few human relics had turned up now and then, there was no evidence of any nearby human settlement.
“We don’t know what they believed, there really aren’t any of them left.”
“We have the stories they left behind. We can find the influence other cultures have had on them and, when we remove it, what remains is likely to be theirs.”
“That’s the problem. Early cultures, in their simplicity, are likely to have similar beliefs. It isn’t even surprising to hear the same story – a story of remade civilizations- the great flood for instance.”
“Human beings need resources to survive. Early settlements were by necessity near sources of water, usually by rivers. When people have lived by a river for centuries, it’s only natural that they would remember the floods and droughts that must occur. The death and destruction a flood could bring to those people is a ready-made cultural memory.”
“We find stories of a great deluge in early civilizations all over the world. We might start to wonder if they could really be talking about the same event. It’s more likely that a flood is a such powerful, universal symbol that people in riverside settlements would naturally include them in their myths and later in their history.”
“Even today we can trust the accounts of eye-witnesses. Embellishments and exaggeration usually hide the truth of things. When early people passed these stories on they were changed, no doubt, from ‘a big flood’ to the ‘biggest flood.’ It’s simple enough to guess that through traditions of ancestor worship, to honor the ancestors and their many struggles, they would interpret the famous flood as the greatest of all time.”
“The myth of the great flood, found all over the world, suggests itself as fact. Yet there is no evidence of a global deluge, there are only traces of floods that would have had a great impact on the people of the riverside.”
Having beaten a dead horse, the subject seemed ready to evaporate.
“On the subject of myths and remade worlds, I found a fable that referred to the last ‘makeover.’ At the end of it there were two groups – men from the old world and men from the new. The old man was bigger and stronger, while the new man was smaller and weaker. The talk about how the old ones drove them out of the forest kingdoms into a more dangerous world.”
“The new men were forced to use their minds to solve the problems they couldn’t meet physically.”
“There the story of the old ones becomes one of the bogeyman, a shrewd, hulking beast. Some relic of a lost world, it’s jealous of the new man and his fire. Children and the child-like people of this early culture had a reason to fear the dark, the forest depths, and the wild man or beast man that haunts it.”
“All together it makes for an interesting tale that’s largely entertaining, but the idea is more than just a universal fear, I think. Even if there is exaggeration, there must have been a kernel of truth that inspired it. Like the big flood that became the biggest flood there has to be something more because people really aren’t that creative.”
“Well, the waters of the great flood finally receded and man was given a new world. What did they get from old man of the forest?”
“According to the myth, he and his offspring still haunt the wilder places, places modern men have no use for. I would suppose that the benefit of this myth is a taboo of safety, preventing them from wandering far from home, keeping them safe and their culture together.”
“It is an interesting story, but without proof it’s just a story. We contradict ourselves, being both so ignorant that we don’t really know what’s going on, and at the same time we’re clever enough to lie and deceive. The poor truth, whatever it may be, has some difficult obstacles to cross.”
by Joe Stanley
I had once been a dashing, handsome man. My words could make men and women smile and laugh with joy. I knew a second childhood in those gatherings of us, the young lions. Of wine and song and, best of all, of women, I knew much. Our band of friends was strong and seemed a bond stronger than even that of blood. I preferred them in their best moods but had nursed them in their tantrums. Those of us who withstood the merry vigil were rewarded to watch the rising of the sun. There is magic in those moments that might outshine all the secrets of the stars.
What blessed angel brought her to me, or why, I know not. From that instant I laid eyes upon her, there could be no other. My gaze must have betrayed that yearning so painful. I feel I must have, for eons, already known its frantic distress. Without so much a word between us, our eyes made vows that moment. As I grew to know her, it was more like remembering. I whispered once that our meeting was but reuniting and we shared our tears for the sweetness of its truth.
My own good name and the prestige of my family earned me the blessing of her father. But even as I made special plans to ask her for her hand the world crumbled. She was gone. She lived no more. I would not accept it. They say I was mad with grief. I can not recall. I do remember friends coming round at last, trying to draw me back into the world. But in those sparkling lights and tinkling melodies my heart would seek her out. I’d glance around, so certain, for I felt her there still. My eyes would find her not and I’d remember, she was gone. Thankfully, there were no more parties when I proved a burden to the band. I was no longer who I had been.
In the endless dragging of days, I hungered for death to take me to her. Would it not condemn my soul to Hell, I’d take my own life. Surely, she had gone to paradise, so suffer on I must. I filled my days with books. To her memory, I would read what words of love I’d find. From the library window I watched a year pass. I exhausted the library and would gather books as I found them scattered elsewhere through the ancient house. I learned the storied history of our venerable line from journals, memoirs and diaries. I learned of the estate and its nebulous customs that were otherwise beneath me. I floated through the halls being little more than the whisper of a breeze.
In the long unused chapel, above the family crypt, the great book and notes on its lore of death waited to offend me. The book had said that living know that they will die, but the dead know nothing. I beg to disagree. I should prefer to think that she, somehow, can feel my yearning just as I still feel her in my heart. The soft light, filtered into colors by the stained glass, lit the gathering attended by grief, despair and hopeless fury.
“What know you, oh resplendent Lord, but thy own hateful perfection? Dare you stand in my shoes knowing only what I do? I had presumed that you watch over us, oh Creator, believing that we reflect the myriad within you. Perhaps I have in error disregarded the possibility that we are but the tiny and imperfect things that can dwell within thee not? Perhaps this world is Hell made perfect by appearing to merely be the earth? Just tell me that I am damned, if it is so. Just tell me it is alright to end this torment. And answer me you will not, so may have I surmised and spoiled thy secret?”
When at last my tears subsided, I turned from that hateful place and the repellent falsehood of its joyous, prismatic light. I stumbled back, through the dim and silent halls, to my chamber. The comfort there is spoiled by the vacancy on the bed beside me. I whispered into that void until sleep dimmed the world away. I longed to hear her voice, to know its melody. To the edge of consciousness I lingered passing through it to the faint tones of a harpsichord. Dare I dream I heard that whisper, “I… still… feel…”
by Joe Stanley
part 1
Smythe and Jaymes were the lowest of the low. They were ruffians and thieves and, some said, much, much worse. Between the two there was enough brains to stay ahead of justice.
But that is where the brains ran out. Throughout their partnership, an intense rivalry developed. No where else was their competition as fierce as it was in romantic affairs. They kept count of their conquests, spending the fortunes they stole to out do each other. But Jaymes, it seems, fell behind.
Jaymes had found something special.
For this, Smythe taunted him relentlessly. More than once they nearly came to blows over it. While Smythe would visit brothels, Jaymes would seek his sweetheart. Though Smythe believed that his partner would come around, Jaymes only seemed to fall deeper.
And much to Smythe’s dismay, Jaymes seemed to be reforming. He even spoke of settling down! How long, then, would it be until remorse set in and confessions were made? If confessions were made, how long until he implicated his old partner?
This wouldn’t do. In the interest of self-preservation, Smythe had to put an end to it. First he tried to seduce Jaymes’ beloved. In all fairness, thought Smythe, Jaymes was but a poor specimen, what woman would want him? Yet, that wench spurned his own advances and threatened to reveal them to Jaymes. So Smythe turned to the alternative.
One night on the docks, as they passed a bottle of rum between them, Smythe began.
“Brother, I’ve been unkind.”
Jaymes stared and asked, “How so?”
“I’ve begrudged you, out of ignorance, out of jealousy.”
Jaymes began to reply, but was waved off by Smythe.
“You have something I have never known, the love of a good woman. I don’t think I’ll ever have that, and I was wrong to ridicule it.”
“…”
“I think, my friend… Yes, I believe that you should retire. Settle down and make a life with the lovely girl you’ve found. You’re strong and young and I think you can find work.”
Jaymes was shocked, but smiling.
Then Smythe continued, “Too bad the pay is so…”
Jaymes nodded with a growing frown.
“I don’t know how I’ll get along with out you…” and after a drink, “I’ve been thinking of reforming myself!”
“Good!” said Jaymes, “My brother, I’m glad you said that.”
“I wish I had just a piece of the fortune I’ve wasted. It would make things so much easier…”
And, right on cue, Jaymes went on, “As do I.”
“Too bad we can’t pull off one more job… Might make settling down easier, but, no, I don’t want to draw you back into it.”
“Who says we can’t?”
“Think of the ring you could give her, eh?”
“Let’s do it!”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to…”
“Damn it all!” Jaymes cried, “For my brother, one more is not too much to ask!”
Smythe laughed and said, “I’ve got just the thing, the biggest, and easiest, we’ve ever done.”
“I’m in.”
“Hold on, now. We’ve…” and he leaned in close to whisper, “we’ve broken a lot of rules before, but this one is the biggest. For this last job, there will be no rules. If you can’t swear to go in with me, I’d prefer to call it off now.” He sat back enjoying Jaymes’ silence.
For a few long moments, Jaymes thought quietly. He knew that Smythe must have something terrible in mind, for Smythe never worried over breaking rules. But he had said it would be big and it would be safe. He finally broke the quiet, “For my brother, anything.”
“Good man,” replied Smythe, his twinkling eyes turned away.
by Joe Stanley
ii
Mr. John Chambers had as spotless a record as all the rest. At the point when I contacted him, it was more in the interest of completeness than anything else. But as he refused to answer or return my calls, I found myself more eager to have a word with him. I tried to visit him at his home. Having confirmed he was at his residence, I found his unwillingness to answer the door highly suspicious. But I had no authority to coerce him from the safety of his domicile, and, being at my wits end, I simply left him a note.
“Mr Chambers, I believe your life may be in danger and I think you do as well. I would like to offer my assistance. If you would like my help, please contact me at…”
It was only a few hours later that my hotel phone rang. A man’s voice slurred into the line.
“Bring it on. The door’s open.” was all he said.
He was telling the truth. A second visit to Chamber’s home found the front door open a crack. I entered with my heart pounding, wondering if I was too late or if a drunken Chambers was laying in wait to ambush me. It was the latter, but by then he was so inebriated that I stood before him before he knew I was there. As he came to his senses, he asked me, “…you here to burn me?”
When I answered to the negative, instead of seemed relieved, he only became more distraught.
“If it’s not you, then it’s him. Oh my God, it really is him.”
It took time to coax the story out, owing to the fact that he had no interest in sobering up. He poured himself drink after drink as he spoke.
“Andy, Bill, and I discovered an error in the charity’s books. A substantial amount of money had been mislaid and accounted for as spent. We took it, kept it for ourselves. I blew mine on a trip to Vegas. But, you know, we felt like we had earned it. We raise lots of money for the poor, the needy… We’ve bettered our community for years. We deserved it!”
I could not mask the contempt on my face, and he saw it even through his intoxicated eyes. He became defensive only for a moment then broke down into maudlin tears. It was a short time before he regained his composure and went on.
“Then along came Micheal Watson, the young buck on the board. I don’t know how he tracked the money down, but he did. He knew it all. That little bastard wouldn’t listen to reason. We told him we’d get it all back. But he had resolved to go to the police… Our lives, our reputations, they would have been destroyed. He might as well have put a bullet into each of our skulls. He was, as sure as that, going to kill us. We had to stop him.”
A coldness overtook his demeanor. He went on in such a way that his words chilled me. I’ve confronted serial killers who had more warmth.
“We were at the charity’s lodge, up on the lake. It was just the four of us. He was no match for three of us. We grabbed him and shoved his head into the fireplace. We held him there until we thought he was dead. Then we arranged a fire to cover things. Up there on the lake, it took the firefighters a long time to get there…”
At the time, his confession began to anger me, or so I thought. I recall feeling hotter and hotter.
“And now, somehow, he’s…” he said stopping as he realized the ridiculous continuation.
“…He’s come back.” I finished.
He began to laugh, a shrill, wild cackle born of a drunken mind and one that was already mad with guilt.
“Mr. Chambers,” I said, “I advise you to go to the police and come clean. If you don’t, then I will.”
His laughter had stopped, but not owing to my words. He was looking past me, or through me.
“He’s come back.” he whispered.
“Did you hear me, Mr. Chambers?”
“He’s come back.” he repeated, though louder and his distant eyes began to widen.
“Mr. Chambers?” I asked, quickly glancing behind me, but seeing nothing. As I turned back, he shrieked.
“He’s back!”
I saw wisps of smoke rising from the cuffs and collar of his shirt. There was a bright flash which blinded me for a second. I heard his screams, tormented wails that made me pity even him. To be burned alive was about as awful a way to die as I could imagine.
When my sight returned, he was engulfed in strange blue flames, they appeared to spout from various points of his body in sharp, hissing jets. I threw my coat around him, trying to smother the blaze.
A police investigation has begun into the death of Micheal Watson and the missing money. It seems the truth will come out. Chambers is now a patient in the intensive care ward. He has struggled for his life every day since in constant agony.
If he ever recovers, he will stand trial for his crimes.
Perhaps, in a strange and terrible way, there are worse things than dying in fire.
-end-
by Joe Stanley
AS A PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR, I’ve seen more than a fair share of strange things. In fact, the human animal is perhaps the sole source of all that is odd and bizarre in this world… perhaps.
One of my most puzzling cases began when an associate called me in for a consultation. A death had occurred, the details of which were familiar, ghastly and disturbing.
Neighbors had observed copious amounts of sooty smoke billowing from a house. Firefighters quickly arrived and entered the home.
Though the smoke was thick, there was little damage, save to the remains of a body. It had been mostly reduced to ashes, excepting a forearm and both lower legs. The blaze must have been terrific, judging by the damage to the body and the scorching on nearby objects, but the fire itself seemed to have been limited to the corpse. Officially, the death was ruled an accident, but explanations were notably lacking.
“Spontaneous human combustion,” I explained to my associate, “is a rare phenomena. The current hypothesis is called “wicking”. It’s believed that body fat acts much like lamp oil, feeding the burning clothing which acts as a wick. The body is posited to be slowly consumed, much like a candle.”
I was forced to concede the explanation was far from satisfactory. How such a process could reduce even the bones to ash, a task that normally requires the special furnace of a crematorium, was the major challenge to the wick hypothesis.
How the fire started, why it did not spread, etc. where all other valid problems the idea did not address.
And, while my career reveals a fondness for mystery, presented with this challenge, I felt wholly inadequate. I saw no way I could hope to solve a mystery that had perplexed even some of the world’s top minds. I was further displeased to have this case before me owing to a certain squeamishness at the very idea that such things could happen.
The thought that, at any moment, one might burst into flames and die a horrible and painful death, was one that I will admit unnerved me. But my associate drew my attention to a second case. The phenomena is so rare that to see another incident in the same town gave me the faintest glimmer of a hope that some progress might be made.
My suggestion was an obvious one, to seek out the connection between the two victims. While this may not illuminate the cause of the fires, it may shed some light elsewhere. Under these specific circumstances, I was forced to proceed with the notion that a third element might be involved. The connection between the victims could possibly be a means of discovering this agent.
It was not a difficult search for the link. The two had known each other well. They had gone to school together, graduating high school the same year. More recently, both had served on the board of directors of a charitable organization. I could not uncover any bad blood between them, nor between them and anyone else.
And here I must mention something personal, something that illustrates my view of the strangeness that attend us all. As an investigator, I must often listen to my intuition. For one who deals in evidence, who makes his way by reason, I admit that going on instinct is as irrational as one can be. But my gut was telling me these were not random events, and that the cause was not merely some natural force we simply don’t understand yet.
For the life of me, I swear I could sense that another person was involved. Who this was and what power or method they had at their disposal, I could not say. But the nature of the deaths made me all but certain such a presence was malign, and mad with cruelty, one yearning for a fiery revenge.
But, as I have said, I had no means of supporting such a notion. Still, during my work, I occasionally felt as though I was being watched, or my progress monitored. I even began trying to trick and trap this unseen agent, though to no avail.
When I felt those eyes upon me, I was grateful for the snub-nosed revolver I carry. More than once I woke in the night, anticipating that an assassin would burst through my hotel room door and incinerate me. One night, I even thought I saw a silhouette in the gloom, but it vanished when I threw on the light. I would come to understand, however, that I was not the only one who lived in dread of the unknown assailant.
The vast majority of my inquiries left me no closer to a solution than I had started with. I will spare the weeks of pointless interviews and conferences with police and members of the scientific community. The other board members of the charity seemed like my last chance, but one by one they all went to nothing.
All but one.