Tag: Joe Stanley

August 20, 2017 Add Comment

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-

August 20, 2017 Add Comment

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-

July 8, 2017 Add Comment

Heirloom

by Joe Stanley

THE FAMILY WAS DYING OUT and I had to say good riddance. There seemed to be a curse on our name. Rather than dramatic tragedy, we were plagued by a tedious resentment and petty spite for the world and each other.

I never married for a childish, superstitious fear that such bitterness would be perpetuated.

That the name would die with me was a wish I made for the world.

Still, I wondered about the family before my grandparents. I knew little until my great aunt passed. As I perused her effects at the estate sale, I found a compelling link, a bridge, to the past.

It was a portrait, clearly of a considerable age, of someone to whom I was obviously related. The family resemblance was undeniable. Alas, none remained to elucidate this man’s identity.

The painting was given to me by my aunt’s heirs- a new bloodline with a new name. Perhaps they did this out of pity, perhaps they were happy to be rid of it.

I hung it in my room, also my study, frequently finding myself drawn to examine it closely. This long dead and utterly unreachable man was the first of my line that I had a desire to know.

Often, as I drifted to sleep, I felt a vague, fleeting connection. I would wake from dreams I couldn’t quite remember with a mixture of sadness, fear, and excitement.

Then, I began to notice stranger things. At first, these were little things.

I’d catch myself humming or whistling tunes I couldn’t name. The moment I’d realize I was doing it, it would cease.

Then, I found myself catching little glimpses of places I’d never been, imagining faces I’d never seen before. These visions would jump into mind and leave me gripped in an anxiety I couldn’t account for.

Sometimes, as I dozed off, I would hear faint voices having conversations. I would snap wide awake, knowing I was completely alone.

And always, the portrait held some detail I had never noticed, drawn to my attention as if I dimly remembered something I had long forgotten. The portrait soothed me somehow.

Though I told myself it was all silly, I was convinced that there was more to this. It was as if I stood on one side of a door sealed with an unbreakable lock.

How I yearned for the key.

For reasons I can’t explain, I began to search antique shops and bookstores. I spent what money I could spare buying things that felt… familiar. It was among the latter sort that I found an old journal.

I could not read the odd language or understand the strange symbols within, but the handwriting I knew! It was almost identical to mine.

One night, I awoke with this book in my hands as though I had been reading. The portrait, staring down at me, smiled its reassuring smile.

From then on, I spent many long days at the library, trying to decipher the journal’s enigmatic pages. I identified several languages, both modern and ancient. Among them was another which defied all efforts at decryption.

One night, as I studied the painting, I was surprised by a phone call.

It seemed I had put my small house on the market and I had an offer. Though I was alarmed, I heard myself speaking calmly, assuring the real-estate agent that the offer was acceptable.

Apparently, I was willing to settle for less than its worth due to the rush I was in.

I told myself the other house was bigger and could be had for less.

Truly, it was. After a long ride far into the sleepy countryside, I found it just beyond a tiny town. I had never seen this place before, but I somehow knew it.

It sat atop a smooth, round hill, overlooking a deep valley filled with shadows. I shuddered at the thought of the strange, wild things that scurried beneath its bloodthirsty brambles. The chilly breeze that swept constantly along that crevice made even the trees seem to shudder with life.

Inside, I seemed to know what to expect. The floor plan was as familiar as the house I had abandoned. It was fully furnished with antiques that had waited patiently since the passing of the previous owner.

When I stopped for lunch in town and asked directions, the locals had fallen silent. They couldn’t tell me much about this man that could be stated for a fact. Most of what was said was rumor, wild and frankly ridiculous.

One old codger even had the audacity to recommend that I have the place torn down. But seeing the fine shape it was in, I could hardly tolerate such an idea.

My few belongings arrived the next day. Though the towering and cavernous rooms were uncluttered, I knew such things did not match or belong. I resolved to discard them. I had no more need for them. But for two things…

The portrait, once returned to the vacant spot above the fireplace, somehow completed everything.

The journal proved a wise investment on my part.

It has perfectly preserved all my experiments. The laboratory will benefit from modern advancements soon enough. Now, I can simply pick up where I had left off and press on to places I could never reach before.

Those damnable, simple-minded villagers thought they were rid of me? I’ll show them horrors beyond those their grandparents knew. Like those worthless relatives of mine, I will see them dwindle and perish, as they deserve.

Still, now that I reflect on the portrait, I see the time for change has come. I shall let it hang until another can be commissioned. The suit is long out of style.

And, besides, his face is pathetic and weak. His eyes are full of fear and his expression seems more than a bit touched by madness. I should prefer not to see it again.

I much prefer the face I wear now, the old one.

-end-

forward to season end story

July 8, 2017 Add Comment

Consumer Warning

by Joe Stanley

NOT TOO LONG AGO, A REVOLUTIONARY MOBILE DEVICE was released to the public for testing. They no longer manufacture this particular model. This was not due to obsolescence, however.

A young lady was among the few that received it. According to her best friend, the woman was very pleased with its light-weight, sleek design, its numerous features and apps, and its ability to find a signal, even in places other phones would fail. Her favorite detail was the incredible picture quality which out-performed even the most advanced models available now.

She was constantly playing with this electronic toy, talking, texting, and snapping pictures and videos, especially selfies. Shortly after receiving it, she attended a wedding where, like many others, she took numerous pictures of the bride, groom, wedding party and their families, as well as the beautiful scenery surrounding the ceremony’s site.

That evening, as she looked through her pictures for any she might send to the bride, she noticed something odd in the background. A shadowy figure, far in the distance, seemed to be observing the wedding party. It leaned out from behind trees, peeked around corners, and gradually drew closer to the happy celebration.

Concerned that this might be a stalker, perhaps an ex-boyfriend, the woman immediately contacted the bride and forwarded the photos. The bride, however, was unimpressed by the pictures and neither she nor the groom knew of anyone holding a grudge toward them or of anyone who had been acting in such a strange manner.

Later that same night, the woman made a chilling call to her best friend. It seems it was not the newlyweds that were the subject of the figure’s interest, as she had found the same person lurking in every picture she had taken. Further, she began receiving strange and frightening texts from this unknown individual. A picture forwarded to the best friend showed someone peering through a window behind the woman in one of her selfies.

Her friend advised her to contact the police immediately, and the woman hung up to do just that. The friend became worried as first an hour, then another, passed and the woman had not called her back and could not be reached by phone. Quickly driving to the woman’s apartment, she found it dark and quiet and the door unanswered by her frantic knocks.

Summoning the police, they and the landlord entered the apartment. Finding no trace of the woman or any sign of foul play, they advised her friend that it all might be an elaborate hoax but wouldn’t let her enter the apartment as it could be a crime scene.

The woman has never been seen or heard from since.

However, shortly afterwards, strange stories began to circulate. According to these, the phone had been recovered from the kitchen trashcan. In addition to the images there were dozens of inexplicable texts which read such things as…

I’m coming for you

closer and closer

soon now

I want your life

These communications were not recorded by any of the nearby cell-towers and somehow simply appeared in the device’s memory. But far more disturbing were the rumors about the images the mobile contained.

The last photos that the missing woman appeared in showed her aging with each subsequent picture. The shadowy ‘person’ became more and more clear with each snap. The final image, apparently taken accidentally as the woman threw the device into the trash, showed an elderly woman being assaulted, not by a person, but by something that appeared to be a decomposing corpse.

Coincidentally, very soon after, the device was recalled due to “a dangerous, defective battery.”

While most of them have been returned, dozens remain unaccounted for.

NOTE: I have been contacted by a lawyer who informed me that should I mention the company or the specific model, I will be sued for libel. But I feel that the public should be aware of what is happening, so I’m posting this story anyway.

Please be careful should you come across a strange mobile and, whatever you do, DO NOT take a selfie with it.

-end-

back to last story

July 8, 2017 Add Comment

Flash Tales – Deer Hunter

by Joe Stanley

THE SUMMER HAD BROUGHT the worst drought in living memory. Crops had mostly failed, giving our harvest time little to celebrate. Thin and sickly animals forced us to turn to game which already scarce became more so.

By the middle of autumn, it was not unusual to see wagons loaded and rolling away. But instead of carrying crops, they carried families off to find refuge someplace else. Not all were so lucky as to have a place to go, however.

It was sad to see friends and neighbors vanish, to see our community waste away. Soon, shacks and cabins stood empty, dark and abandoned. They were tombstones marking the passing of our prosperity.

My own meager supplies drove me to trek ever-growing distances in search of a little more to add to my larder. Eventually, I had to go so far that an overnight camp was required. And already the weather was turning, turning against me again.

Exhausted and dry, I stopped to quench my thirst by a small stream. The water was clear and cold. I noticed a certain redness in the silt at the bottom. An old-timer once told me that was a good sign for finding garnets.

But gemstones don’t fill your belly very well, unlike the large, young buck that stepped into view. He sniffed the air, in search of a doe. He was a healthy, majestic creature, and it always makes me a little sad to line the sights up on a fine beast like that.

My old musket barked and belched a cloud of smoke. As it cleared, I saw his white tail bounding clumsily away. That’s the nightmare of every hunter, to fail to kill outright. I swore at myself for missing my mark and hurried over to where he had stood.

I started on his blood trail, knowing he might run for miles before he dropped.

The sky was cold and gray. Within an hour, a mix of snow and sleet began to fall. It hissed on the fallen leaves and the bare, clawing branches of the trees. It fell heavier with each passing moment, turning the world into a limbo of white and gray.

As it dusted the ground, I knew my time was running out. I pressed on as fast as I could manage, but I was losing his trail. The air stung my lungs with each gasping breath, until at last I had to stop. I’m not as young as I used to be.

I needed shelter and the light was fading fast. I gathered up what firewood I could and found an overhang to huddle under.

The thought of that deer broke my heart. It wasn’t that I lost him, it was that I had wasted him…

Then I felt that familiar pain in my arm.

#

“Daddy, I’m still hungry.”

“I know, sweetheart, but we’ve got to make things last.”

“oh… Okay. Do you think Santa will help us?”

“I hope so, honey,” he said, turning away to hide his tears. “You know what? I think I’ll go get us a little more, anyway.”

As he stepped outside and toward his smokehouse, a deer stumbled into the yard and dropped.

-end-