Tag: Joe Stanley

Old Mother Mudd

by Joe Stanley

THE DEVIL’S GOT NOTHING TO DO WITH IT,” said the witch, “And he can’t get you out of this anymore than praying is going to fill up that store house.”

The village elders sat like guilty schoolboys before a stern and angry mistress. They stared down at the table or flashed helpless glances to each other. These men, hellfire and brimstone brethren, would have been the first to hang a witch, but old Mother Mudd was not to be trifled with.

They said she was a hundred years old, or older, and she had lived in the forest to the west since long before these latest settlers had built their palisades.

“No,” she continued, after enjoying their silence for a long while. “There’s no magic words to save you from this. I’ve seen men starve before and it’s more horrible than you imagine.”

Headman James opened his mouth, his face twisted in rage, but the witch just rolled on.

“When your cows and sheep are gone, you’re going to slaughter those scrawny horses. When they’re gone, you’re going to kill and eat your hounds. By then, the winter’s going to be as cold as it gets. Right about the time you start gnawing on old boot leather, people are going to start dying.”

Headman James’ expression twisted even more and sank into despair. His mind was filled with visions of his children crying and begging him for food.

“Now,” she said, her voice dropping down to a growl. “What’s going to happen when those hungry people realize that there’s meat?”

One of the elders covered his mouth, as though he would be sick, or perhaps to keep from screaming.

“I don’t have to tell you what The Church has to say about that. Some will survive, but what good is life when it costs you so much?”

Here, the old banshee rose and turned toward the door. The righteous men that sat around the hall made no move to stop her. But after a careful step, she paused and turned back.

“And all of this because you can’t think properly. I just can’t leave until I give you a clue. It wouldn’t be… right.”

At that word, the corners of her formless mouth turned up in a diabolical sneer. Headman James, his eyes still blurry, knew what was coming and he was ready to make the deal.

“The problem,” said old Mother Mudd, resuming her march toward the door, “is in how you’re looking at it. You see it only as not having enough food.”

James called after her as she made to pass the threshold.

“How else can we see it?”

“Well,” said the witch, her voice matter-of-fact, “You’d have plenty of food if you didn’t have so many people. And there are many here you wouldn’t mind being rid of, aren’t there?”

Glancing back through sightless eyes that sparkled, she finished.

“You just send them to me.”

-end-

back to previous story

Mirage

by Joe Stanley

THAT HARES MULTIPLY RAPIDLY and voraciously assaulted the garden prompted me to suggest that some sport might be had in culling their numbers. Grandfather, a judge and councilman, had no time (or energy due to his advanced age) but eagerly nodded in approval.

The next morn, I was dressed and outfitted for a long hike around the grounds. With shotgun tucked under my arm and a pouch full of shells, I crept along the bordering forest in search of the long-eared vermin.

With but a few potshots, I had driven them deeper into the woods. Finding a narrow game trail, I stalked them into the trees. The deeper I went, the thicker the trunks became and I found myself quickly beyond sight of the house.

The dry leaves crackled beneath my feet, echoing through the stand. I felt as alone as I have ever known. But something drove me on, around the twisted trunks, through the shrubs and up and down the contours of the forest floor.

At last, I broke through a wall of clawing thorns into a field of long, swaying grass. I could see a great house of soft gray stone. The windows were dark, but on a balcony I caught sight of an exquisite beauty.

She wore a crimson gown, accented with gleaming lace. Her golden honey hair spilled down in curled luxurious locks. She stared to the west, toward the sea, as if beyond the horizon itself.

Though I hallooed and waved, she paid me no heed. I drifted closer, finding her more beautiful with each step. I was smitten by the softness of her features, by the brooding depth of her attention.

I confess a burning jealousy of whatever could command her gaze.

But in that angelic countenance, I discerned sadness and even despair. Though I yearned to call again, some strange sense of reverence forced me to silence.

I lingered in that state unaware of all else.

My name rang out from the forest behind snapping me from my trance. The hour had grown late. Turning back to her, I saw with a sinking heart that she had vanished.

Likewise, I reluctantly went back the way I came.

“You gave us quite the scare,” chided grandfather, but, when I explained, his face took on touches of genuine discomfort. When I had finished, he paused for a moment.

“My boy,” he began. “You saw no such thing. It was but the setting ruby sun reflected in what glass may remain. The golden hair but its flaring corona…”

I did not understand.

“I know the place of which you speak,” he explained, “and none have lived there for centuries.”

After supper, a restless night awaited me. I was haunted by her face and the features I recalled so clearly. The sun was rising before I found sleep.

Late the next afternoon, I woke to a work crew constructing a wall along the forest.

Grandfather assures me it will keep the hares out.

-end-

The Reflection

by Joe Stanley

AS THE SUN DESCENDED, guests arrived in growing numbers. By the time it had set, the great house was overflowing.

The wealthy, beautiful, and privileged stood chatting and laughing or walking slowly along admiring the paintings and sculptures that lined the walls. The staff was bustling, champagne here, hors d’oeuvres there…

It would have pleased, but hardly surprised, her to know this gathering would be talked about for decades to come.

But her mind lingered on a visitor… a guest she welcomed more than any other. Pulled, as if by some magnetic force, she was drawn through the great house. Somehow, she knew he had arrived.

As the doors were opened, her heart raced. It skipped a long, breathless beat when she finally saw him. He held a beautiful bouquet of flowers, his irresistible face smiling warmly.

“Please come in!” she begged, her voice floating in, as if from far away.

“Thank you,” was the reply. His voice was a deep, dark sound, flavored by a strange accent that few would be able to place.

For a moment, they spoke. It was but the pleasant ritual of greeting and small talk. But hovering above such meaningless banter, another, a greater communication was taking place.

Just to feel his eyes upon her was a bliss that rendered her nearly mindless. The voice of her thoughts fell silent, and through his gaze, through his eyes, wordless messages were spoken. She understood.

They would part for a time, he was to mingle. They would meet again later… soon.

Then, she pined, it would happen!

He looked a man seasoned, yet young and at the peak of his health. His clothes were so fine, even though they were of foreign cut and outdated, that they were both tasteful and avant garde.

He walked among them a magnificent thing to which all deferred enthusiastic attention.

The masquerade was but a simple game.

When he wished, he had their attention. When he wished, he would leave them wishing he had stayed.

He was merely browsing, grading and sorting the victims to come. His will impressed itself upon them, conditioning them to desire his arrival.

None could bring themselves to see the malignant strangeness that attended him. Their minds could not handle such a truth. In a desperate defense of their sanity, it would not let them see.

He had even stood too close to one of the floral arrangements. By the time he stepped away, the blossoms were withered and dead. Still, all was unseen by simple mortal eyes.

All night he had refused food and drink. But now thirst began to drive him.

He called, in his silent way, as he sought a place of privacy, of proper seclusion.

With steps that made no sound, he strolled slowly across the room, waiting.

His head snapped to one side, his eyes locked on a pier glass.

Still playing the game, her voice whispered, “At last.”

He continued to stare at the mirror. To him, she was babbling.

“You look wonderful… You stand out perfectly…”

Silly, fool woman… as if he needed her encouragement. She stepped in front of him, as though she could seize his attention.

A glowing, living spirit before him, she was radiant with the warmth of life. Her beauty, her charms, and the priceless treasure of her affection would have pleased any man.

But, of course, he was not a man… not any more. It was but a sport born of necessity to pretend to be one.

Looming behind her in the glass, his image was a horror that wore the visage of the grave. His flesh was but a leathery shell, clinging to darkened bone.

One does not escape those fires unchanged.

It was a corpse but for one regard, those bright and lidless eyes which almost seemed to pulse with life. But what held them in their form was not life, but some loathsome force, vile and unnatural.

Its fangs visibly lengthened as it looked back to her. Starry eyed, she floated forward, baring her throat. Her took her, warm and living, into his arms.

On one side of a mirror, a handsome man kissed a beautiful woman. On the other, a fiend, a monster, drank blood from her neck…

-end-

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-