Copyright 1996 by: Demented Thinking Productions
In Loving Memory Of: Ted M. Holdren
Based on true accounts of an 82nd Airborne Division Soldier during World War II
Behind Enemy Lines
An old man, wrought with aching pains and disease sat upon his roomy screened in porch watching the sun’s violet rays play upon the Saint John’s River in Jacksonville, Florida as it set slowly. The bright golden rays leaped and danced bringing to existence a fiery image of lives past and gone through an old man’s sharp memory. As he quietly pondered the long, but unforgotten past, water laps the river shore gently as a small speedboat cruises by displaying girls in bikinis and guys in shorts.
The man observes his own wrinkled hands carefully as if they would give some indication or comfort from his unbearable pain. Flexing them unconsciously he lets out a deep sigh and surveys the quaint porch with a detached fascination.
A gentle breeze blows the new autumn leaves peacefully, scraping the patio ground as the old man fixes his unblinking gaze on his eldest grand daughter, Becky. “A man,” he began almost startling the child out of her chair, “Goes through life wondering if he’s made the right choices or decisions. He grows up, goes to war, comes home, gets married, has three lovely children, watches his eldest depart to a better place in Heaven, gets sicker and then finally dies. Life is life, and death, well, death is, death, but it’s not so final as everyone likes to think. Do you understand?” Becky, surprised the man had said anything at all blinked and replied, “I think so.”
The elderly man shifted in his seat uncomfortably stealing one more glance at the uncanny sunset and finally says, “What I mean is, life is a complicated series of ups and downs and we all do our best to make it enjoyable, but no one lives forever.” Knowing exactly what he meant since her own mother passed away 4 years earlier, Becky turned her head not wanting her grandfather to see her cry. Viewing the spectacular sunset disappearing quietly behind the St. John’s Bridge a lonely tear streamed down her right cheek and plopped delicately to the ground beside her without a sound. Lines creviced deeply in the man’s weathered face as his brows frowned in dismay.
Deciding for the time being to drop the sordid subject of death, the man switched to another one quickly. “Did I ever tell you about the time we parachuted behind enemy lines in East Germany?” The little girl, knowing full good and well he had told her many times and memorizing the story by heart, but wanting deeply to hear it again surprisingly said, “No grandpa, I don’t think you told me that one.” The man smiled widely giving off a slight chuckle so much like him the little girl had to smile herself.
Finding a comfortable story position his ancient bones creaked and groaned as he began with a little more enthusiasm. “Well then. I’ll tell ya!” Clasping his big hands in front of his warm, untimely face he flickered a smile and narrated, “It was night time and as dark as the ace of spades. We were flying over West Germany and we were scheduled to drop at 22:30 hours. The natives were restless; as they say, and everyone fidgeted with their uniforms, jumping gear, boot laces, or eyeglasses whichever they had and whatever made them more comfortable. Several of us rechecked our parachutes and thought about the upcoming jump. Some prayed. I checked my parachute, ammunition, weapon, and prayed just to cover all basis. Once I was satisfied everything was ready to go I fumbled with my boot laces just like the rest of ‘em, saying my silent prayers for a safe return home.”
The man gave a little nervous chuckle and continued, “Now, there was this one fella in our outfit named Brady, I think, hell, I don’t know it could have been anything, it was a long time ago. Anyway, it was Brady’s first jump with our outfit. It was his first jump anywhere except probably out of bed, and he was as nervous as a cat on a hot tin roof. He must of checked his equipment, oh I’d say at least ten times and I think he said at least a good dozen prayers.”
The old man smiled broadly and laughed again remembering Brady’s nervousness. Clearing his throat he continued, “Time had come for the jump. Everyone lined up like robots and got ready to plunge into the uncertain European darkness that came consistent throughout the war. Everyone except Brady, that is. I don’t know if the man sensed his own fate to come or if he was just plain scared to death like the rest of us. Some people just seem to know what’s about to happen and they become scared and tense as a frog caught in the gig light somewhere deep in the swamp, but he jumped. So did we all.”
As he shifted his position to a more comfortable spot since nothing seemed comfortable to him anymore, the old man sighed aloud and whistled at nothing in particular, “Did you know I was in the 82nd Airborne Division, Becky?” Becky stared at the man blankly for a moment pondering this information carefully and finally answered with excitement, “Yes sir!” The old man smiled and nodded ruffling his grand daughter’s hair, “Yep! I jumped all over the world, but no jump would compare or compete with that one. Hell, I even jumped in Africa where the Desert Fox, Rummel, holed up with his troops, but still there was no comparison. Well, as I said, time had come to jump. Our Lieutenant gave the direct order to go and I’ll be damned if he didn’t actually fling poor Brady out the plane first. The Lieutenant was a damned fool and Brady was a good man. Anyway, just like the rest, I waited my turn for the big push out into the unknowing darkness and when it came it was as surprising as it was the first time the lieutenant shoved me out of the small door into the night air. The total shock of diving through midair more or less against your own free will as wind drove hard through your eardrums until your head felt like it was afire with the pain is something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy and I never care to see it or do it again. Why people jump out of a perfectly good, flyable airplane for fun is beyond me.”
The old man fell silent casting his gaze across the black river at the now twinkling lights lining the opposite shore. The sun had long fallen away into blank darkness and the crickets sang and chirped a tune only the insects shared at night. Frogs rang their plea boldly with their own version of the cacophony as mosquitoes flew feverishly about landing on anything that could possibly satisfy their hunger. The man swatted a lone mosquito biting his lower forearm in a quick, unthinking motion before he spoke quietly again. “Yep. There’s a definite surge of adrenalin when a man plunges 20,000 feet out of a moving airplane.”
Ruffling Becky’s hair affectionately, the old man took up his story where he left off, “Well, as usual in the military, things did not go one hundred percent according to plan. The supplies we needed were dropped before we jumped and for all I know they could still be looking for them to this day. One thing’s for certain, we never saw hide nor hair of them. In a very odd way it makes a man wonder if they were dropped at all. It makes you think that some high and mighty pilot back on that bucket of nuts and bolts you just flung yourself from for God, country, and mankind is sitting there in his warm cockpit flying away in the night sky with a candid camera crew laughing hysterically watching us below search for something that obviously wasn’t there in the first place. That was the first to many, many clues as to how this particular jump was going to be. The second clue was young, handsome Brady. That kid had a wife and a 3-month-old daughter back home in Oregon. He showed everyone their picture and held it like a talisman day in and day out. Both were widowed that fatal night. I had the unfortunate displeasure of finding Brady’s broken body. You see, his landing wasn’t as easy as the rest of ours were. He found the one sturdy tree in the whole German countryside left still standing. It broke his fall and unfortunately his neck with it. He was tangled up in a twisted mess when I found him. It made me sick to my stomach staring into his dark, pleading eyes, knowing there was nothing I or anyone could do for him. I cut him down as quietly as possible and hid him well under some brush to cover our tracks. I closed his eyes, said a silent prayer for him and made a mental note to write Mrs. Brady when I got myself out of this mess. I’ll never erase his face from my memory as long as I live. He was so damned scared to jump, and he died just as scared. It was painless and quick for Brady, and that’s the only good thing about it, some were not that lucky. I still see his terrified face before I go to sleep at night and the first thing when I wake in the morning. I’ve often wondered over the years how Mrs. Brady held up through it all, but I guess like many other World War II widows, she went home to her mother and grieved her tragic loss. Brady was such a family man, always holding the picture of his wife and daughter before going to sleep. He’d look at them for what seemed like hours without moving. He loved them, God, and his country dearly. It was a real shame, a real shame.”
The fragile man shook his head sadly back and forth before he continued with a sigh, “Well, ole Brady wasn’t the only causality, there were many others throughout the time of the war. Some just like ‘em, some different. By the time we figured out the supplies had not landed any where nearby the Sergeant informed us we were just as lost as the supplies were. To make matters worse, we were four miles off course and four miles behind enemy lines in the heart of East Germany. Murphy’s law, I guess. If it can go wrong, it probably will. And everything about that night in particular went wrong. Along with venomous snakes and deadly insects we had to be on the lookout for armed and dangerous Nazi troops. Sometimes I think it was better that Brady met his fate before we found out our location. Death might have been better for him. I don’t think he would of made it through the long hike back to fight, but there’s no way of knowing for sure.”
“We took immediate cover in a thicket of bushes nearby completely equipped with thorns and brambles. I don’t know what kind of bushes they were, I didn’t ask. It was pitch black and you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. Shells and magazines ripped through the warm night air from all sides of us in the distance.”
“Oddly enough a man could hear various forms of wildlife with all the noise in the background voicing its pleas in the embezzlement of unwanted sounds in every direction. Some friendly. Some not so friendly. Crickets, insects of all kinds and things much larger I didn’t care to come into contact with stirred all about us. It could be downright deafening and would make your skin crawl if you had even the slightest idea what kind of animals peered out at you through the inky darkness watching and waiting. Sometimes, hell most of the time, we had had to sleep on bedrolls under the stars at night. One morning I awoke to an unwanted visitor in the bag with me. If someone hadn’t of told me to be careful when I got out of the bag in the morning I would of died long before this jump. I had to slowly and carefully peel back my bedroll to reveal poisonous snakes more than once the four years I was at war. Snakes take liberty at your feet in the bedroll because they seek warmth. It scared me to death. My heart felt like a sledgehammer beating on bare metal as I quickly flipped him 20 yards away with the barrel of my riffle. Before you put your boots on in the morning when we were in the desert you had to turn them upside down and shake out the scorpions or any other critters that stowed away in the night. Yep. That’s defiantly where my heart problems started I think.”
Becky, wide-eyed and astonished, swallowed hard. She couldn’t imagine waking up every morning shaking her bed and shoes out before moving. The ancient man grinned broadly portraying perfectly lined dentures and turned his head to the side so his only grand daughter would not see him giggling at her amazed look. “What kind of snake was it, grandpa?” Becky asked meekly. “Now,” the old man countered, “I don’t rightly know and I sure as hell wasn’t going to ask the slithery fella either. All I know is I didn’t like him curling up beside me uninvited.”
Waving his hand in the air diligently signifying enough questions and getting back to the business at hand, the man tweaked Becky’s nose and continued his story while the little girl laughed happily. “There was some confusion to begin with,” he began again, “The sarge looked like a man possessed trying to pinpoint our exact location. It’s not easy giving the obvious fact that there were no road signs telling us exactly where we were, but ole sarge was really good at finding out our exact location by examining the lay of the land. As a matter of fact, I believe he was one of the few men of the world that rarely got lost. I doubt if any woman sat in the passenger seat of his car asking him if they were lost or just taking some absurd detour. Ole sarge would of found his way out of Fort Knox on a wing and a prayer. I never saw him lost and I suppose the man had never been lost a day in his life. Well, it took ole sarge about ten minutes to pinpoint our location. He knew exactly where we were and he knew exactly how to go from there. Sarge informed us that we had to walk (or hike as he put it) west 4 miles to meet the drop spot. Everyone moaned silently including me. He instructed us not to talk and not to light any cigarettes.” The little girl looked puzzled, “But why, grandpa?”
The man stared out at the stars reflecting in the night sky and glanced at the moonlight dripping across the river in streams before answering quietly. His face and demeanor duplicated a serious tone frightening Becky slightly. “The Germans.” He said solemnly. Becky gazed at him for a long moment in total disbelief. “If a man,” her grandfather said seriously, “Lit a cigarette or talked it would give away the position of the entire company. The Germans would see the flicker of the lighter or hear a voice and fire everything they had in our general direction killing everyone.” Becky pondered this information carefully and looked back into her grandfather’s warm, sensitive face. Sighing, the old man continued, “We grabbed our gear, what we had that is, and began walking to the west. We were in the midst of a heavy forest and it became increasingly difficult to move through the underbrush silently. As tough as it was, we somehow made it without a hitch. As we stepped into a clearing all hell broke loose. Gunfire rained through the trees sprinkling chaos everywhere it landed and hit the man next to me directly in the heart killing him instantly. His name was, Sanderson, I believe. He fell dead right at my feet and I hardly had time to think. I hit the ground pulling the other man next to me down as quickly as I possibly could. No one moved, breathed or spoke for what seemed like hours. The problem was we didn’t know for sure if the whole freaking German army waited on the other side of the clearing or if it was one lonely man strayed from his outfit cold and alone. Silence bated the heavy night air and finally we could hear the sniper running away from us through the underbrush on the other side. We knew he was alone, but we also knew there would be more close by. We waited, oh; it must have been at least ten minutes before regrouping. We had to get out of there, and fast, so we took a hasty turn south and moved swiftly through the thick forest again. We knew we were getting closer to the front line and we were a little more tense than usual. I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing straight up at attention prickling my skin and I broke out into a cold sweat even though it felt like it was 20 degrees. I’ll tell ya, you haven’t seen or smelled fear until you’ve been put into a situation like that. All the other men around me knew it too. It’s the kind of fear you go to bed at night thinking of and you sleep with one eye open and one eye closed. You wake up in the morning stiff and felling as though you didn’t sleep a wink the night before. Yep, no fear like that fear. Yep.”
The old man paused glancing thoughtfully over the blackened water. Waves gently lapped the shore and a mullet answered with a splash of its own somewhere near the pine pier. Becky’s bright blue eyes cut through the darkness and she urged, “Go on, grandpa!” The old man looked at his grand daughter lovingly and asked, “Oh! You want me to finish the story, do you?” Becky laughed in spite of herself heartily and retorted quickly, “Of course I do!” The man ruffled Becky’s head of blonde hair vigorously and said, “Well, if you say so. Well, when ole serge deemed we had gone far enough south we turned west again and headed toward our original destination. We were supposed to hit a small German armory at the front line. I guess I can tell ya that, makes no difference now. Sarge made us fall out to rest while he calculated our distance. We had already gone 5 miles including the 2-mile detour south through the woods. Sarge told us we were just about there. We had to quickly hit the place and get out before the Germans had time to retaliate. We were supposed to meet a chopper at 05:30 hours in a clearing about a mile away from the armory. It would safely bring us back to an English Air Force base just outside of London. We rested for 15-20 minutes. It seemed to fly by. Things always seem that way when they are good, but when it’s bad it seems to take forever. We had roughly a mile to go, so we gathered our gear and got started again. After a good 45 minutes of twisting and turning through the thicket we snuck up on the armory and the sarge did his usual quick calculations. He figured there were four guards on foot with dogs and two in the tower. There was 15-20 of us so we had it covered. I was in charge of throwing the grenades into the armory blowing it up. Four others quietly took out the guards and their trusting companions while five others ran in and threw the grenades into the small armory. We had one fella who was a damn good sniper shot stationed in a tree just in case. He took out the two in the tower with speed and the accuracy of a rattlesnake. Everything blew up and the entire squad hauled buggy for cover in the woods. There must have been one German soldier caught inside the tin building because I heard the most unbelievably pathetic cry of pain, I think I’ve ever heard in my life. When a man experiences pain like that he always tends to sound like a wild animal caught in a trap rather than a man. It was a high-pitched, piercing scream and very final. It sent chills down my spine. We met up with our helicopter on time and flew safely to much more friendly ground. I’ll never forget that jump as long as I live. Yep. Not in a million years.” The old man yawned and stretched. Standing he turned to face Becky and advised, “It’s past your bed time little lady.” Becky blinked and mumbled, “I love you, grandpa. Your stories are so neat.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek and scampered off to bed. He watched her go as if it was the last time and whispered, “I love you too. I only wish you knew really how much.”
The tired old man retired for the evening to his own bed and never regained consciousness the next morning. But, as Becky went through her life, she always did know just how much he really did love her.
A personal blog with my horror/sci-fi poems, short stories, heavy metal lyrics and personal posts.
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
A Thief In The Night
A Thief in the Night
Copyright: Demented Thinking Productions 1998
As Anne Stevenson descended the steep stairs of her two story Tudor home with dismay she nervously surveyed her surroundings. It wasn’t the first night since her beloved husband died that she woke up in a cold sweat with the inevitable feeling someone or something was watching her from the blackness of the shadows. Everything was as she left it when she retired to bed. All the antique furniture she’d spent years collecting were complete and in their respective places and every little nick knack she’d picked up here and there were left undisturbed on the tops of the relics decorating her home. Still, she could not shake the terrible feeling of eerie eyes scanning her every single move.
Feeling did not begin to explain what the neat, structured woman in her mid 40’s experienced. Utter fear was more like it. Anne carefully mounted the last step and peeked around the corner expecting…what? Little green men in space suits reciting “Take me to your leader.” No, she didn’t expect that at all, the terror gripped her insides far worse than little green men would. Anne had to face it; she more or less expected a demon from hell to poke its head out of some piece of forgotten furniture. She forced a smile on her face in spite of herself to keep the unease at a manageable level, but the fear of what might of coiled itself around the darkest of corners of her heart forced her to shutter uncontrollably.
Anne quietly tiptoed across the huge, unyielding living room until she cautiously settled into the light and airy kitchen doorway. Although the kitchen did not look a bit light and airy on this dreary morning, she stood motionless, allowing the moonlight to play upon the already graying swigs of hair she desperately tried to stamp out with everything from special shampoos to professional dyes.
The empty house lay still and apparently sleeping. Anne listened intently for anything out of the ordinary. Nothing.
Deciding possibly her mid-life crisis was getting the best of her, Anne sauntered the rest of the way into the darkened kitchen and flipped the light switch on quickly ready for anything or anyone that might jump out of the depths at her. Anne carefully stepped over to the kitchen stainless steel sink, turned on the faucet clearly marked “C” in blue shading and grabbed the glass Mr. Coffee pot out of the dish drainer. “Might as well have some coffee,” she said aloud to no one in particular trying her best to shake the eyes she felt boring into the back of her skull. Checking the quartz clock mounted promptly over the small kitchen dinette suit, she filled the coffee grounds into their rightful place, poured water into the top of the coffee maker as if it were some miniature steam engine and clicked the brilliant red switch to the “on” position. The cat shaped clock cheerfully read 2:15 a.m. as its tail swept back and forth like it was going to pounce on a unaware mouse, ticking away the seconds of the wee hours in the morning. Anne shivered frantically at the very thought of the cat clock leaping to life off the wall and attacking a defenseless mouse in her shiny kitchen.
Dismissing her misgivings about the clock for now, Anne closed her tired eyes and pictured a serene scene. A picturesque meadow came into focus just beneath her swollen lids and she began to relax a little. Butterflies gracefully skittered just above the daises and somewhere in the distance she could hear a babbling brook just like the small creek she played in as a young girl…
A loud rap at the back kitchen door startled Anne back into an uncanny reality and she lit out a little yelp in spite of herself. As her pulse and surprise died down, she recognized her next-door neighbor, Hank Stuart grinning like the inappropriate Cheshire cat. Anne opened the heavy, wooden kitchen door, still disoriented from her shock out of a perfect fantasy world, and muttered an unpleasant, “Hello, Hank.” Hank Stuart, a short, pudgy, balding man in his late forties, winked at Anne and declared in a loud, boisterous voice as if she were deaf, “Is everything okay over here, honey?” Anne shuddered. She hated the way Hank Stuart winker at her, she hated being called honey, and most of all she hated the way he undressed her with his eyes every time their paths crossed.
Anne gestured half-heartily to a neat, cozy wicker back chair, “Coffee?”
“Please.” Hank returned with that evil smile. Adjusting his position in the chair to clearly get a better look at Anne, Hank added, “Why are you up at this time in the morning? Mr. Sleepy man retreat from your pretty little head?” Anne gazed at him trying desperately to show no emotion even though that comment made her skin crawl with displeasure, “Hardly, “ she countered not displaying her contempt for Hank if at all possible. I f Hank noticed it did not register on his face. His eyes still danced with that giddy schoolboy expression stricken there every since Anne could remember. When her late husband, Herb, was alive, Hank Stuart still always had a thing for Anne, and she hated him with every fiber of her being. It wasn’t right. It felt completely unnatural someway, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. His attitudes and mannerisms always displayed way more affection than they should have and made Anne feel at unease.
A rattled chill ran the entire length of Anne’s spine and she shivered as if the act of doing so would shake the relentless uneasy sensation boring into her back scanning every nook, crack, and cranny.
“One lump, or two?” Anne smiled wanly as she pictured herself picking up a cartoon sledgehammer and knocking Hank over the head bluntly with it like Buggs Bunny might do to Elmer Fudd. “A Bleeeee,…A Bleeee,…A Bleeee,…ah,…That’s all folks!” Anne muttered under her breath.
“Pardon me?” Hank asked with a slightly confused look on his face.
“Nothing.” Anne assured him as she plopped the hot, swirling coffee in front of him.
Shrugging, Hank posed his original question again as if the second time around after Anne’s extreme deafness he believed she suffered from would get the response he knew to be right. “Why are you up at,” he glanced at the wall clock nervously ticking away, “…2:35 a.m.? You, uh, got the willy’s or something?” Hank reached across the small butcher-block table and nudged Anne’s shoulder gently. Stifling the immediate impulse to shrink away from his touch, Anne offered quickly, “Yeah, something like that.”
Hank’s smile broadened to expose the gold-capped molars as if to say, “There, I knew I was right, I always am.” Anne disliked Hank Stuart with a passion, and she loathed his undulating advances.
For a long time the two sat in silence in Anne’s cozy kitchen, Anne trying to shake the gloom and despaired sleep from her troubled mind and Hank, no doubt, envisioning what he’d like to do to her if she ever halfway consented to his ludicrous proposals. The feline clock chimed a meow three times and startled the dank silence hanging in midair.
As if the clock’s odd chime had stirred an interest deep within Anne’s subconscious she blurt out, “Hank? Do you believe in ghosts?” The words hung there in the air and she could do nothing to take them back even though she wished she could. For the first time since Hank stepped into Anne Stevenson’s warm kitchen his smile faltered and faded all together from his hard, weathered face. “Do you?” He countered seriously. Anne contemplated the question for several moments before answering reluctantly, “Yes and no.” Anne felt her face flush as she thought about how silly she must sound. “That was indecisive.” Hank deduced. “What I mean is…well, I guess it’s just plain silly, but sometimes I just feel like Herb is by my side in the kitchen or in the bedroom just like he always was when he was alive.” Hank appeared to turn this information over in his sordid mind a few times before finally answering, “It’s not silly, so just get that thought out of your pretty little head. Sometimes when we lose someone close we notice things we wouldn’t of usually realized. Its just part of the healing process.”
With that settled Hank downed the last bit of coffee and handed the cup back to Anne gingerly, “Another round, please ma’am.” She stared at the cup like it was a foreign object for a moment and refilled it with ease and grace. Steam swilled from the cup in a mini fog-like display and Anne slid the sugar, spoon and cream unconsciously across the table. Hank accepted her offer and began dipping the spoon into the sugar absently.
Dumbfounded, she stared at the swirls of steam coming out of the coffee cup as if in a trance while Hank stirred. She couldn’t believe she’d even asked his opinion on something so personal and trivial. She would have kicked herself under the table, but Hank surely would think the bats in her belfry were loose again. Instead, she made a mental note not to engage in any more ghost stories or anything else for that matter with Hank Stuart.
As if that was the end of the subject, Anne stood up a little too abruptly and checked the clock once more. It twitched 3:15 a.m. Sensing the time had come for him to leave, Hank swallowed the last bits of coffee, put on his best Sunday school smile, and cooed, “Sweet dreams, Anne.” Anne nodded groggily and opened the kitchen door. Hank stepped outside into the frigid Michigan morning, turned and winked at her one more time for good measure, and marched across the snow moistened lawn to his own darkened home while Anne sleepily watched. Pitching a thick hand up in the cold morning air simulating a wave, Hank Stuart disappeared out of the black night into his own warm home.
Anne closed the door carefully, latched it and flipped the deadbolt into its place. Walking back to the dinette table Anne murmured to herself, “Why do I feel like I’ve just been raped?” She shivered to her very core. No matter what she did she couldn’t shake the sensation of his eyes boring into her and caressing her inside her head. Shaking her head to clear her thoughts as much as she possibly could under the circumstances, Anne plopped back into her original chair with a thud and dropped her head into her trembling hands rubbing her temples.
Snow began to silently fall outside and Anne was more than tired. She was exhausted. Yawning again, she stood up and stole a look at the menacing cat clock on the wall ticking away, taunting her with every flick of its tail. “I’ve got to replace that damn clock,” she said aloud and her own voice reverberated in her sensitive ears enveloping the desperate silence of the enormous house. As if to answer, the clock chimed once and Anne clicked the kitchen light off. The clock seemed to glow in the shrouded darkness as the eyes turned an ominous, piercing green. Anne rubbed her weary eyes disbelievingly and it was gone.
Shaking her head, Anne made her way back to the stairs in the darkness more by familiarity than by sight and slowly began the long climb to her empty bedroom. She lay awake staring at the blown ceiling watching shadows of trees dancing across it like poised fingers gripping for the edges of her sanity she hoped she still possessed. The limbs pitched back and forth in the upcoming storm outside as the shadows frantically performed their ominous ballet.
Anne shot a glance at the bright red digital clock positioned delicately on her nightstand and gasped. “I must have dozed off,” she mumbled incoherently. Summoning an answer the digital promptly faded from 4:51 to 4:52 a.m., and she realized with terrifying certainty she hadn’t fallen asleep at all, but merely into a trance-like state for over an hour. Dismissing this thought as quickly as it came Anne slung the colorful comforter off her sweat-drenched body unto the floor.
For a brief moment she laid in her bed, the same bed she shared with her late husband for 25 years, in total disbelief. Paralyzed with fear, she slowly began to reconstruct in her fogged mind what might have happened to cause her to be totally naked. Coming up with no believable solutions she began to test every muscle in her body slowly. Puzzled, Anne couldn’t even begin to fathom why, let alone how, she had gotten undressed. Kicking her feet over the edge of the bed she quickly went over earlier events in her mind. She absently slipped her terry cloth robe on and zipped it up to the top of her neck pinching her in the process to counteract the Goosebumps springing up everywhere claiming their own spontaneous territories.
Thinking hard, she remembered coming upstairs after coffee with Hank, she remembered getting into bed with clothes on, and she remembered lying awake for some time, but past that she didn’t have a clue about her present humbled condition. In fact, she distinctly remembered wearing a nightgown because she’d fished out her favorite flannel when she got dressed for bed that evening.
Confusion threatened to overwhelm her into a fit of unanswered questions and an uncontrollable bout of tears. Anne sank slowly back unto the bedside holding her head in her hands fighting the urge to cry and get it over with. The morning stilled and the silence filtered through the entire house like fog rolling in over a vast amount of water. Snow fell outside by the truckloads and unable to fight any longer Anne plummeted her unraveling face into the soft goose down pillow sobbing loudly and uncontrollably.
Sure she’d gained enough control of herself and equally sure she wouldn’t start again, Anne rose slowly and walked into the master bathroom with a grace and strength she didn’t quite possess. Splashing cold water from the bathroom tap on her pale, ashen face she tried her best to collect her thoughts and shake the sensation of absolute terror creeping up into her spine and in her crumbling mind. “I can’t believe this is happening,” Anne spoke to her distraught reflection the bathroom mirror without much certainty.
Tears streamed down her face in waves and Anne sucked them back in like a Hoover vacuum cleaner, switched off the bathroom light and made her way back to the side of the bed. She crawled back underneath the covers waiting for sleep to come and relieve her of this nightmare. Sleep did not come. Instead, she watched the tree figures dance their eerie ballet on the ceiling silently. Tears won again and Anne buried her face.
The small hairs on the nape of her neck prickled and alerted her to the danger before her eyes became totally aware of what she was seeing. Chills ran deep down her spine and she gawked at the intruder present in her bedroom. She began to frantically look around like a caged animal at the zoo trying to discern where it came from and how it was standing right there after she always locked all the doors and windows every night before bed.
Anne slowly shifted her head from the dancing tree limbs to the grotesque figure standing, (swaying was more like it), at the foot of her bed. The ghostly, floating cloud darkened the already black room with every shift of motion it contained. Feeling the encompassing evil through her unbelieving eyes and skin before the goose pimples broke out completely and the small hairs all over her body stood at attention, Anne began to scream, but instead a stifled yelp died on her lips as quickly as it manifested itself. She gripped the edges of the bed in horror until her knuckles were white and tired. Breathlessly she stared at her new found friend with horror and contempt.
Anne laid motionless, afraid to move a muscle as the ghost cloud drifted around the room oblivious to her immediate distress. It seemed to stake out the entire room like a bad police movie checking every inch for what, Anne surely didn’t know. She watched unable to move and waited. The cloud, apparently assured nothing or no one else lurked in the lucid shadows of Anne’s once quaint bedroom, turned its attention to her stiff, fragile shape trembling beneath the capsizing bed linens. Anne realized in horror the ghost was not looking at her, but through her into the dark depths of her soul.
She reluctantly closed her eyes as if this retaliation would have some adverse effect on the supernatural being and re-opened them blinking in utter disbelief. Her voice left her lips and dangled in midair for what seemed like a lifetime and no sound escaped her. Her breath, taken away as the hideous creature moved back and forth like a balloon swaying in the wind, puffed out her lungs in short staggering pants. It was still there and not leaving any time soon. Anne knew deep down inside all the wishing she could possibly believe in doing would not exterminate her wide awake nightmare, and it was real, oh so real. She felt as though she could reach out and touch it without disturbing a thing, but she didn’t dare for the fright of losing her small, bony hand within it’s cascading shrouds.
White ghostly matter mixed with the obscure gray as the figure floated at the foot of the queen size bed indecisive as to which route to take to it’s scared prey. It was as if the thing was being guided by some other life form unknown to her at that moment. It stopped abruptly. Peering deep inside her soul Anne felt it’s probing tentacles reaching out to encompass her very life line and the ghost, for a fleeting moment, seemed to smile. Anne saw only murderous intentions in it’s demeanor and cowered against the headboard, clawing frantically at the sheets. The thing scaled the edge of the bed with the utmost ease as it whistled by her ear so quickly her eyes did not register it moving at all.
Anne tried to scream, but no saving scream would come. All sound choked far back into her lungs and she could not even catch her breath much less scream for the neighbors. Forgetting this undisputed fact and gazing at her unwelcomed intruder, she tried again, but this time only harder and to no avail.
The foreboding sense of unspeakable evil filled the room igniting the darkest corners and Anne Stevenson began to cry uncontrollably. The demon ghost laughed heartily knowing it’s victory was at hand and it started drawing acrid breaths, small at first, sucking in everything possible. Anne’s chest hurt. She felt as though she was dying and she knew she was. Her head slipped into a dull throb, constant and sure. As the demon’s breaths became larger, Anne felt her usually strong will diminish and succumb to the terrifying beast in front of her blinding eyes.
Sucking her now willing soul into it’s jaded heart little by little; the ghost grinned with sheer pleasure as she wisped the last little bits of fresh air out of her lungs and frail body. Her nostrils flared with each passing breath and her lungs were afire with pain she couldn’t even begin to fathom or explain. The obscure being took its last breaths from Anne’s existence. As she braced herself for the final blow Anne couldn’t shake the feeling someone or something was watching this and doing nothing. Her flesh crawled for the last time in her short life and a fleeting vision surfed through her mind. It was a vision of Hank Stuart. Just as the vision came it was gone. Anne Stevenson lay dead still in her own bed as the entity swept through the wall and disappeared forever.
Hank Stuart let the curtains drift back to their rightful place with a smile on his lips, “You should of let me in, Anney,” he whispered quietly. “Everything would have been right and you would not of been a sacrifice, honey.” Hank Stuart stopped back into his easy chair unwrapped the daily newspaper and began to read as if nothing happened.
Copyright: Demented Thinking Productions 1998
As Anne Stevenson descended the steep stairs of her two story Tudor home with dismay she nervously surveyed her surroundings. It wasn’t the first night since her beloved husband died that she woke up in a cold sweat with the inevitable feeling someone or something was watching her from the blackness of the shadows. Everything was as she left it when she retired to bed. All the antique furniture she’d spent years collecting were complete and in their respective places and every little nick knack she’d picked up here and there were left undisturbed on the tops of the relics decorating her home. Still, she could not shake the terrible feeling of eerie eyes scanning her every single move.
Feeling did not begin to explain what the neat, structured woman in her mid 40’s experienced. Utter fear was more like it. Anne carefully mounted the last step and peeked around the corner expecting…what? Little green men in space suits reciting “Take me to your leader.” No, she didn’t expect that at all, the terror gripped her insides far worse than little green men would. Anne had to face it; she more or less expected a demon from hell to poke its head out of some piece of forgotten furniture. She forced a smile on her face in spite of herself to keep the unease at a manageable level, but the fear of what might of coiled itself around the darkest of corners of her heart forced her to shutter uncontrollably.
Anne quietly tiptoed across the huge, unyielding living room until she cautiously settled into the light and airy kitchen doorway. Although the kitchen did not look a bit light and airy on this dreary morning, she stood motionless, allowing the moonlight to play upon the already graying swigs of hair she desperately tried to stamp out with everything from special shampoos to professional dyes.
The empty house lay still and apparently sleeping. Anne listened intently for anything out of the ordinary. Nothing.
Deciding possibly her mid-life crisis was getting the best of her, Anne sauntered the rest of the way into the darkened kitchen and flipped the light switch on quickly ready for anything or anyone that might jump out of the depths at her. Anne carefully stepped over to the kitchen stainless steel sink, turned on the faucet clearly marked “C” in blue shading and grabbed the glass Mr. Coffee pot out of the dish drainer. “Might as well have some coffee,” she said aloud to no one in particular trying her best to shake the eyes she felt boring into the back of her skull. Checking the quartz clock mounted promptly over the small kitchen dinette suit, she filled the coffee grounds into their rightful place, poured water into the top of the coffee maker as if it were some miniature steam engine and clicked the brilliant red switch to the “on” position. The cat shaped clock cheerfully read 2:15 a.m. as its tail swept back and forth like it was going to pounce on a unaware mouse, ticking away the seconds of the wee hours in the morning. Anne shivered frantically at the very thought of the cat clock leaping to life off the wall and attacking a defenseless mouse in her shiny kitchen.
Dismissing her misgivings about the clock for now, Anne closed her tired eyes and pictured a serene scene. A picturesque meadow came into focus just beneath her swollen lids and she began to relax a little. Butterflies gracefully skittered just above the daises and somewhere in the distance she could hear a babbling brook just like the small creek she played in as a young girl…
A loud rap at the back kitchen door startled Anne back into an uncanny reality and she lit out a little yelp in spite of herself. As her pulse and surprise died down, she recognized her next-door neighbor, Hank Stuart grinning like the inappropriate Cheshire cat. Anne opened the heavy, wooden kitchen door, still disoriented from her shock out of a perfect fantasy world, and muttered an unpleasant, “Hello, Hank.” Hank Stuart, a short, pudgy, balding man in his late forties, winked at Anne and declared in a loud, boisterous voice as if she were deaf, “Is everything okay over here, honey?” Anne shuddered. She hated the way Hank Stuart winker at her, she hated being called honey, and most of all she hated the way he undressed her with his eyes every time their paths crossed.
Anne gestured half-heartily to a neat, cozy wicker back chair, “Coffee?”
“Please.” Hank returned with that evil smile. Adjusting his position in the chair to clearly get a better look at Anne, Hank added, “Why are you up at this time in the morning? Mr. Sleepy man retreat from your pretty little head?” Anne gazed at him trying desperately to show no emotion even though that comment made her skin crawl with displeasure, “Hardly, “ she countered not displaying her contempt for Hank if at all possible. I f Hank noticed it did not register on his face. His eyes still danced with that giddy schoolboy expression stricken there every since Anne could remember. When her late husband, Herb, was alive, Hank Stuart still always had a thing for Anne, and she hated him with every fiber of her being. It wasn’t right. It felt completely unnatural someway, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. His attitudes and mannerisms always displayed way more affection than they should have and made Anne feel at unease.
A rattled chill ran the entire length of Anne’s spine and she shivered as if the act of doing so would shake the relentless uneasy sensation boring into her back scanning every nook, crack, and cranny.
“One lump, or two?” Anne smiled wanly as she pictured herself picking up a cartoon sledgehammer and knocking Hank over the head bluntly with it like Buggs Bunny might do to Elmer Fudd. “A Bleeeee,…A Bleeee,…A Bleeee,…ah,…That’s all folks!” Anne muttered under her breath.
“Pardon me?” Hank asked with a slightly confused look on his face.
“Nothing.” Anne assured him as she plopped the hot, swirling coffee in front of him.
Shrugging, Hank posed his original question again as if the second time around after Anne’s extreme deafness he believed she suffered from would get the response he knew to be right. “Why are you up at,” he glanced at the wall clock nervously ticking away, “…2:35 a.m.? You, uh, got the willy’s or something?” Hank reached across the small butcher-block table and nudged Anne’s shoulder gently. Stifling the immediate impulse to shrink away from his touch, Anne offered quickly, “Yeah, something like that.”
Hank’s smile broadened to expose the gold-capped molars as if to say, “There, I knew I was right, I always am.” Anne disliked Hank Stuart with a passion, and she loathed his undulating advances.
For a long time the two sat in silence in Anne’s cozy kitchen, Anne trying to shake the gloom and despaired sleep from her troubled mind and Hank, no doubt, envisioning what he’d like to do to her if she ever halfway consented to his ludicrous proposals. The feline clock chimed a meow three times and startled the dank silence hanging in midair.
As if the clock’s odd chime had stirred an interest deep within Anne’s subconscious she blurt out, “Hank? Do you believe in ghosts?” The words hung there in the air and she could do nothing to take them back even though she wished she could. For the first time since Hank stepped into Anne Stevenson’s warm kitchen his smile faltered and faded all together from his hard, weathered face. “Do you?” He countered seriously. Anne contemplated the question for several moments before answering reluctantly, “Yes and no.” Anne felt her face flush as she thought about how silly she must sound. “That was indecisive.” Hank deduced. “What I mean is…well, I guess it’s just plain silly, but sometimes I just feel like Herb is by my side in the kitchen or in the bedroom just like he always was when he was alive.” Hank appeared to turn this information over in his sordid mind a few times before finally answering, “It’s not silly, so just get that thought out of your pretty little head. Sometimes when we lose someone close we notice things we wouldn’t of usually realized. Its just part of the healing process.”
With that settled Hank downed the last bit of coffee and handed the cup back to Anne gingerly, “Another round, please ma’am.” She stared at the cup like it was a foreign object for a moment and refilled it with ease and grace. Steam swilled from the cup in a mini fog-like display and Anne slid the sugar, spoon and cream unconsciously across the table. Hank accepted her offer and began dipping the spoon into the sugar absently.
Dumbfounded, she stared at the swirls of steam coming out of the coffee cup as if in a trance while Hank stirred. She couldn’t believe she’d even asked his opinion on something so personal and trivial. She would have kicked herself under the table, but Hank surely would think the bats in her belfry were loose again. Instead, she made a mental note not to engage in any more ghost stories or anything else for that matter with Hank Stuart.
As if that was the end of the subject, Anne stood up a little too abruptly and checked the clock once more. It twitched 3:15 a.m. Sensing the time had come for him to leave, Hank swallowed the last bits of coffee, put on his best Sunday school smile, and cooed, “Sweet dreams, Anne.” Anne nodded groggily and opened the kitchen door. Hank stepped outside into the frigid Michigan morning, turned and winked at her one more time for good measure, and marched across the snow moistened lawn to his own darkened home while Anne sleepily watched. Pitching a thick hand up in the cold morning air simulating a wave, Hank Stuart disappeared out of the black night into his own warm home.
Anne closed the door carefully, latched it and flipped the deadbolt into its place. Walking back to the dinette table Anne murmured to herself, “Why do I feel like I’ve just been raped?” She shivered to her very core. No matter what she did she couldn’t shake the sensation of his eyes boring into her and caressing her inside her head. Shaking her head to clear her thoughts as much as she possibly could under the circumstances, Anne plopped back into her original chair with a thud and dropped her head into her trembling hands rubbing her temples.
Snow began to silently fall outside and Anne was more than tired. She was exhausted. Yawning again, she stood up and stole a look at the menacing cat clock on the wall ticking away, taunting her with every flick of its tail. “I’ve got to replace that damn clock,” she said aloud and her own voice reverberated in her sensitive ears enveloping the desperate silence of the enormous house. As if to answer, the clock chimed once and Anne clicked the kitchen light off. The clock seemed to glow in the shrouded darkness as the eyes turned an ominous, piercing green. Anne rubbed her weary eyes disbelievingly and it was gone.
Shaking her head, Anne made her way back to the stairs in the darkness more by familiarity than by sight and slowly began the long climb to her empty bedroom. She lay awake staring at the blown ceiling watching shadows of trees dancing across it like poised fingers gripping for the edges of her sanity she hoped she still possessed. The limbs pitched back and forth in the upcoming storm outside as the shadows frantically performed their ominous ballet.
Anne shot a glance at the bright red digital clock positioned delicately on her nightstand and gasped. “I must have dozed off,” she mumbled incoherently. Summoning an answer the digital promptly faded from 4:51 to 4:52 a.m., and she realized with terrifying certainty she hadn’t fallen asleep at all, but merely into a trance-like state for over an hour. Dismissing this thought as quickly as it came Anne slung the colorful comforter off her sweat-drenched body unto the floor.
For a brief moment she laid in her bed, the same bed she shared with her late husband for 25 years, in total disbelief. Paralyzed with fear, she slowly began to reconstruct in her fogged mind what might have happened to cause her to be totally naked. Coming up with no believable solutions she began to test every muscle in her body slowly. Puzzled, Anne couldn’t even begin to fathom why, let alone how, she had gotten undressed. Kicking her feet over the edge of the bed she quickly went over earlier events in her mind. She absently slipped her terry cloth robe on and zipped it up to the top of her neck pinching her in the process to counteract the Goosebumps springing up everywhere claiming their own spontaneous territories.
Thinking hard, she remembered coming upstairs after coffee with Hank, she remembered getting into bed with clothes on, and she remembered lying awake for some time, but past that she didn’t have a clue about her present humbled condition. In fact, she distinctly remembered wearing a nightgown because she’d fished out her favorite flannel when she got dressed for bed that evening.
Confusion threatened to overwhelm her into a fit of unanswered questions and an uncontrollable bout of tears. Anne sank slowly back unto the bedside holding her head in her hands fighting the urge to cry and get it over with. The morning stilled and the silence filtered through the entire house like fog rolling in over a vast amount of water. Snow fell outside by the truckloads and unable to fight any longer Anne plummeted her unraveling face into the soft goose down pillow sobbing loudly and uncontrollably.
Sure she’d gained enough control of herself and equally sure she wouldn’t start again, Anne rose slowly and walked into the master bathroom with a grace and strength she didn’t quite possess. Splashing cold water from the bathroom tap on her pale, ashen face she tried her best to collect her thoughts and shake the sensation of absolute terror creeping up into her spine and in her crumbling mind. “I can’t believe this is happening,” Anne spoke to her distraught reflection the bathroom mirror without much certainty.
Tears streamed down her face in waves and Anne sucked them back in like a Hoover vacuum cleaner, switched off the bathroom light and made her way back to the side of the bed. She crawled back underneath the covers waiting for sleep to come and relieve her of this nightmare. Sleep did not come. Instead, she watched the tree figures dance their eerie ballet on the ceiling silently. Tears won again and Anne buried her face.
The small hairs on the nape of her neck prickled and alerted her to the danger before her eyes became totally aware of what she was seeing. Chills ran deep down her spine and she gawked at the intruder present in her bedroom. She began to frantically look around like a caged animal at the zoo trying to discern where it came from and how it was standing right there after she always locked all the doors and windows every night before bed.
Anne slowly shifted her head from the dancing tree limbs to the grotesque figure standing, (swaying was more like it), at the foot of her bed. The ghostly, floating cloud darkened the already black room with every shift of motion it contained. Feeling the encompassing evil through her unbelieving eyes and skin before the goose pimples broke out completely and the small hairs all over her body stood at attention, Anne began to scream, but instead a stifled yelp died on her lips as quickly as it manifested itself. She gripped the edges of the bed in horror until her knuckles were white and tired. Breathlessly she stared at her new found friend with horror and contempt.
Anne laid motionless, afraid to move a muscle as the ghost cloud drifted around the room oblivious to her immediate distress. It seemed to stake out the entire room like a bad police movie checking every inch for what, Anne surely didn’t know. She watched unable to move and waited. The cloud, apparently assured nothing or no one else lurked in the lucid shadows of Anne’s once quaint bedroom, turned its attention to her stiff, fragile shape trembling beneath the capsizing bed linens. Anne realized in horror the ghost was not looking at her, but through her into the dark depths of her soul.
She reluctantly closed her eyes as if this retaliation would have some adverse effect on the supernatural being and re-opened them blinking in utter disbelief. Her voice left her lips and dangled in midair for what seemed like a lifetime and no sound escaped her. Her breath, taken away as the hideous creature moved back and forth like a balloon swaying in the wind, puffed out her lungs in short staggering pants. It was still there and not leaving any time soon. Anne knew deep down inside all the wishing she could possibly believe in doing would not exterminate her wide awake nightmare, and it was real, oh so real. She felt as though she could reach out and touch it without disturbing a thing, but she didn’t dare for the fright of losing her small, bony hand within it’s cascading shrouds.
White ghostly matter mixed with the obscure gray as the figure floated at the foot of the queen size bed indecisive as to which route to take to it’s scared prey. It was as if the thing was being guided by some other life form unknown to her at that moment. It stopped abruptly. Peering deep inside her soul Anne felt it’s probing tentacles reaching out to encompass her very life line and the ghost, for a fleeting moment, seemed to smile. Anne saw only murderous intentions in it’s demeanor and cowered against the headboard, clawing frantically at the sheets. The thing scaled the edge of the bed with the utmost ease as it whistled by her ear so quickly her eyes did not register it moving at all.
Anne tried to scream, but no saving scream would come. All sound choked far back into her lungs and she could not even catch her breath much less scream for the neighbors. Forgetting this undisputed fact and gazing at her unwelcomed intruder, she tried again, but this time only harder and to no avail.
The foreboding sense of unspeakable evil filled the room igniting the darkest corners and Anne Stevenson began to cry uncontrollably. The demon ghost laughed heartily knowing it’s victory was at hand and it started drawing acrid breaths, small at first, sucking in everything possible. Anne’s chest hurt. She felt as though she was dying and she knew she was. Her head slipped into a dull throb, constant and sure. As the demon’s breaths became larger, Anne felt her usually strong will diminish and succumb to the terrifying beast in front of her blinding eyes.
Sucking her now willing soul into it’s jaded heart little by little; the ghost grinned with sheer pleasure as she wisped the last little bits of fresh air out of her lungs and frail body. Her nostrils flared with each passing breath and her lungs were afire with pain she couldn’t even begin to fathom or explain. The obscure being took its last breaths from Anne’s existence. As she braced herself for the final blow Anne couldn’t shake the feeling someone or something was watching this and doing nothing. Her flesh crawled for the last time in her short life and a fleeting vision surfed through her mind. It was a vision of Hank Stuart. Just as the vision came it was gone. Anne Stevenson lay dead still in her own bed as the entity swept through the wall and disappeared forever.
Hank Stuart let the curtains drift back to their rightful place with a smile on his lips, “You should of let me in, Anney,” he whispered quietly. “Everything would have been right and you would not of been a sacrifice, honey.” Hank Stuart stopped back into his easy chair unwrapped the daily newspaper and began to read as if nothing happened.
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