Tag: Joe Stanley

part three of three by Joe Stanley

BRIEFLY, I SLEPT, DRIFTING BACK INTO THE darkness from some horrid and half-remembered dream. Drenched in sweat, my breaths heaved as my heart pounded in my ears. As I regained my composure, other sounds reached me. The gentle padding of rain soothed me just enough to catch what seemed like heavy footsteps plodding away down the hall.

I feared that I might have shrieked and woke my host, though Maryanne lay motionless beside me.

Quickly I slipped from the bed and stole to door. I listened, my temple pressed against the jamb. But I heard nothing from beyond and when I dared a timid glance, I saw nothing but the dim, moonlit hall.

I chuckled to myself, wondering if I had missed my chance to spot a ghost. Little did I know that it would be the last time joy or laughter would escape my lips.

The air was chill and the bed seemed to welcome me back to the soft, warm blankets. As I sat down, Maryanne rolled toward me and I had already leaned in to kiss her before I realized something was terribly wrong. Her eyes were open but they did not look to me. They stared unseeing as if upon something that rested beyond the sky. Her delicate, slender neck was marked by deep and brutal bruises, the porcelain flesh cold and lifeless.

Then I must have screamed as I scrambled from the bed. Sickened by the sight and stunned with horror, I staggered from the room in search of help. My calls went unanswered, fading back into the silence of the dark and soon I pounded on the door of my host’s room.

In the swirling chaos of my mind, I felt great anger rise. I hammered the door open and stormed into the room. The light was even less inside and the switch gave no relief. But I could make out the heap of a body beneath the blankets. It did not stir. As I drew closer, my foot struck an object, which clattered, across the floor leaving black smudges.

Here, I can vaguely recall leaning in slowly and noting the same blackness splattered out from the pillow. I traced the sinister streaks to a pool of blackness, to the battered and crushed nightmare driven deeply down into the pillow.

The next thing I recall is moving down the hallway in pursuit of my host, my friend. I now knew him as a killer.

The body in his bed was dear Danielle, his wife. Surely it may be understood that I was mad with grief and my heart cried out for vengeance.

Room by room, I searched for him until the only possible refuge was before me. I thought I understood why he would hide there, with the hideous statue that had driven him to madness.

A strange silence had overtaken me and the gentle squeal of the hinges rose as the door turned away. At once, I saw him, as he must have meant me to see. He rocked slightly side to side, paying me no mind. For his bulging eyes were as sightless as my own Maryanne’s. With a thick, rough rope, he had done himself in and dangled from the rafters.

History had repeated itself. Once again the house was the scene of murder and suicide. I stood alone, the only living soul, wondering how it was that I survived. And turning with furious contempt, I meant to destroy the monstrous statue. But, to my dismay, I discovered that it had vanished.

My mind fought stubbornly to deny the assembly of wretched fragments, of the heavy plodding steps, of the brutal murders, of the missing statue… I backed away, fighting every irrational instinct that begged me to flee. When at last my courage failed, a sight that came as I turned halted me.

I saw the damnable thing.

It stood gazing at me, its cruel features lit with a maniacal glee. But this hellish visage was none that could ever know my rage, for it stared from a mirror, from where my reflection should have been. And then it laughed, an utterly inhuman croaking cackle, and it vanished. I saw myself, now soaked with bloody spatter and felt the rope burns in my hands.

I, a skeptic, know full well that my story will be dismissed, that I shall be called a liar if not a madman. Justice will not be done until someone held accountable, and who else would that be if not myself?

That I fled in terror will be taken as an admission of guilt, ere I have unwittingly confessed. But I beg you, if not for my sake, then for the sake of my dearest and most beloved friends, do not be content to know that I have taken my own life. For the killer, a daemon of cold, unfeeling stone will not die with me.

-end-

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part two of three by Joe Stanley

“IT’S A CURIOUS STORY IN ITS OWN RIGHT of how I found this place” he began, after we all agreed to stay the night. “It’s the sort of coincidence that gives me cause to pause. But forget that as the story starts most properly across the ocean…”

“A man and his bride had gone on a honeymoon tour of Europe. In addition to the great cities, they passed through tiny villages where time seemed to have stopped. The people lived the way they had for centuries, if not millennia. In those places, traditions are strong and superstition is never disregarded.

“At any rate, it was a colorful celebration that caught the attention of the happy couple and to better take in the festivities, they booked a room at the village inn. Wandering through the spectacle, they happened on a great pile of rubble surmounting a nearby hill. Though the difference in languages made communication difficult, they were able to piece together that the celebration and the ruin had much in common.

“They were marking an unseemly event, that of an execution. This figure so despised that they would not even speak his name. That he had once been the lord of these lands, they conceded, and that his position inherited through his bloodline. For ages, this family had ruled in terror from their donjon on the hill. There were whispered tales of debauchery and perversion, and the very serious charge of practicing the dark arts.

“The people were not unfamiliar with the disappearances of those who stayed out late at night. These they tolerated out of helplessness, like the draconian law that saw men imprisoned for life, for undeserving or even fabricated crimes. It took the vanishing of a young and beloved maiden to bring the villagers to revolt. With the blessing of a priest, they stormed the tower and found their fears well-founded.

“At his trial, the black heart said nothing. He merely smirked at each charge and the heaps of ghastly evidence brought nothing from him but a sneer. At the pronouncement he was silent. It was not until they bound him to the stake and lit the fire that he spoke. It said that the curse he uttered was so vile that it brought a frenzied terror to all and struck down others with madness. He is said to have cackled long after a mortal man should have died.

“But their terrors were not over; indeed the horror had just begun. One by one, those who had charged and condemned him were murdered in unspeakably savage ways. The killings strangely attended by sightings of an inhuman beast. The people knew a fear even greater than before, and now they had no villain to seek out. When the last of his accusers had been slaughtered, the creature was seen atop the tower.

“Even the priest was powerless to cast out the infernal monster and a hurled piece of masonry sent him to the hereafter. So the people dragged a canon through the streets and blasted down the tower. The ground of this wickedness hurriedly blessed and the sightings and killings stopped. But each year since, the people celebrate the death of the wicked lord and the sundering of his tower.

“The man was so impressed by the tale that he combed the ruins, finding little but shattered rubble. But among the devastated stone, he uncovered what he believed to be a statue. Against the urging of the villagers, he had it packaged up and shipped home.”

Here he paused to refill his glass. While his tale had made me thoughtful, I noted that he fought against his own unease.

“That is quite a story…” I began, but he went on.

“The man in question, being of idle wealth, had his own interest in the occult. The statue was the centerpiece of a party he threw upon his return. His friends and associates were men and women after his own heart, but all were mere dabblers and had no idea of the curse they brought to life.

“At one point in their revelries, a séance was performed using the statue as a fetter to reach the vanquished lord. The results were so terrifying that some left the gathering immediately afterward. These wise and lucky few would give no details, countering inquiry by questioning what good it could ever do to disturb a soul that burns in Hell.

“There were indeed many questions that arose from the events of that night. By the morning, the few who remained were as cold and lifeless as stone. It widely upheld that the host had gone on a drunken, murderous rampage. When his rage had subsided, it is believed, he saw the horror of what he had done and hung himself.

“As I said, these walls have known blood and death. As for the statue, I ask you, my skeptical friend, would you care to see it?”

I don’t remember answering; the four of us seemed to float to the room he had neglected to show us earlier. I may have distantly wondered what prank might await me, but I felt myself committed to seeing things out, for whatever end as may be.

The room was large and long, with visible rafters that vanished into the shadows above us. It was a library of sorts, though I recognized many objects of esoteric and arcane purpose. There were the trinkets of dozens of mystic traditions, charms, talismans, scrolls and books best unmentioned. An evil, inscribed mirror doubled the wickedness in the room, but our eyes focused on a silk-shrouded form.

With a flourished, he pulled the cloth away and we laid eyes upon it.

“A gargoyle,” I muttered, barely aware of his nod. I was somewhat taken aback by the simplicity of its form. It was not a winged, reptilian monster as I might have imagined, but was far closer to the human shape. However, I was not disappointed as to its fearsome appearance.

Its build was stocky and brutish, more bestial than man. In its posture there was menace and it seemed more than ready to leap to murderous life despite being made of stone. Its face was a hobgoblin, drawn from the hellish nightmares of a superstitious mind. The weathering, it had known for perhaps centuries, did little to lessen its intimidating gaze; rather it had brought the curious effect of making this fantastic thing look like a corpse. Strangely it was more horrid for the suggestion of having once been alive.

Maryanne and Danielle have long since turned from the specter and that broke the spell holding me transfixed. Frank, who may well have gloated didn’t seem to be interested at having unnerved me. Like me, he stared at the thing, instinctively repelled yet fascinated.

“I think the ladies have had enough,” I said.
“I hope I haven’t frightened you too much,” he mumbled, a touch of shame visible in his face.
“Well done,” I told him and knew I needn’t say no more.

We returned to the table, having sealed up the door, but not even a full glass of wine could loosen our tongues. Accordingly, we said goodnight looking forward very much to the light of morning.

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part one of three by Joe Stanley

FRANK AND I HAD BEEN FRIENDS since school days. We were first united by a mutual interest in the occult. We shared the child-like dream of discovering the secrets of myth and legend. In time, my own interests became more scholarly while he devotedly pursued the subject as a rare and misunderstood reality.

What once linked us in friendship now bound us in a friendly rivalry. He was determined to convince me of the possibility; I was determined to reject all but the very concrete evidence that has evaded all investigators thus far. I still appreciated the stories he brought me, though they were nothing more than literature to me.

I will admit that I found some of these reports to be quite compelling. More than once he presented facts I could not account for, at least not politely. But the best he ever accomplished was for me to observe that all we truly know about the unknown is that we know nothing. Nonetheless, we had many enriching conversations and never became hostile despite this fundamental difference of perspective.

For a time he became scarce, and I worried that I might have gone too far in some refutation. I was happily proven wrong. He invited my girlfriend and me to join him and his wife for a weekend at a house they had rented for the occasion.

He happily informed me that he believed the place was ‘active’ spiritually, and that it was an otherwise beautiful and tranquil place. Even if a casual investigation came to nothing, he assured me, the country air was quite refreshing.

On the long drive, Maryanne and I had a chance to spend some quiet time together. I knew I truly loved her and wondering why I had not yet asked for her hand in marriage. We both found the green of the hills and fields to be a welcome change, though the ever-increasing remoteness had the effect of turning each mile into a nearly mystic transition. But these little shudders I put aside.

When we finally saw the house, we marveled at the small fortune it must have taken to secure it. It waited at the end of a long and lonely private road, and it was undeniable that, despite its beauty, it held a subtle hint of an unearthly atmosphere. This sensation is difficult to describe, somehow some ordinary aspect or feature would seize me with dread. And even as I tried to identify what it was that so affected me, it would be gone.

At the sound of the car, Frank and Danielle came out to meet us. Their greetings, fond and friendly, and contained, like the house, an impression of something else. It was as though they were grateful they were no longer alone. A strange sort of relief was clearly in their features. As Maryanne and I unloaded our things from the car, we whispered about it. I told her it was possible that they had already spooked themselves without us, and while chiding me I was happy to see her somewhat relieved herself.

We toured the place, admiring the quality of artistic touches that shined from everywhere. It was clear the house designed by nothing short of a genius and its value must have been an astronomical sum. There was beauty within and without, and but for the occasional tinge of inexplicable oddness, I might have thought of the place as paradise.

As we finished our walk, Maryanne noted there was one room on the ground floor that we had not explored. Our host simply told us that was for later.

I knew it was not for beauty alone that Frank had brought us here.

As I offered up the steaks we brought for the grill, I tried to pry more information from him. He smiled devilishly, savoring my interest, but insisted that I would have to wait… the wait, he promised, was worthwhile.

The four of us shared a pleasant evening, talking and laughing as the sun sank slowly down. We shared a few bottles of delicious wine, and as that ancient elixir took effect our host broached the subject of our sojourn.

“You, I’m sure, have noticed something odd about the house. Well, now it’s time for me to tell you what may be the cause. I will warn you that the tale is for neither the timid nor the squeamish, and, for all I know, it may be better if we load up the cars right now and tell the tale somewhere else.”
“Bravo,” I teased, “but unless you intend to do us harm, I think we shall all be alright.”
“I am completely serious,” he stated with a tone that indeed made me uneasy. “It isn’t me you have to worry about.”
“Spirits?” I asked incredulously. “You mean to say the ghosts here are dangerous?”
“I assure you,” he replied, “it is not ghosts that trouble me, but if any place I’ve been was haunted it would be here. These walls have seen death, blood and murder, but I blame no haunting spirit for the sense of menace that I have felt here, or for what I’ve seen on your face. But, now, I’ve got ahead of myself.”

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