Tag: Joe Stanley

The Children of Midnight

by Joe Stanley

His footsteps came with wet, gritty scrapes as he changed from the pavement to the sidewalk. The world still glistened from an earlier rain. Though he walked the same beat in the day, he had to admit it seemed a very different place in the dark. Spots that were just shady in the sunlight now crouched somewhere within deep, inky curtains. The peacefulness of the waking neighborhood came now as a stagnant and suffocating silence like a tomb. The only sound beyond his own steps was the hiss of the wind which stalked him with its frigid embrace.

He pulled deeper into his heavy coat, grateful that the call box, and the end of the night’s work, would soon be at hand. He thought of the tomato soup and grilled cheese he’d warm himself with when he was home. Still, he chided himself, you’ve got a bit more work before you’re done.

The houses were all medium or large stonework buildings. Their gray only deepened to black. And the lights that flowed out seemed more to glare than to comfort, like the scowling eyes of jack-o-lanterns. But ahead was a house blacked out altogether, the house of a woman dead but a couple of days. He had looked into it, it was his beat after all, but the coroner had been somewhat vague in defining the cause as simply natural. Sure, she was an older lady, a retired widow, but her death was something of a surprise for the neighbors.

He kept his eyes forward as he walked past it, assuring himself that it was respect and not fear… There was another matter, that of a few missing pets. In just a few days, two women had come out as he passed and reported the missing creatures. One insisted that a strange young man had something to do with the vanishing of her beloved cat. This was the first he heard of the “kid’, but it wasn’t the last.

A street over, an eldery woman, Mrs. Hamkins, had reported a strange tale. One night, she found a boy on her doorstep, asking for help. She had sensed something bad or wrong about the kid that she couldn’t quite define. When she asked him where he lived, he demanded to be let inside. Then she asked his name and, at this, he fled in a rage. She reported being thankful that she had left the chain on the door. She had also reported a missing cat.

Old Bill Cooper had rushed out to meet him at the fence. He also had quite a story to tell.

“Yeah, I saw the kid a few nights ago, always at night. It’s hard to keep track of him, he’s sneaky, up to no-good. I have some old binoculars I sat out to try to keep tabs on him. The next time I saw him something weird happened. I was watching him and, suddenly, he stopped and turned to look right at me. It’s funny to say, but, really, it kind of scared me.

“Well, the next night, there was a knock on my door. I open it up, and there he is. He starts to tell me that he’s hungry and cold, and part of me wants to help him, invite him inside. But the rest of me says ‘hold on’, because there’s something really strange going on. Then I notice the clothes he’s wearing, it’s a cute kid’s cut of an old style I used to like when I was young. His clothes had to be hand-me-downs, they were decades out of style.

“Well, then, my wife comes to the door to see what’s happening. She takes one look at the kid and slams the door. She’s screaming and crying and shaking like a leaf. I asked her what was it and she says, “Didn’t you see? The boy! He didn’t have any eyes!” She was hysterical and by the time I got her to the couch and called for a doctor, the kid had vanished. Ever since, my wife’s been in some kind of fever. The doctors are worried, and so am I.”

But Duffy’s path was finished and there had been no sign of the kid or anyone else. When he reached the call box, he reported himself at the end of his patrol and off-duty. His stomach grumbled, reminding him of the soup and sandwiches that were waiting to be made at home. As a soft, cold sprinkle came down, his body likewise craved warmth and shelter. He had barely made the next block when he saw something.

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The Ghostly World Fictional Ghost Stories

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April 7, 2020 Add Comment

Cold Light

by Joe Stanley

When he woke, shivering despite the blankets, it seemed as though nature confirmed his conclusions. After a painful divorce, the world had become not only a lonely place, but one bitterly cold as well.

These nightly interruptions of his sleep had left him with little energy, turning his days into foggy, unfulfilling labors. His work had suffered, his peers became distant, and his friends had all but abandoned him. This divorce had cost him more than a marriage, it had deprived him of most of his life.

That his ex-wife had cheated on him surely gave him all the excuse he needed to distrust, even to despise, women. Somehow they knew how vulnerable he was to their attention, and he had been further used by several underhanded examples of the fairer sex. They were sweet enough when they wanted his favors, but, on gaining what they were after, their affection would vanish, replaced by incredulous mockery and feigned ignorance of their predatory behavior.

How could he ever trust a woman again, especially one who acted as though she cared? The life of a bachelor might not be such a bad prospect, except that this was not at all the life he wanted. With the loss of such a simple hope, his broken heart was crushed even more.

In the darkness, he wondered aloud, “Why am I still here? With nothing left to care about, what is the point to life?”

In the gloom, he thought of the dreams which had lately come to torment him. How wrong it seemed for such an angel to tease him in these visions. She was more than just a woman, she was something most women could never even hope to be, she was a lady. The feelings she inspired were more than desperate puppy love, even more than the purest form of love at first sight. They were deeper and broader than these superficial things.

In her eyes, there was recognition. She knew him in a way that was timeless, far beyond the fair weather friends whose absence he felt so profoundly. She knew in him the same worth and value he saw in her. All of this came in the haunting glance they shared. He supposed it didn’t take a shrink to understand what was happening, or why he’d wake shivering…

He wondered again why life was so that such things could never be. He yearned to sleep forever, to see her not just again but for all eternity.

Then he noticed something odd about the gloomy scene of the darkened house before him. As he trembled, the shadows faded and deepened periodically, a faint bluish light pulsing in time with his flesh. This light poured in the front windows, and for several heartbeats he was too frightened to see what it was. But a calming and encouraging thought came to him, and he rose despite the chill winter air.

Through the blinds, he spied a small blue globe of light. It was as though a star had fallen to flicker before his eyes. As he watched it, peace came to him for the first time in years. Then the light began to drift slowly off beyond his sight.

When he flung the door open, his missing coat did not grant the air more frigid power. When his bare feet cracked through the icy snow, the pain meant nothing at all. The light, now slipping into the bare trees, promised an answer to this mystery of life, if he would have it.

He did not care about the crimson trail he left behind him, nor about the clawing branches that raked his face, chest, and arms. And when the light stopped just ahead, he paid no mind to the ominous stones he stumbled across.

But steps away from it, he watched it streak up and into the sky.

They found the front door still wide open. They found his footprints through the yard, turning pink then red as they plodded on. They found the tombstones toppled, and an extra body cold and lifeless above the ground.

What they found was meaningless. And, to him, their self-deluded decree of tragedy would have meant even less.

For he had found her. More than a woman, she was more than a lady, and still more than a mere angel. He had found her and she him.

Hand in hand she lifted him, up and away from a cold and lonely world, into the eternally loving arms of the night.

-end-

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December 23, 2019 Add Comment

The Trunk

by Joe Stanley

Hello. Is this the reporter that wrote the piece on Jack “Wheels” Martin? Good. Shut up and listen, cause I don’t have much time left to tell the real story.

You got that he shot himself right. And you got that he wrote the word “trunk” on a piece of paper just before he did it. You then ask what trunk? What was in it? Who has it? What happened to it? Give it up, there is no trunk of evidence or anything like that. That’s not what it means at all.

It starts like this. Remember the reporter who went missing and they only found his arm? He was a good reporter, I’ll give him that. He started looking into an unsolved murder. Where the cops found no clues, this guy dug one up. He started asking certain questions of certain people, questions that made me nervous, the kind someone might ask me.

So Butch says, “We gotta teach this guy a lesson, make an example out of him. That message has gotta be don’t stick your nose in other people’s business, it’s not healthy for your nose, or your life, in general.”

We paid a pretty hooker to lure the guy to a hotel room, her saying she has information on the murder, but will only talk about it in a place she knows is safe. He falls for it. We gave the broad enough money to leave town, so don’t look into it.

We were waiting in the room, beat the hell out of him. Then, Knuckles gets a little too enthusiastic. He hits the guy so hard, he drop’s like he’s shot. We kick him, but he doesn’t move or even make any noise. We didn’t really mean to kill him, but we weren’t broke up about it, you know?

But now, I think he wasn’t dead, but maybe paralyzed or something. He might have been awake and aware the whole time. He could have been screaming in his mind for his body to move… but it wouldn’t.

We rolled him up in a blanket and tossed him in the trunk of the car. Wheels drove over to the “Butcher Shop” and Butch did his thing. He’s a real sicko, you’d have to be to use a chainsaw like that. At least it’s quick.

I wonder if that guy was still alive when Butch cut his arms and legs off. Was he still there when the head came off? Still trapped in a body that just wouldn’t move… Could he still have been alive until the end? The chainsaw works so fast…

It was Butch’s idea to let the arm be found, so the message would still get out. It backfired spectacularly. I already thought Butch was a psycho, but now he was looking like a dumbass, too. You see, the cops looked into the reporter’s death. They came across the reporter’s notes… And then the cops were looking at me and the crew. There’s nothing they like to stare at more than dirty cops.

They had nothing really, an idea, sure, but no evidence on any of it. All we had to do was stick together and keep our traps closed. I could feel the pressure, still, and then Knuckles goes missing. We thought he might have turned state, or was thinking about it, so we went looking for him. He wasn’t hard to find.

He was at his home, sitting in the living room, stone cold dead. As an ex-fighter, he was not a good-looking man, but the look on his face was a hideous distorted mask. It was fear. There were no bullet holes, stab wounds, or garrote marks. We figured a stroke or something, so we got the hell out of there. I wasn’t too shook up, that was just one less liability.

Then Wheels went missing. He had half a dozen places across the city and had visited almost every one. Folks said he came in and tore out as quickly, something scared him. We heard this at each place, but the fifth time was the charm. He went in but never came out. We found him, hole in his head, the word ‘trunk’, just like the cops would later. There was no trunk, we looked for it.

Now it was just me and Butch. I told you I thought he was a looney, and when he started babbling nonsense and blubbering like a damn little girl, I was sure of it. I got him to his place, and fixed him a strong drink. I didn’t listen to what he said, though I know what he meant now. I let him have his drink, then I pulled out my .44 snub-nose. I plugged him three or four times in the belly.

I didn’t know that by killing him I only shortened my own time. Maybe only by a day, but it’s a day I can only wish I still had. It seemed like I had it made… No liabilities and I wasn’t going to say a thing. But I was doomed.

It took me time to notice it, really, to notice that I kept noticing it. It was a sound, a kind of meaty plop, like slapping a steak on a countertop. I looked around when I realized something was going on but I didn’t see anything. It bothers me now to know that it was there.

I just tried to go on with things, because I didn’t know what was happening. But there would be nothing I could have done, anyway. I just went inside, had a couple of drinks, and went to bed. Right as I was falling asleep, I heard it again, a plopping sound just outside my window. I’ve never been so scared in my life. I asked myself what could be so bad that my .44 won’t work? But I didn’t even look. I was afraid of what I’d see.

Like Wheels had done, I meant to run, hop in the roadster and get out of there. I got dressed and grabbed the bag I have for these occasions and stepped out into the hall. Then I heard it again, plop, plop, but on the hardwood floor. It was inside. I just stood there, this noise getting louder and closer. And by God, I saw it. It came squirming and wriggling across the floor.

I had a gun in my hand, and I didn’t even shoot it. I knew it was no use. So I came back in the bedroom, locked the door, and I decided I’d tell you the story while I still had time. I get a kick out of the idea that no one’s going to believe you.

I can feel it messing with my heart, it’s skipping beats. I’m starting to lose my breath. It’s fear. I’m scared, more and more, the closer it gets. It’s outside the door. In a minute or so, it’ll be in here. There’s nowhere to run or hide. It will wriggle and squirm and plop across the floor and I’ll die.

Oh my God, the door just opened, a locked door just opened. I see it! I see it… Maybe Wheel’s meant it was in the trunk of his car, or maybe he was describing it. He shouldn’t have written ‘trunk’. He should have written ‘torso.’

Note: His horrific screams marked the end of our communication. They were the most pathetic sound I’ve ever heard. When they ceased, I was certain that he was dead. I didn’t buy his story, though. I thought he was crazy, that his crimes were too much, even for him.

Then, in the silence, in the deathly stillness, I heard it. It was a wet, meaty sound. Plop, plop, plop…

-end-

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November 14, 2019 Add Comment

The man I used to be

by Joe Stanley

Sometimes, I forget myself and remember the man I used to be. I look back, across a span of time so vast that it frightens me, to a life that was once mine. And I feel…

How silly I sound, so weak and pathetic. I am beyond such things, above them! Perhaps I do not truly feel, but merely remember what it was like.

They come, these memories, much like the ghosts that linger among us unseen. And, as when the veil is thin and those with reborn souls see through it, the visions are both wondrous and terrible. For, after all, memories are but the phantoms that lurk in the unknowable depths of the mind.

Good or bad, they are all the same to me. They rise from their graves and seize me in their bony fists. They drag me back to torment me with all I have ever cared for, with all that I have forever lost.

Oh, how sweet they are, or seem. How glorious it is for that moment, so bitterly brief, when I can almost feel what it was like to be alive.

Ah, to hear the laughter of those long gone. To feel a flash of anger from some ancient argument. To tremble in fear or to weep helplessly as the unyielding hand of nature plucks away one’s hopes and dreams. To hate, to love, to be hated and to be loved. All of it, everything, this is what I have lost.

You cannot understand this, none who breathe can know the real meaning of life until they breathe their last. Only when it tears away can you fathom what has slipped from your grasp.

When death takes you, may the peace of oblivion be what awaits you. Should you see this world again, from beyond, it will not be the same. Your eyes will be cursed, as are mine. By degrees, you will lose even yourself.

And this is why it troubles me to remember, to feel. This is why I am bothered to be reminded that somewhere within me still is a heart. It is because I know that I am nothing but the grim and horrid specter who haunts the darkness in my mind.

-end-

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September 26, 2019 Add Comment

Confession of the valley vandal

by Joe Stanley

I don’t know how to begin except to say that I have a confession to make. I am the one the local news calls “The Valley Vandal”. I am responsible for damage to over two dozen homes, more than twice what the local police believe I have done. The truth is even worse, as I am responsible for the death of someone. But you need not worry about justice finding me, what’s waiting for me is far worse.

This started back when I was in middle school. I had after school detention, and I had to walk a couple of miles to get home. At first, I was going to walk the same route my bus took, but I realized I could get home faster by cutting through the neighborhoods the bus skirted around.

As I walked, I was struck by how nice, how large and expensive, the houses were. Every thing was clean and new and… perfect, quite the contrast to the trailer park where I live. It was jealousy, pure and simple, that made me hate these people before anything even happened. Maybe the people knew that I hated them, somehow, or maybe they just judged the book by the cover. But they watched me suspiciously as I moved along, as if they expected me to do something.

Being judged like that, being condemned, being dehumanized, got to me. I knew this problem would never go away, that it would haunt and spoil my chances for an ordinary life. The thought just sort of made me give up. I remember thinking that if they saw a villain when they looked at me, then I shouldn’t disappoint them. It was an exciting idea, to give myself over to the “dark side”. I suppose that the world needs villains. The so-called heroes certainly do, as they’re not really anything without us. And it seemed clear what kind of villain I should be. Smashing up their perfect little world was something I very much wanted to do.

I think I was pretty clever in how I went about it. With the way I normally dressed, I stood out, so I took up jogging and wore sweats so that I could blend in better. It worked. The same people who clenched their phones, ready to call the police, didn’t bat an eye when I bounded past them. People are stupid in that way, it’s just a fact.

It took time to figure out which houses were good targets. If you think about it, though, you can make a list of problems, security systems, cameras, dogs, etc. and a list of encouragements (as I call them) such as being set back from the road or surrounded by trees, places where the people are seldom home, and so on. Getting in and getting out unseen is the key, so avenues of approach are as important as the properties themselves.

I don’t think it will serve any purpose to go into great detail of what I did or to make a list of all the times I did it. What’s important was the thrill I got. It was like a rush or buzz, I felt great. It stayed with me for days. To smash and destroy things, and the pricy things are best, gave me a sense of power over the world that expected me or even wanted me to fail. I felt like a force of justice, real justice, the kind that laws cannot provide.

I had some close calls. One time, I had just walked out of a house and a cop car rolled up right in front of me. In my mind, I wondered if I could outrun him, if I could maybe surprise and fight him. Could I get his gun away from him? Could I kill him if I had to, to get away? I just didn’t see myself giving up, and I knew that fighting would more likely see me dead than him. I expected to die and I prepared myself. All of this happened in a heartbeat. The car rolled on without a pause and the cop didn’t even glance my way.

Maybe some people would have taken that as a sign to quit, I couldn’t. The rush was too addictive, my contempt too strong. I did take a break during this time, but that had more to do with personal matters elsewhere. I reexamined my techniques during the quiet period, finding and correcting mistakes. By the time I started the second cycle, I was on a level far above where I had been before. It’s all too easy when you know the simple rules. But those are my secrets, and I’ll keep them for myself. Besides, I wouldn’t want to encourage any bad behavior.

Well, I suppose I must mention at least one of the rules, but I think that will be okay since it’s the most obvious one. It’s also the one that’s my only and greatest mistake, the one I broke. But I hardly have room to complain about what it cost me, as it cost someone else their life. That rule is, of course, “There must be no one home.”

The place wasn’t a palace, I don’t know why I chose it. I guess it was because it was perfect, it had all the encouragements I needed. It was a small house by the edge of a forest with a tall privacy fence. The yard was like a little wonderland, charming is what most people might say. It was manicured and decorated with bird feeders and statuaries. I had watched the place for a few days and I thought the owner must have been on vacation or something since there was no sign of anyone home.

I scaled the fence and jumped down into the yard. There was a handy piece of pipe which I used to smash the plaster objects around me. One of them was this garden gnome, the ugliest damn thing I’ve ever seen, and I teed off on it, golf-style, knocking the body out from under the head with a marvelous explosion of shards. The head rolled a little and came to rest with its eyes looking up. The expression it wore was sort of amused and slyly wise. It actually made me ashamed, staring up accusingly. There was no time to think about it, though.

“Stop!” came a weak and breathy voice from behind me. I wheeled and saw an ancient old man who looked about like death warmed over. His wrinkled skin, liver-spotted, hung from his bones like a blanket thrown over a chair. His face was angry, his eyes full of tears.

“Who the hell are you? Why are you doing this?” he demanded as he hobbled toward me, “I’ll call the police!”

Then it happened. He tried to say something, his toothless mouth hanging open wide. All that came out was a kind of huff and his face contorted in pain. He clutched at his chest and winced, his complexion changed from an angry red to a sickening purple. When his eyes opened again, there was almost a pleading in them, but there was also hatred, a hatred that was completely justified. It was a kind of hate very unlike my own.

He staggered a bit and fell to his knees. He was gasping as he slumped to the ground. I stood over him and watched him die. It was neither quick nor easy. I had never seen anything like it, it was so awful that it held me in a kind of trance. When he was still and dead, I snapped out of it.

All I wanted was to get the hell out of there, but I looked at his face one last time. The anger and hatred were gone, and he wore a mask of horror. It was the horror, I think, that all living things must know when they die. I’m not ashamed to admit that the thought of death now terrifies me. Perhaps that is fitting.

I just left him there. I didn’t call the cops or an ambulance, how could I? I’m a villain, remember? And I wasn’t about to try to explain things to anyone. I’m sorry for that, but sorry really doesn’t mean anything does it?

There followed another quiet period. During this time, I had trouble sleeping and nightmares about the old man. I’d just see the whole thing over again, but without my armor of hate, it was horrible. In these dreams I’d try to help him. In tears, I’d beg him not to die and wail when he faded away. I’d wake up sobbing, drenched in sweat and there was nothing I could do to make it stop. But a desperate idea came to me and I was determined to come back for a third cycle.

I took my time choosing my next target. I found a place that was perfect. I tried a dry run and everything went smooth. Then I committed to the assault.

It never happened. As soon as I got to the yard, I froze. There was no one home, but right at my feet, as though placed to meet me, was the ugliest damn garden gnome I’ve ever seen. It just broke my nerve, took the man right out of me. I know that it probably almost seems funny, but it frightened me. Though I would laugh about it later, it dawned on me how out of place the gnome had been. It didn’t fit the uppity and elitist home in the least. I can’t imagine those people putting such an eyesore in their precious yard.

Perhaps to convince myself that this was all silly, I went out searching for another target. And again, when I committed to the attack, I saw a gnome standing right by the porch. It was hideous and mocking, its hand raised in a friendly wave.

I know it sounds crazy, but it gets worse. You see, I was at home preparing for another prowl when I noticed something in my yard. It was there.

I’ve never seen it move, but it does. It always seems to be somewhere I can see it. Sometimes it just stands in the yard, sometimes it peeks out playfully from behind a tree… I’ve tried to take pictures, but it just doesn’t show up in the image.

I’ve smashed it a dozen times. I locked it in the shed. Somehow it got out and waited patiently for me to find it standing right by my front porch.

Last night, I had the dream. I watched the old man die and wiped tears from my eyes. But when I looked down, his face had changed. It was the gnome’s face looking up at me. It was smiling, and in that smile was a promise that needed no words. It promised me that I would know the horror of death soon enough. When I woke up, it was standing by my bed.

The stress is getting to me and I’m starting to have pains in my arm and chest. I think I need to go to the hospital because the

-end-

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September 19, 2019 2 Comments

Progress

by Joe Stanley

Progress, I tell you, is the only thing that matters.

Everything moves forward. And, unless one moves with it, it will leave all behind. It is merciless, unfettered by sentiment, with no loyalty to any traditions. We are but relics and fossils even as we live, our time is so brief as to be already gone. Nothing can stop the endless march of time… and progress.

The expedition was successful beyond my wildest dreams. Buried beneath centuries of jungle, we unearthed a lost and forgotten city and a culture unknown and unnamed. The locals spoke only of the ghosts that haunt the lonely spots where ancient men once lived. They called these people ancestors…

But the evidence showed otherwise. The current culture was centuries old at best, the older one had been and gone long before the newcomers took the land as their own. They had no claim to this history, it belonged to the world. Who were they to leave it to rot? By what right did they demand that the site remain undisturbed?

Dirt people… Dirt people and their stupid, silly magic…

But what else do they have? Dirt? Maybe they need to believe in magic, to believe that life was only part of something more. After all, their lives were harsh and small. They had so little, was hope such a big thing to begrudge them?

But what kind of hope? False hope? That is just a lie, and worse than one told to others, it is self-deception, a lie told to oneself. It is the product of a diseased mind, a primitive and backward-thinking delusion.

That the “holy” man spat his curse is proof of the base and hateful nature of magical thinking. Vengeance, torment, death, all these he promised, for those who entered the ancient tombs. As in all cases, mysticism has done nothing but hold the human race back, imprisoning us with fear.

When has a mystic ever produced anything real? When have they ever accomplished anything useful? They cannot do such things, or even anything at all, because their magic is not real. All they have ever done is hold us back and impede our progress.

It was almost sad to see them fail. They were like children stubbornly clinging to the only way of life they know. They wanted, for some inexplicable reason, to remain behind, to hide trembling in the darkness, frightened by the light of truth.

And the historical treasures we recovered are the truth. A study of them will expand our knowledge and teach us more about ourselves.

Magic be damned.

I was grateful to leave that sweltering green hell behind us and return to the civilized world in the cool October air. I hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since well before we left. To be at home, in my own bed would be, I hoped, a cure for the insomnia that had plagued me. I was so eager to return to the real world, but disappointment was waiting.

It was as though the stubborn and willful ignorance of the savages had infected me. A mere suggestion, I assured myself. Though I am no expert in psychology, I know enough of such mental trickery not to allow myself to be so deceived. Yet, I tossed and turned, as if beaten or bettered, even though I was right.

I was right, wasn’t I?

Granted, I had some ideas of my own about what the ancients meant when they spoke of this world and one of the spirit. It seemed quite a stretch, to be sure, but perhaps they knew there was an objective reality and one which is more subjective, that world which we perceive. I will concede that no one can hope to know objective reality perfectly, the limitations of our senses alone makes that impossible. But I have no reason to believe a spirit world exists anywhere outside that place between our ears.

But what if it did? Poppycock. Balderdash. Nonsense. The only magic is just a trick and one I have played upon myself.

But what if it didn’t need to? Hasn’t the mystic barbarian already gotten a foothold in my head? If the spirit world is there and only there, then he has done exactly what he claimed to be able to do.

I know it’s hogwash. But is it not true that the greater portion of human experience is in that place? All of it really, though I’m no more an expert at life than I am at psychology. And all the science in the world will not let me vanquish my discontent and find sleep.

What else could I do but rise from the bed, get dressed, and come in to the lab? At least I could get a sense of the next week’s work or so. The guard was surprised to see me, but such “professionals” see suspicious things everywhere in everyone and everything. He made a much bigger deal out of things than they really were. Those hero types love an excuse to overreact.

You see, I was making my notes when I got around to the mummy. It was astoundingly well preserved, and this culture rivals the ancient Egyptians in their funerary arts… but this remarkable preservation gave me a shiver. Here was a man a thousand years old, and more than the ghastly, sunken features, his face struck me in a far from pleasant way.

In my sleep-deprived state, coupled with some trick of the light, I thought I saw it move! Of course, it didn’t, not really, but I would have sworn the thing smiled at me! Then I recognized him, or thought I did. He smiled at me with the damnable face of the mystic! Given what I thought I saw is it any surprise that I cried out?

I know it’s silly, and I’d hate to think that this would get out and ruin my career. It’d be the death of me!

***

“So, Jeffery, you’ve met Dr. Billings?”

“Oh, yes, this morning Dr. Stephens took me on the rounds and introduced me.”

“So what did you think of him, of Billings?”

“I thought he seemed reasonable enough, a little bitter and perhaps somewhat bigoted, but, tell me what’s really going on? What’s the story with him?”

“The guard found him shrieking hysterically, raving about some corpse smiling at him.”

“Yes, he mentioned that, but I still don’t see what’s wrong.”

“Well, to start with, the expedition did bring back remains, but these were merely a few crumbling bones, not a mummy.”

“I see.”

“And the recent culture he speaks of is pure fiction. According to the rest of his team, the region has been uninhabited since the time the city fell to ruins. There were no natives and, thus, no hated mystic.”

“Amazing.”

“As for losing his career, well, he hasn’t had much of one since we picked him up at the university nearly ten years ago. As he has so often said, time moves unalterably forward, and some people are indeed stuck in the past. Progress is, tragically for him, something he just can’t seem to manage.”

-end-

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September 12, 2019 Add Comment