SHORT STORY ANTHOLOGY
THE VOICES OF SHADOW
THE VOICES OF SHADOW
DEAD RINGER
C S Caspar
Catherine Stepancic/Caspar Copyright©2017
C S Caspar
Catherine Stepancic/Caspar Copyright©2017
Part One
As we walked through the unending passage of countless tombs, I felt something in the air. Something subtle and unknown. A strange atmosphere, like an airborne odor of invasion where the deceased watched us in despair.
Stale and unsmiling representations, adorned the recent headstones. However, the black and white pictures of the beloved corpse were all the same…grim-faced memories of a familiar outline casting echoes of their past lives. Intimate and familiar details bound them to their ancestors and instead of being beautiful, their insidious morbid faces did nothing but seethe envy onto the living. And the pictures only served to feed another morose accusation. The appalling words of love. ‘A kind and loving father.’ Dearly missed and loved by all.’ And I wonder. Were the maggoty corpses interned, as loving as the insidious inscriptions their relatives had seen fit to offer? Or was this action needed? Because the living fear speaking ill of the dead? And anyway… would the dead care?
* * *
“Where are we going?” I asked Max.
“Aisle sixty-six.” He replied sharply.
I’d only just met the man and already he was getting on my nerves. I had a bad feeling about this job; night security guard for the deeply dead. However, I was desperate and in my present financial state. Any job was good enough.
The interview hadn’t gone as I’d expected. “You start on night shift,” were the first words out of his mouth, “an` all I want you to do is keep the place locked up and the vandals out.”
He had introduced himself, and announced he needed to show me something important. So, six minutes after meeting. We found ourselves walking through the area, he called, the abandoned. These run-down tombs carried no morbid pictures and most… long forgotten by their relatives. Who were also, undoubtedly dead.
At the end of row sixty-six. Max stopped and I fell in beside him.
“There.” He said, pointing a gnarled finger. A lone headstone stood in a grassy patch some distance from our position. Clearly-visible, and engraved in the stone were the words “THE BLACK DWARF,” and they hadn’t faded overtime.
“Who's the black dwarf?” I had to ask while feeling slightly amused.
Max spat towards a nearby tomb, leaving green slime seeping into the cracks. “Don’t go near that one!” He rattled and then turned to look me in the eye. “You hear me boy?” “Don’t you ever… go near that one!”
“Com`on, Max. It's just a piece of stone. The dead stay dead.”
The old man held my eyes. “You see that number engraved underneath? It's the number of people he tortured and then burned at the stake. ‘The Black Dwarf’ was a priest and an inquisitor. Servant to the church during the witch trials, an` buried here in 1666. But he ain’t dead. This one is so evil he ain’t allowed to die.” Max continued without taking a breath. “You see that bell tower there, next to the tomb? Well, when you hear it ringing, you stay inside the cabin. Lock the door and you don’t come out until the sun rises.”
I couldn’t help smiling, “You’ve got to be kidding me. A dead ringer?”
“Listen boy. You do as I say, because there will be no God in heaven or on earth, that will save your soul from the hideous ghoul that comes out of that grave at night to steal your sanity. Don’t get curious. Don’t go out there, and if you see him. You run for it.”
“See him? Who am I going to see?” I replied, grinning comically.
“The priest, you fool! Haven’t you been listening?”
I had begun wondering if Max was one tool short of a set. “Listen Max, I don’t believe in ghosts, and if you’re implying the ghost of this priest walks around at night. I’ll need a little more convincing.”
“Did I say he was a ghost, Boy…?”
If he called me boy one more time…
Max turned and started through the tombstones heading towards the cabin. “Are you comin?” He growled without looking back. I took one more look at the gravestone and then followed the grumpy old man. Moments later we stood at the cemetery gates. While locking the chain, he added a final comment. “You hear that bell ring…you stay inside.”
“Sure.” I replied with a smile. Max shook his head in disgust then walked away.
It wasn’t long after Max left, and I hadn’t made it back to the cabin, before the sun started its decent below the horizon. Already, dark shadows were making their way across the graveyard. It’s going to be a long night. I thought. Time for a coffee.
* * *
The cabin was morbid and sparsely equipped. Against the north wall a small round table and single chair. To the left, a tattered two seat fake leather couch. Beside the bookcase, a small timber counter; single sink in the middle and some leaning shelves holding mugs, a few dirty plates and other kitchen paraphernalia. Everything covered in a fine spray of dust. No radio and no television.
While considering the long hours ahead. My thoughts wandered to my last morbid occupation. Mortuary assistant. I’d learned about dead ringers from conversations with another staff member. That job had ended badly and I was hoping I wasn’t in for round two when dealing with the dead.
Dead ringers appeared sometime in the 1700s when hysteria ran rampant. Tales of the dead waking in their graves led to a bunch of swindlers making and selling coffins fitted with safety devices. Just in case.
Designs were creative. Coffins had tubes inserted for air; to keep the person alive until someone came to rescue them. Other models added strings attached to the hands and feet of the dead. The strings led out of the coffin and connected to a bell next to the grave. Ringing the bell, alerted the night-watchman and the interned alive could be freed.
One story had a priest coming to the cemetery at intervals and sniffing the tubes just to see if decomposition had set in. Now, that’s a job even I would never do. Not for any pay day. Nevertheless, waking up six feet under the ground and confined in a box, goes straight into the heading… a thousand ways to re-die.
I hadn’t had time to shake the visions of waking up in my own grave when I heard the bell ringing. Seriously it's crazy…I did hear it, but decided to ignore it. It's just my imagination. Yeah! That’s what I thought. Until someone or something was banging hard on the cabin door, shaking the hinges from their screws.
Right here and now. I don’t have to tell you my eyes became saucers and my heart beat so fast, it started choking me. I couldn’t shut my mouth to stop the blockage. I backed into the farthest corner of the room. My mind awash with fear and hammered by the endless banging. Something slid under the door. I saw it but couldn’t name what it was. Smoke? Then dizziness overwhelmed me and I was falling. A second later everything went dark.
Part Two
“I’ve been waiting a long-time for you… Jason…I know what you did.” The voice sounded hollow and distant, yet at the same time, I could feel a foul cold fluid cut into the back of my neck. Then as if beaten out of paralysis. I moved around searching for the source of the voice. But there was no-one except shadows and gravestones; the darkness had stripped everything down to reality. I had no idea how I came to be in the graveyard.
My stomach churned as visions in an altered mind, induced pictures of a deformed and hideous dwarf. He was pointing at me while surrounded by the carnage of yesteryear. The macabre spectacle danced in a dream before my eyes. However, all I could think was… how did he know? What I had done so long ago. No one knew…Nevertheless, the dream roused scenes I’d rather forget, and I’m telling you… it hadn’t been my fault.
* * *
The stupid cretin fought like a madman. He was just a-nobody, a bagman. His body found on the street and supposed to be dead. The coroner had left the room and I had just begun preparing the needle and cord to stitch him up for his insignificant burial.
While approaching his naked, cold and dead body. Laying stock-still on the iron slab. I thought. Dead−just a piece of discarded meat. No different from carving up a pig. But I was wrong. We all were…. Because a moment later he sat up from stiff paralysis. Looked down at the incisions on his torso, then turned to see his disemboweled entrails on the bench. A silent pause and then he started screaming like a hoard of demons. The dead man’s horrified and appalling shrieks assaulted the atmosphere as the murderous reality of his autopsy came into realization.
Now I’m thinking, which event is graver? Waking at your own autopsy or buried in your coffin.
The horrified bagman, stared at the huge bloody slices of flesh that formed bat wings on his chest; exposing what was left of the harvest. In a flashback−when the cutting was going on. I’d remembered thinking; the fact that he was bleeding wasn’t exactly normal. And why the coroner wasn’t concerned…because the dead don’t bleed… posed more than a few questions of his ethics. I didn’t say anything, because what did I know? I was just an employee, doing my job.
The dead hobo’s ribs were broken about twenty minutes ago and specific organs removed. Kidneys in the cooler. There will be some dollars made on that item. Liver in another. But the heart… well that was another story. The coroner had placed it in a jar filled with meth and left it on the shelf. Right next to the pile of intestines; motionless hollow snakes in a bowl that stunk to high heaven.
Then all hell broke loose.
The dead man lunged at me but his grip was slack and useless, “You” he screamed, staring at the needle and threat in my hand. “What have you done?” And his voice became a lost wail. That’s when insanity erupted and my voice joined the shrieking chaos. The world seemed awash in an appalling maelstrom of clashing between my shouts of horror and the dead man’s cry to battle. A twisted, hellish spectacle unleashed in a shared blood lusting that battered the walls of the mortuary.
During the commotion, he’d managed to get his hands on the jar holding his heart. His disjointed tries at moving forced him to slip on his own blood where he fell with a wet thud onto the concrete floor. Smashing the glass and slicing his face. His lifeless heart rolled out-of-reach and meth; in a rapid smear, spread across the ground.
The dead man’s screams rose and gathered substance. He raised himself onto his knees and the rest of his organs spilled in bloody juice. At this point, I’d had enough. I ran for the far wall and seized the gas torch used for burning discarded body matter and turned it to the writhing corpse. In an instant, the meth exploded and was ablaze. The hobo’s body ignited. He started thrashing and burning while shocked accusing eyes filled with mortal grief locked on mine. He howled like an agonized animal as the stinking red flames erupted and rose to the ceiling.
Standing transfixed and half-conscious. I watched his body lurch and writhe, then a fountain of blood mixed with flames exploded from his throat.
I staggered back from the scorching tendrils of fire that threatened to engulf me and the zombie, when a curious thought hit me. “Well, this time, you won’t be getting up again.” The idea of remorse never crossed my mind. Because when your dead you should stay dead!
That was the moment I woke, then realized it had all been a vivid dream. A conjured experience created by the constant connection to the dead and my own morbid fascination with horror.
I looked around. I was in the cabin and it was as it had been before I passed out. However, I had been sure, just a moment ago. I was in the graveyard. Maybe, fear had inspired a hallucination and before falling unconscious that cold smoke that filtered under the door had affected my mind.
I picked up the torch and walked outside into the graveyard. I was going to pay a little visit to the tomb of the Black Dwarf. See for myself if the priest was wandering the cemetery.
* * *
The tombstones were silent. Nevertheless, as always, I had a feeling the dead were watching. Tossing contemptuous curses at me each time I passed their frozen claim.
When I arrived at the Black Dwarfs tomb, there was nothing but silence. The flashlight lit the old headstone. Nothing unusual. “I’m coming for you Jason.” Said a distant hollow voice. Emanating from just behind my ear and without thinking, I replied. “Go ahead and try. You bloody dwarf. It's going take a lot more than dreams and a creepy voice to frighten me.” I’d had enough of this ridiculous sense of invasion. So, I flipped the birdie and started back towards the cabin. Convinced old Max with his stupid tales of the walking dead had infected me. I wasn’t having anymore of it. However, I hadn’t taken more than five steps when the bell started ringing.
Stopping in my tracks. I turned the torch back to the tombstone and there… perched on the headstone was the most grotesque gargoyle imaginable…one clawed hand was tolling the bell and the other was pointing at me.
The creature sprang skywards, bat wings sounding like chomping plastic and beating to a time clock. It hovered just above the grave staring at me with a ghastly intelligence. Then I saw it. Gripped in one swinging leg, clasped in sharp talons was a steaming human heart.
Moments later, the earth erupted and from graves all around the cemetery, the dead began to rise. That was it. I started running but I didn’t get far. Something unseen lay on the path and in the dark, I tripped. Then something grabbed my leg in a cold hard grip and was dragging me down.
I struggled with every scrap of strength after shear panic took over. My hands clawed the ground trying to stop the inevitable. I tried another manoeuvre. Rolling over, I started kicking at the corpse that wouldn’t let go. And even after I managed to detach its bony head, it still held on. I couldn’t scream because I had nothing but pure terror running through my veins. And it wasn’t long before I saw him. The black dwarf. He was standing atop the mound before his headstone. An ugly grotesque presence. Swinging in his left hand was the head of a dead black cat. It’s eyes rolling around in its head, as if it were aware of its beheading, but was still alive. The dwarf moved towards me. A ridiculous specter. Conjured by a sick and twisted mind. Aware of the imminent danger. I continued to struggle with the stinking corpses, but their grip was inescapable. It was all over and I knew it.
Part Three
At dawn the next morning when Max arrived at the cemetery he found the cabin empty. He didn’t have to wonder what might have happened the night before. He just grumbled some vague curses then headed to the nearby shed, took the shovel in the corner and lifted the wheelbarrow. Along the path between the tombstones, he picked up an arm here and a leg there. Some entails and Jason’s head. Which he found dripping with blood and resting on the black Dwarfs tomb. This was typical, because Max had performed the same ritual time and time again.
“Stupid idjot. I told him…I told him…no one ever listens…” Max moaned as he began digging.
As we walked through the unending passage of countless tombs, I felt something in the air. Something subtle and unknown. A strange atmosphere, like an airborne odor of invasion where the deceased watched us in despair.
Stale and unsmiling representations, adorned the recent headstones. However, the black and white pictures of the beloved corpse were all the same…grim-faced memories of a familiar outline casting echoes of their past lives. Intimate and familiar details bound them to their ancestors and instead of being beautiful, their insidious morbid faces did nothing but seethe envy onto the living. And the pictures only served to feed another morose accusation. The appalling words of love. ‘A kind and loving father.’ Dearly missed and loved by all.’ And I wonder. Were the maggoty corpses interned, as loving as the insidious inscriptions their relatives had seen fit to offer? Or was this action needed? Because the living fear speaking ill of the dead? And anyway… would the dead care?
* * *
“Where are we going?” I asked Max.
“Aisle sixty-six.” He replied sharply.
I’d only just met the man and already he was getting on my nerves. I had a bad feeling about this job; night security guard for the deeply dead. However, I was desperate and in my present financial state. Any job was good enough.
The interview hadn’t gone as I’d expected. “You start on night shift,” were the first words out of his mouth, “an` all I want you to do is keep the place locked up and the vandals out.”
He had introduced himself, and announced he needed to show me something important. So, six minutes after meeting. We found ourselves walking through the area, he called, the abandoned. These run-down tombs carried no morbid pictures and most… long forgotten by their relatives. Who were also, undoubtedly dead.
At the end of row sixty-six. Max stopped and I fell in beside him.
“There.” He said, pointing a gnarled finger. A lone headstone stood in a grassy patch some distance from our position. Clearly-visible, and engraved in the stone were the words “THE BLACK DWARF,” and they hadn’t faded overtime.
“Who's the black dwarf?” I had to ask while feeling slightly amused.
Max spat towards a nearby tomb, leaving green slime seeping into the cracks. “Don’t go near that one!” He rattled and then turned to look me in the eye. “You hear me boy?” “Don’t you ever… go near that one!”
“Com`on, Max. It's just a piece of stone. The dead stay dead.”
The old man held my eyes. “You see that number engraved underneath? It's the number of people he tortured and then burned at the stake. ‘The Black Dwarf’ was a priest and an inquisitor. Servant to the church during the witch trials, an` buried here in 1666. But he ain’t dead. This one is so evil he ain’t allowed to die.” Max continued without taking a breath. “You see that bell tower there, next to the tomb? Well, when you hear it ringing, you stay inside the cabin. Lock the door and you don’t come out until the sun rises.”
I couldn’t help smiling, “You’ve got to be kidding me. A dead ringer?”
“Listen boy. You do as I say, because there will be no God in heaven or on earth, that will save your soul from the hideous ghoul that comes out of that grave at night to steal your sanity. Don’t get curious. Don’t go out there, and if you see him. You run for it.”
“See him? Who am I going to see?” I replied, grinning comically.
“The priest, you fool! Haven’t you been listening?”
I had begun wondering if Max was one tool short of a set. “Listen Max, I don’t believe in ghosts, and if you’re implying the ghost of this priest walks around at night. I’ll need a little more convincing.”
“Did I say he was a ghost, Boy…?”
If he called me boy one more time…
Max turned and started through the tombstones heading towards the cabin. “Are you comin?” He growled without looking back. I took one more look at the gravestone and then followed the grumpy old man. Moments later we stood at the cemetery gates. While locking the chain, he added a final comment. “You hear that bell ring…you stay inside.”
“Sure.” I replied with a smile. Max shook his head in disgust then walked away.
It wasn’t long after Max left, and I hadn’t made it back to the cabin, before the sun started its decent below the horizon. Already, dark shadows were making their way across the graveyard. It’s going to be a long night. I thought. Time for a coffee.
* * *
The cabin was morbid and sparsely equipped. Against the north wall a small round table and single chair. To the left, a tattered two seat fake leather couch. Beside the bookcase, a small timber counter; single sink in the middle and some leaning shelves holding mugs, a few dirty plates and other kitchen paraphernalia. Everything covered in a fine spray of dust. No radio and no television.
While considering the long hours ahead. My thoughts wandered to my last morbid occupation. Mortuary assistant. I’d learned about dead ringers from conversations with another staff member. That job had ended badly and I was hoping I wasn’t in for round two when dealing with the dead.
Dead ringers appeared sometime in the 1700s when hysteria ran rampant. Tales of the dead waking in their graves led to a bunch of swindlers making and selling coffins fitted with safety devices. Just in case.
Designs were creative. Coffins had tubes inserted for air; to keep the person alive until someone came to rescue them. Other models added strings attached to the hands and feet of the dead. The strings led out of the coffin and connected to a bell next to the grave. Ringing the bell, alerted the night-watchman and the interned alive could be freed.
One story had a priest coming to the cemetery at intervals and sniffing the tubes just to see if decomposition had set in. Now, that’s a job even I would never do. Not for any pay day. Nevertheless, waking up six feet under the ground and confined in a box, goes straight into the heading… a thousand ways to re-die.
I hadn’t had time to shake the visions of waking up in my own grave when I heard the bell ringing. Seriously it's crazy…I did hear it, but decided to ignore it. It's just my imagination. Yeah! That’s what I thought. Until someone or something was banging hard on the cabin door, shaking the hinges from their screws.
Right here and now. I don’t have to tell you my eyes became saucers and my heart beat so fast, it started choking me. I couldn’t shut my mouth to stop the blockage. I backed into the farthest corner of the room. My mind awash with fear and hammered by the endless banging. Something slid under the door. I saw it but couldn’t name what it was. Smoke? Then dizziness overwhelmed me and I was falling. A second later everything went dark.
Part Two
“I’ve been waiting a long-time for you… Jason…I know what you did.” The voice sounded hollow and distant, yet at the same time, I could feel a foul cold fluid cut into the back of my neck. Then as if beaten out of paralysis. I moved around searching for the source of the voice. But there was no-one except shadows and gravestones; the darkness had stripped everything down to reality. I had no idea how I came to be in the graveyard.
My stomach churned as visions in an altered mind, induced pictures of a deformed and hideous dwarf. He was pointing at me while surrounded by the carnage of yesteryear. The macabre spectacle danced in a dream before my eyes. However, all I could think was… how did he know? What I had done so long ago. No one knew…Nevertheless, the dream roused scenes I’d rather forget, and I’m telling you… it hadn’t been my fault.
* * *
The stupid cretin fought like a madman. He was just a-nobody, a bagman. His body found on the street and supposed to be dead. The coroner had left the room and I had just begun preparing the needle and cord to stitch him up for his insignificant burial.
While approaching his naked, cold and dead body. Laying stock-still on the iron slab. I thought. Dead−just a piece of discarded meat. No different from carving up a pig. But I was wrong. We all were…. Because a moment later he sat up from stiff paralysis. Looked down at the incisions on his torso, then turned to see his disemboweled entrails on the bench. A silent pause and then he started screaming like a hoard of demons. The dead man’s horrified and appalling shrieks assaulted the atmosphere as the murderous reality of his autopsy came into realization.
Now I’m thinking, which event is graver? Waking at your own autopsy or buried in your coffin.
The horrified bagman, stared at the huge bloody slices of flesh that formed bat wings on his chest; exposing what was left of the harvest. In a flashback−when the cutting was going on. I’d remembered thinking; the fact that he was bleeding wasn’t exactly normal. And why the coroner wasn’t concerned…because the dead don’t bleed… posed more than a few questions of his ethics. I didn’t say anything, because what did I know? I was just an employee, doing my job.
The dead hobo’s ribs were broken about twenty minutes ago and specific organs removed. Kidneys in the cooler. There will be some dollars made on that item. Liver in another. But the heart… well that was another story. The coroner had placed it in a jar filled with meth and left it on the shelf. Right next to the pile of intestines; motionless hollow snakes in a bowl that stunk to high heaven.
Then all hell broke loose.
The dead man lunged at me but his grip was slack and useless, “You” he screamed, staring at the needle and threat in my hand. “What have you done?” And his voice became a lost wail. That’s when insanity erupted and my voice joined the shrieking chaos. The world seemed awash in an appalling maelstrom of clashing between my shouts of horror and the dead man’s cry to battle. A twisted, hellish spectacle unleashed in a shared blood lusting that battered the walls of the mortuary.
During the commotion, he’d managed to get his hands on the jar holding his heart. His disjointed tries at moving forced him to slip on his own blood where he fell with a wet thud onto the concrete floor. Smashing the glass and slicing his face. His lifeless heart rolled out-of-reach and meth; in a rapid smear, spread across the ground.
The dead man’s screams rose and gathered substance. He raised himself onto his knees and the rest of his organs spilled in bloody juice. At this point, I’d had enough. I ran for the far wall and seized the gas torch used for burning discarded body matter and turned it to the writhing corpse. In an instant, the meth exploded and was ablaze. The hobo’s body ignited. He started thrashing and burning while shocked accusing eyes filled with mortal grief locked on mine. He howled like an agonized animal as the stinking red flames erupted and rose to the ceiling.
Standing transfixed and half-conscious. I watched his body lurch and writhe, then a fountain of blood mixed with flames exploded from his throat.
I staggered back from the scorching tendrils of fire that threatened to engulf me and the zombie, when a curious thought hit me. “Well, this time, you won’t be getting up again.” The idea of remorse never crossed my mind. Because when your dead you should stay dead!
That was the moment I woke, then realized it had all been a vivid dream. A conjured experience created by the constant connection to the dead and my own morbid fascination with horror.
I looked around. I was in the cabin and it was as it had been before I passed out. However, I had been sure, just a moment ago. I was in the graveyard. Maybe, fear had inspired a hallucination and before falling unconscious that cold smoke that filtered under the door had affected my mind.
I picked up the torch and walked outside into the graveyard. I was going to pay a little visit to the tomb of the Black Dwarf. See for myself if the priest was wandering the cemetery.
* * *
The tombstones were silent. Nevertheless, as always, I had a feeling the dead were watching. Tossing contemptuous curses at me each time I passed their frozen claim.
When I arrived at the Black Dwarfs tomb, there was nothing but silence. The flashlight lit the old headstone. Nothing unusual. “I’m coming for you Jason.” Said a distant hollow voice. Emanating from just behind my ear and without thinking, I replied. “Go ahead and try. You bloody dwarf. It's going take a lot more than dreams and a creepy voice to frighten me.” I’d had enough of this ridiculous sense of invasion. So, I flipped the birdie and started back towards the cabin. Convinced old Max with his stupid tales of the walking dead had infected me. I wasn’t having anymore of it. However, I hadn’t taken more than five steps when the bell started ringing.
Stopping in my tracks. I turned the torch back to the tombstone and there… perched on the headstone was the most grotesque gargoyle imaginable…one clawed hand was tolling the bell and the other was pointing at me.
The creature sprang skywards, bat wings sounding like chomping plastic and beating to a time clock. It hovered just above the grave staring at me with a ghastly intelligence. Then I saw it. Gripped in one swinging leg, clasped in sharp talons was a steaming human heart.
Moments later, the earth erupted and from graves all around the cemetery, the dead began to rise. That was it. I started running but I didn’t get far. Something unseen lay on the path and in the dark, I tripped. Then something grabbed my leg in a cold hard grip and was dragging me down.
I struggled with every scrap of strength after shear panic took over. My hands clawed the ground trying to stop the inevitable. I tried another manoeuvre. Rolling over, I started kicking at the corpse that wouldn’t let go. And even after I managed to detach its bony head, it still held on. I couldn’t scream because I had nothing but pure terror running through my veins. And it wasn’t long before I saw him. The black dwarf. He was standing atop the mound before his headstone. An ugly grotesque presence. Swinging in his left hand was the head of a dead black cat. It’s eyes rolling around in its head, as if it were aware of its beheading, but was still alive. The dwarf moved towards me. A ridiculous specter. Conjured by a sick and twisted mind. Aware of the imminent danger. I continued to struggle with the stinking corpses, but their grip was inescapable. It was all over and I knew it.
Part Three
At dawn the next morning when Max arrived at the cemetery he found the cabin empty. He didn’t have to wonder what might have happened the night before. He just grumbled some vague curses then headed to the nearby shed, took the shovel in the corner and lifted the wheelbarrow. Along the path between the tombstones, he picked up an arm here and a leg there. Some entails and Jason’s head. Which he found dripping with blood and resting on the black Dwarfs tomb. This was typical, because Max had performed the same ritual time and time again.
“Stupid idjot. I told him…I told him…no one ever listens…” Max moaned as he began digging.
HALLOWED GROUND
C. S. Caspar
Catherine Stepancic/Caspar Copyright©2017
“It's a predicable world and I’m comfortable with it, but I prefer not to be in it.”
It was a statement James had said many times, and just about everyone in town had heard it. However, the last person to see James had been old Clive Wilson. Said he saw James walking across the field after working his shift at the mine, and then James just blinked out. After that… nobody saw him again.
The whole town was talking and several stories were blowing around, even from people who had never met him. And, by-the-time the police were involved. Everyone knew he was an artist. Hell, they were already casting lots about the paintings left behind. That is … as soon as the police released the evidence.
I’d come to the tavern that night, two days after James disappeared. Because I wanted to hear the stories. Nobody aware that I was the only one that knew where James was hiding. And ‘hiding’ was an idiotic word to describe his whereabouts. Because it wasn’t old Clive Wilson that had been the last person to see James. I was the last.
Sure, constable Peter Crawford interviewed me at length. He was convinced, I had something to do with James` disappearance. After all, we were best friends. Nevertheless, I kept my mouth shut. Because there was no way anyone was going to believe the story, least of all the police. And second. I was having trouble believing the facts myself.
* * *
The whole affair started when James called me to his studio late one afternoon. Said, he had to show me something. He sounded excited, talking too fast and I could almost see him on the other end of the line drawing on a joint. At the time … I was thinking… too much weed. But I was wrong. James hadn’t been using crazy grass. He had found something at the bottom of mine shaft five. Something so bizarre and out of this world, it bordered on the paranormal.
I arrived at his studio around five in the afternoon. Earlier, I’d picked up a six-pack of beer. Thinking it was going to be a long night because I’d been through this before. James calling me because he’d finished a canvas and wanting me to write the blurb about the piece for the gallery. I was a writer and he an artist, and we worked well together. I had used more than one of James` paintings to inspire a short story.
James and I had gone to the same school when we were kids, and we had grown up in the same street. Even back then, James was a great artist, and we were both certain he would follow and artists career. On the other hand, I loved reading and almost every summer weekend we’d go fishing in the nearby Barwon river. Me recounting some novel I had recently read, and he sketching pictures of some visual interpretation of the character in the book I had described. Looking back, they were great times and right now I was missing James and our mateship. I had to find a way to get him back. However, it was going to take a miracle to achieve such an impossible task
* * *
By now, you must be wondering what James found at the bottom of mine shaft five? And I’m going to tell you. Even though, as incredible as it sounds. The whole story is true.
That fateful afternoon, James began by telling me. That two days earlier while digging. He’d found a remarkably colored block of clay. An unusual shade and size. And it wasn’t like anything he had found before. James enjoyed working with earth pigments, and often brought home soil, clay and rocks from the mine. Later he would grind his find into a powder and mix binder, some adhesive and linseed oil to make natural earth tints for his paintings. James didn’t like to get his hands dirty and he worked in the mine just to pay the bills.
Apparently, the strange stone had fallen from the rock wall after he struck it with the pick. Thinking he had found something remarkably new. He took it home and while removing the clay, he’d found an ancient carving. He said, it was made of petrified charred wood.
So, his story, at this point, was familiar. He had often shown me various blocks of clay or minerals and how he processed them. I had to ask. “What kind of carving?” James just smiled and replied. “It’s an ancient model of a man. I couldn’t find anything about it on the internet, but I think it is one of the old Celtic Gods.”
“Let me see it.” I said, expecting him to produce the item.
“Sorry, I can’t. It's gone.” He replied.
“Gone? What do you mean it's gone?” I was looking at James like he had just left sanity at the door and entered crazy.
James eyed me, and I could see both excitement and confusion in those familiar blue eyes. Then he continued. “After grinding the clay away. I found the carving inside. Not knowing what it was, I did the search online, but came up with nothing. However, when I held it in my hand, wondering where it had come from and who could have made it? The charred, wooden figurine, began to disintegrate and its pigment absorbed into my hand… It was like… sucked into me.”
“What do you mean sucked into you?” I questioned in disbelief.
“Yeah, sucked into my skin like it was micro atoms?” He laughed, and I could see there was something strange going on inside his head.
“Micro atoms? What are you talking about?” I was sure James was off his nut. He must be dreaming. Taking a mouthful of beer straight out of the bottleneck. I ignored his comment and said. “You need to get off the weed bro.”
“Look!” He declared. James walked over to his easel that centered the room and threw the white cover sheet onto the floor. “I did manage to paint the figure before I forgot what it looked like.”
What I saw was incredible crap. Nevertheless, I felt a cold shiver run along my spine forcing me to gooseflesh all over. “What the...!” Sucking in air, jumping from the couch and spilling some beer.
He’d painted the canvas using the colors he’d ground from the clay. I knew this because I could see his pallet and the remaining shards of clay resting on the bench, where he usually mixed his paint. The painting wasn’t some depiction of an idiotic statue. It was a self-portrait of James. He was wearing scruffy clothes, an old cowboy hat and walking across a field. Behind him, were scenes of a run-down mine. It wasn’t like his usual meticulously detailed work.
In this painting. All the brush strokes were running down the canvas in a streaming torrent. And in my incredulous mind. Those strokes were falling into some dark abyss invisible to the eye. I couldn’t believe it. What was he trying to pull? It was a painting of himself. What connected this self-portrait with the carving he had found? My state of mind was flying into crazy, because I was thinking… What the hell is going on… There was something seriously wrong with James and his painting.
James interrupted my thoughts when he said. “Watch this.” He raised his arm and approached the painting with his fingers outstretched, and as they touched the canvas, they went right through. He withdrew his fingers and they were coated with color.
“Isn’t it amazing.” He exclaimed, smiling and then repeating the action with his other hand.
Now, saying right here. The events unfolding is beyond imagining; is an understatement. I walked over to the painting and tried it for myself. But when I touched the paint nothing happened. My fingers didn’t pass through; it was just a painting.
James laughed, and the sound made me think he was under some wicked and unspeakable force. Then without a moment to collect my thoughts, he said. “I’ll be seeing you later.” He jumped into the painting and was gone. Leaving me dumbfounded and alone, while a million unanswered questions raged through my mind, in waves of confusion and disbelief.
* * *
I stayed in James` studio all-night, and most of the next day. Falling in and out of sleep. Hoping James would come back. But he didn’t. So, with no other options. I decided to take the painting home… to keep my eye on it. That was three months ago, and still, there is no sign of James.
I’d placed the painting in my lounge room… and I know you think I’m crazy, or, maybe, I’ve had too much weed. But I’m telling you. That painting changes all the time.
James is always the same. He is wearing that old cowboy hat and scruffy clothes. It’s the background that changes. Sometimes it’s a scene in Paris, where I can see the Eiffel tower behind him, and its not a time in the 20th century. Other days, show him walking through the backstreets of Rome. Where narrow cobblestone streets separate tall apartment buildings, with their high and narrow windows. Once I saw him standing in a London street. Black carriages pulled by black horses, moving up and down, passing one another, while carrying passengers to and from unknown destinations.
Overtime my imagination started taking over and I became accustomed to the paintings` ever changing scenes. Picturing James, living somewhere in other ages, while traveling the world through time and space. I had, shall we say, become comfortable with the story. And, possibly, a little jealous. Nevertheless, the idea James was happy, comforted me. It stemmed my loneliness at losing my best friend. Everything was going well until… last night.
* * *
I woke from a sweat drenched nightmare. I could have sworn I’d heard James screaming. Something was wrong and I knew it the moment my eyes flew open in the darkness. Throwing the sheets from the bed. I ran into the lounge, flicked on the light and glared at the painting. The painting was where it had always been. Propped against the wall facing the couch. In this position, I had watched it for hours. What I saw now, nearly froze my blood.
James wasn’t in the same strolling position he had been through all the changing backgrounds. James was back in that yellow field, and it appeared he was running from something. His face wasn’t staring out. it was twisted, looking behind him. And I could distinctly see. A hooded apparition holding an enormous scythe in hot pursuit. It looked like a reaper hell-bent on killing him. I felt the breath knocked out of me. “What the hell?” My legs started shaking and my heart pumped double time. “James,” I called in panic, “run James run.”
Then to my horror and as if James had heard me. His painted head began to turn around. The reaper was closing in. This was the first time I had seen the painting change in front of my eyes. Normally, I would wake each morning and find something different. And the scene would remained the same, until the next day. But now it was happening in live time.
When James` face came into view, his mouth was agape. His hat had blown off and was tumbling in the wind over the yellow grass, and when James` bulging blue eyes collided with mine… I saw shear terror. A moment later, his lips were moving and I heard him screaming. “Help me Jack. HELP ME…” That was the last straw. My traumatised mind could take no more, and like any respectable coward. I blacked out.
When I opened my eyes. I was on the floor staring at a small carving made from charred wood. The object was no more that a few inches from my face and laying in front of the canvas. And that wasn’t all… the self-portrait was gone and what replaced it... was blood, running red and black paint. James and all scenes had disappeared.
I struggled to my feet because my legs were still shaking. How long, had I been out of it? I wasn’t sure, but the sun was well over the horizon, as I watched fingers of light, come through the window, playing shadows with the furniture.
Staring down at the carving, wondering where it had come from, and at the same time, knowing it had fallen right out of the canvas. My mind revisited the scenes of the night before. “James,” the word, a horrified whisper emitting from my insensible mouth. While hoping, he would suddenly appear through the doorway safe and sound.
As I stared at the item. I could have sworn I heard James` voice. It was just an echo sounding from somewhere distant. “Jack, pick it up. I need your help.” But I didn’t want to touch that thing. What was I going to do? My best friend is calling, and he needs me? What was I going to do?
I was going to run. That is what any sane person would have done. But I wasn’t sane. Not anymore. I didn’t know it, but that parasitic carving had infected me just like it infested James.
* * *
I was never going to see the police report written in the local paper. ‘Murderous painting in yellow fields of grass’ Nor hear the shaded musings of the towns people as they whispered tales of how homicide was committed. All the evidence, they said, was in a painting, found at Jack's house. A painting done by his best friend James, revealing I was his killer.
But where was Jack now? What has he done with James` body? A question they never answered. The dream police were never going to find me, just like they would never find James. I, like my best friend; are cursed. He, lost in shards of time and his love of art and I into the pages of this story.
James and I remain trapped in the imaginary and extraordinary world of Words and Art. So, let the reapers come to suck the life from invention. Let their bloodied blades of criticism come to steal our dreams. We will not allow it… for by the power of creation, we are free and standing on Hallowed ground.
YE`OL` ANTIQUE STORE
C. S. Caspar
Catherine Stepancic/Caspar Copyright©2017
I have often wondered … Does a person’s home reflect their personality?
The same question still haunts me as I open the small timber picket gate, and enter the short but meandering path bordered with thick green foliage.
The effect of traveling through a shaded tunnel created in green by someone with harbored secrets; left imaginary fairies and cheeky gnomes to watch this unwary traveler. I felt like I had just entered the twilight zone.
Then my thoughts flew towards a strange dream; one that had left its owner’s borders of reality and entered mine.
The antique store set in an old timber home stamped my first impression. I had stepped into another world…this was no ordinary antique store. Instead, it was the architecture of an artist’s imagination; eccentrically designed, while finding its vision inside the master of surrealism. And its creator had unwittingly revealed her collection of memories for all to see in forgotten dreams. Dreams, that were once real. Dreams of belonging, of living and of love. Dreams, now left behind by former owners and on display; priced into the past.
Moving quietly, gripped by an unexplained sense of secret invasion. I was consciously aware, yet unable to explain why? I was trespassing in a stranger’s decorated version of former lives. Then, behind me, a small and unearthly voice said, “Hello.”
Disturbed by the inhuman sound, my previous thoughts fell like a stream of confetti. I turned sharply to discover a large cage hidden inside extra thick green foliage. The cage was in an abdominal position and didn’t allow any sunlight to enter the prison; inside was a lone white cockatoo. Once again he said, "Hello" this pleading for attention, in that little voice, forced me to turn away less I be tempted to set the bird free.
Moving forward and without entering the store; astounded at the sheer volume of clutter . . . started my sense of warning . . . 'tread carefully.'
Watching for the small step. I ventured into history.
Immediately to my right I saw bric-a-brac and furniture stacked haphazardly. The chaos blocking any attempt to reach the end of the hall. Atop the stack and closest to the doorway was a small wicker basket. Sleeping in the centre, on a moth-eaten blanket, lay a hideous, stuffed, gray and white kitten. Obviously, some drunk taxidermist’s idea of a joke.
“Welcome.” Said another voice. “Come inside there is so much more to see.” Followed at once with. “Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”
“Well it isn’t the stuffed kitten.” I replied rather flippantly. Trying to hide my disgust.
The tall, thickset woman, with dark half tinted curly short hair; hair that had not seen a comb anytime this morning, laughed and said. “Yes, the kitten is . . . rather disgusting.”
Her smile was wide and genuine and I liked her at once. However, those dark feline eyes calculated me with interest, and I wasn’t conned by the faded black T-shirt and leggings that had seen better days. This woman, obviously a native of the Cook Islands, had lost her accent long ago, and she was no pushover. Nor was she a fool and I knew within three minutes, she would have my character summed up to a millimeter of accuracy. She would have decided how much money I may be carrying, and preparing me for negotiations.
At once, a warning signalled in my head. This store would carry no fixed priced items. Sales would reflect each individual customer, based on opinions earned from the owner’s vast experience in people and trading.
Entering the store, I followed her through another door, placing her age around the early sixties. She was still a hardworking, strong woman. And her square features and straight stature confirmed she had once been a real beauty. Soon, I was wondering about the men that may have loved her. Visions of a youth that had promised so much, yet offered so little. Events that finally lead her to this quiet country town. Forever, to revel in cold objects of a discarded past. A past that allowed her to itemize her memories and absorb her history.
“Watch your step.” She said, as I followed her through the small packed walkway formed through a maze of glass cabinets filled to bursting with everything imaginable; used, bought and traded antiques. A history of once loved, or gifted goods that became a trader’s gold.
Here and there, along the pathway of yesteryear, were stiff and smiling mannequins dressed in period clothes, while covered in colored shawls and old jewellery. They peeked out from cluttered corners or standing next to heavily laden tables; tables that would never leave this room. And the display of goods made me wonder… if anything was, in fact, for sale? Or, had I stepped into a macabre museum? I had no doubt, that most of these items were part of a personal history locked-in their owner’s desire to hoard.
Viewing the displays became secondary to-safety, while negotiating a route along the array of different runners laid haphazardly, one on top of another. The timber floor complained. Sagging and squeaking under the weight of our passing. Towering mountains, where show-cases and old tables hidden under pots, statues, books and other paraphernalia, threatened to succumb to the white ant invasion. Treading tentatively. I wondered if this was the day the floor would just give up and give way, carrying not only I, but the whole place down into some unending dark hole underground. Some sort of ancient antique hell lurking in wait to swallow all the dreams of dead souls, who left their unending need, attached to items of some tragic past.
“I think you would really like this.” Said the woman distracting me. Then, picked up a statue of a Bali Buddha made in thousands by poverty-stricken individuals. “It's unique.” She added.
I smiled, thinking my deception of ignorance was successful and replied. “No thanks. I’m more interested in the wood carving of the old man with his hands over his ears. It reflects how I’m feeling right now.” Her eyes grew wider as she said, “Well he’s hand carved and only twenty dollars.”
“I’ll take him.” I replied. “For ten.” The clever woman gave me a wry smile. “It’ll be twenty and I’ll throw in the stiff kitten...no charge.” We both laughed and the next few hours followed the lost passages of time in an old hoarder’s tales of antique goods and secret treasures.
TIMES HERO
C S Caspar
Catherine Stepancic/Caspar Copyright©2017
“Watch out!” But it was too late. The tunnel was collapsing. A cloud of dust and dirt filled the cave. Paul scrambled from the rubble while Tommy, standing close by, grabbed Paul’s arm and tugged. When both men were clear of falling stones, Paul was smiling.
“Where are the others?” Said Paul, passing a lunch box to Tommy, then dusting his jacket with his left hand.
“They’re up ahead. And damn it, Paul. I told you to leave it alone.”
“Com`on . . . A laptop computer and a lunch box. Down here? I thought we were the first people to set foot in this cave.”
“Obviously, someone’s been here before.” Tommy, not wanting anything to do with the lunchbox shoved it into Paul’s chest. “The question is . . . Why did he leave his stuff?”
“Maybe he hasn’t left. He could be lost, or injured.” Paul opened the lunchbox; the food was fresh. “Well, he can’t be far. This food is still okay.”
“Let’s go.” Tommy started heading for the tunnel then speaking over his shoulder. “Pete will want to have a look at that computer. He’ll find something about its owner.”
Paul and Tommy left the area and entered a tunnel that veered to the left. The two men then followed a tight path to cavern three. Here, they found Pete and Mike sitting on a large boulder checking equipment.
The four men had entered Screamers Cave early that morning, despite the warnings that monsoonal rains were imminent, and the high risk of underground rivers flooding. But when Pete insisted. His friends knew there would be no discussion. Pete, was one stubborn son-of-a-dog with a death wish.
Paul approached Pete while waving the laptop around. “Have a look at what I found back there with a lunchbox.”
“What the hell is a computer doing down here? Is that a kid’s lunchbox?” Mike moved over to Paul and took the box then examined the contents. “Four apples and four peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. What the . . . This is kids’ stuff. What’s he doing down here?”
“Don’t know. You tell me.” Said, Paul.
“Pete. I thought you said no one has explored this cave.” Tommy picked up his back pack and threw the straps over his shoulders.
Pete grumbled something under his breath, obviously annoyed at Tommy’s comment. Then roughly stuffed the rest of his gear into his backpack.
Paul sat the laptop on a flat rock and lifted the lid.
Pete frowned, dropped his backpack on the ground. Then joined the other three men as they gathered around the computer.
“Here, let me have a look.” Pete shoved Paul aside.
The first picture filling the screen was a smooth-skinned, blue-eyed teenager. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen years old. He was using the computer camera to video outside the cave's entrance. The boy stepped back from the camera and the men saw he had a backpack and a torch. He was wearing blue jeans and a blue jacket.
“Well . . . Hello gentlemen.” Said the boy.” He looked at his wristwatch then back at the screen. “Today is the 20th-September, 2098, and the time is eight-thirty in the morning. As you can see. I’m heading into Screamers Cave.” The boy moved aside and extended his arm, showing the mouth of the cave. “Oh and don’t worry about me. These days, there are steps and lighting. They even added a flying fox to cross the river. A real suburban adventure.”
He introduced himself.
“My name is George Elliot.” His face moved in close to the camera and offered a big infectious smile. Involuntary, the four men smiled back.
Pete paused the video. “Hang on. Did he say 2098? What’s this stupid kid talking about?”
“He’s bullshitting. We’re not going to find anything here.” said Mike.
Tommy walked away. “The kid is playing a stupid joke. Stole this computer, dumped it, and has skedaddled back home where he belongs.”
Pete decided he’d heard enough. He slapped the lid shut then walked toward his backpack.
“No way.’ Said, Paul. “He wouldn’t leave this computer down here. Why didn’t he take it with him? Something must have happened. I can feel it in my bones.”
“For a forty-five-year-old man, Paul. Your bones do a lot of talking these days.” Tommy chuckled. “It's gonna rain. I can feel it in my bones. This isn’t right. I can feel it in my bones.”
Mike playfully shoved Tommy. “Leave it alone, idiot.” Both men laughed. Picked up their packs and were putting them on when Paul, ignoring Tommy’s snide remarks, lifted the lid on the laptop.
The scene had changed and George was now inside a house. Paul guessed it was a bedroom.
“This is really important.” The blond-haired boy continued his narration. “Listen up and listen good. Yes, I’m talking to you, Mike Peterson, Pete Benger, Paul Anderson, and Tommy Blair. Hoping that you are all watching my video right now. And . . . I know you’re not going to believe anything I say, but you better. Because your lives will depend on it. You have exactly three hours.”
“What the . . . Hey guys, get back here now; you’re not going to believe this.” Paul paused the video.
When the men were standing at the laptop. Paul pressed start.
“George moved in close to the camera. “On September 27 − 2018. A week from today. That’s your today, not mine. You’re bloated and rotting corpses are going to be found floating downriver near the Coppermine Mill. That monsoon coming your way in around thirty minutes from now. Is the worse rainstorm to hit the area in one hundred years. The cave is going to flood and as you probably already know . . . There is no way back. You guys need to go forward and find another way out. But like I said, you don’t have much time.”
“What’s he talking about.” Grumbled Mike while adjusting the straps around his torso securing the pack.
“He knows our friggin names.” Cried, Tommy.
George smiled into the screen then popped a stick of chewing gum in his mouth. Spending some seconds chewing before reaching for something on his desk. George slapped an old newspaper clipping against the screen. Now the men were looking at a heading CAVERS FOUND FLOATING AT COPPERMINE. And the discovery of their bodies in 2018.
“See . . . I’m not kidding.” Said George, as his round-face popped back on-screen.
The four men stood dumbfounded watching the unbelievable. They knew the monsoonal rains were coming, but no one had mentioned it would be a record making downpour. However, right now. The weather didn’t matter. The men focused on the idea. This kid claimed he’s living in 2098 and has somehow left a computer in the cave in 2018.
Mike broke the silence. “Holy hell. Does anyone else feel like we’re in the twilight zone?”
The four men didn’t have time to collect their thoughts before George began speaking.
“Right about, now, you’re curious, but still don’t believe me. And unfortunately, I can’t show you today’s paper because newspapers don’t exist in the future.” George leaned back on his seat in front of the computer. Folded the fingers of both hands behind his head, slouched, glanced at the ceiling, then rotated his seat sideways.
The four men standing sentinel and silent waited for the kid to speak again.
George decided his little tease was over and he brought his forearm down hard on the table and leaned into the camera. “You won’t know this, but I’m a genius. I’ve created a time machine. Well . . . it's what you might call a time machine in 2018. I can’t personally travel in time. The human body is too complicated, and well . . . After what happened to my lizard . . . But I can send objects through time like the laptop and the lunchbox.”
“You see guys. In the future. The postal service is also, non-existent. These days. Every home has a Transporter. It looks a little like your old convection ovens. The Transporter is used to send mail and packages. All you need is the code−to send. Punch it in, then Bingo! Instant delivery.” But I did some meddling with our Transporter. Like I said before. I’m a genius. But if my parents find out . . . Oh boy.” George blew lungs full of air, then pressed his face to the screen. “If they knew . . . I’d be dead.”
“Crazy kid Ehi!” Mike laughed and slapped Pete on the back.
George paused, then for the benefit of the men viewing, cleared his throat and as good as any professional actor, recited. “Gentlemen, we are not live yet. But will be in a moment. So, everything I’m saying, is me guessing that you’re watching. If the calculations I made are correct while using the information gained by historical records of your arrival at the cave, and when the Monsoon hit. I’m estimating, but pretty sure, you are in cavern three−half a mile underground. Further calculations confirm you have about three hours to get out. If you follow the map.”
“I’ve also calculated the time continuum elapse evaluations, counting in your coordinates. Things you couldn’t begin to understand.” The men heard him mumble something about talking to Neanderthals while watching George typing on his computer. A moment later, his smile widened. “Got it!”
“I’ve managed to link my time with yours. Allowing me to do this!” George pulled out a piece of folded paper from his pocket and waved it at the men. “This is the map. You’re going to need it to get out. So, watch this space.” George disappeared from the screen and the men were now speechless while staring at a perfectly made bed and a very tidy bookshelf. Filled with science books.
Short moments passed while the men wondered what was going to happen next. When close by, they all saw a blinding flash of light. It lit the cave for less than a second. Materializing from where the light had been, was the map George had been holding only moments ago.
Mike picked up the paper. “It's warm.” He said and handed it to Pete.
Opening the folds. Pete revealed a very detailed map of the cave system. It showed several ways out. However, George had marked in red, the path they were to take.
“Well, I hope you have it.” Said George reaching for something to his left. “Oh Yes. Yes . . . You’re going to make it out . . . Look at this.”
He held up the old newspaper clipping and the story was beginning to fade. In a few moments, the ink had entirely disappeared.
George looked at his watch and smiled. “Well, I’ve done my good deed for today. I’ll see you later . . .” His smile widened. “Or maybe not.” George vanished and what filled the screen was a tattered old novel. ‘Escape from Screamers Cave.’ By Paul Anderson.
“Not a bad read, Paul.” Said, George. “The chapter I like the most is when you found my computer. And, of course, how you escaped the flood. Nevertheless, I’m always going to wonder whether you ate those sandwiches I made for you. Too bad you left that part out.”
George was gone and the screen went dark.
C. S. Caspar
Catherine Stepancic/Caspar Copyright©2017
“It's a predicable world and I’m comfortable with it, but I prefer not to be in it.”
It was a statement James had said many times, and just about everyone in town had heard it. However, the last person to see James had been old Clive Wilson. Said he saw James walking across the field after working his shift at the mine, and then James just blinked out. After that… nobody saw him again.
The whole town was talking and several stories were blowing around, even from people who had never met him. And, by-the-time the police were involved. Everyone knew he was an artist. Hell, they were already casting lots about the paintings left behind. That is … as soon as the police released the evidence.
I’d come to the tavern that night, two days after James disappeared. Because I wanted to hear the stories. Nobody aware that I was the only one that knew where James was hiding. And ‘hiding’ was an idiotic word to describe his whereabouts. Because it wasn’t old Clive Wilson that had been the last person to see James. I was the last.
Sure, constable Peter Crawford interviewed me at length. He was convinced, I had something to do with James` disappearance. After all, we were best friends. Nevertheless, I kept my mouth shut. Because there was no way anyone was going to believe the story, least of all the police. And second. I was having trouble believing the facts myself.
* * *
The whole affair started when James called me to his studio late one afternoon. Said, he had to show me something. He sounded excited, talking too fast and I could almost see him on the other end of the line drawing on a joint. At the time … I was thinking… too much weed. But I was wrong. James hadn’t been using crazy grass. He had found something at the bottom of mine shaft five. Something so bizarre and out of this world, it bordered on the paranormal.
I arrived at his studio around five in the afternoon. Earlier, I’d picked up a six-pack of beer. Thinking it was going to be a long night because I’d been through this before. James calling me because he’d finished a canvas and wanting me to write the blurb about the piece for the gallery. I was a writer and he an artist, and we worked well together. I had used more than one of James` paintings to inspire a short story.
James and I had gone to the same school when we were kids, and we had grown up in the same street. Even back then, James was a great artist, and we were both certain he would follow and artists career. On the other hand, I loved reading and almost every summer weekend we’d go fishing in the nearby Barwon river. Me recounting some novel I had recently read, and he sketching pictures of some visual interpretation of the character in the book I had described. Looking back, they were great times and right now I was missing James and our mateship. I had to find a way to get him back. However, it was going to take a miracle to achieve such an impossible task
* * *
By now, you must be wondering what James found at the bottom of mine shaft five? And I’m going to tell you. Even though, as incredible as it sounds. The whole story is true.
That fateful afternoon, James began by telling me. That two days earlier while digging. He’d found a remarkably colored block of clay. An unusual shade and size. And it wasn’t like anything he had found before. James enjoyed working with earth pigments, and often brought home soil, clay and rocks from the mine. Later he would grind his find into a powder and mix binder, some adhesive and linseed oil to make natural earth tints for his paintings. James didn’t like to get his hands dirty and he worked in the mine just to pay the bills.
Apparently, the strange stone had fallen from the rock wall after he struck it with the pick. Thinking he had found something remarkably new. He took it home and while removing the clay, he’d found an ancient carving. He said, it was made of petrified charred wood.
So, his story, at this point, was familiar. He had often shown me various blocks of clay or minerals and how he processed them. I had to ask. “What kind of carving?” James just smiled and replied. “It’s an ancient model of a man. I couldn’t find anything about it on the internet, but I think it is one of the old Celtic Gods.”
“Let me see it.” I said, expecting him to produce the item.
“Sorry, I can’t. It's gone.” He replied.
“Gone? What do you mean it's gone?” I was looking at James like he had just left sanity at the door and entered crazy.
James eyed me, and I could see both excitement and confusion in those familiar blue eyes. Then he continued. “After grinding the clay away. I found the carving inside. Not knowing what it was, I did the search online, but came up with nothing. However, when I held it in my hand, wondering where it had come from and who could have made it? The charred, wooden figurine, began to disintegrate and its pigment absorbed into my hand… It was like… sucked into me.”
“What do you mean sucked into you?” I questioned in disbelief.
“Yeah, sucked into my skin like it was micro atoms?” He laughed, and I could see there was something strange going on inside his head.
“Micro atoms? What are you talking about?” I was sure James was off his nut. He must be dreaming. Taking a mouthful of beer straight out of the bottleneck. I ignored his comment and said. “You need to get off the weed bro.”
“Look!” He declared. James walked over to his easel that centered the room and threw the white cover sheet onto the floor. “I did manage to paint the figure before I forgot what it looked like.”
What I saw was incredible crap. Nevertheless, I felt a cold shiver run along my spine forcing me to gooseflesh all over. “What the...!” Sucking in air, jumping from the couch and spilling some beer.
He’d painted the canvas using the colors he’d ground from the clay. I knew this because I could see his pallet and the remaining shards of clay resting on the bench, where he usually mixed his paint. The painting wasn’t some depiction of an idiotic statue. It was a self-portrait of James. He was wearing scruffy clothes, an old cowboy hat and walking across a field. Behind him, were scenes of a run-down mine. It wasn’t like his usual meticulously detailed work.
In this painting. All the brush strokes were running down the canvas in a streaming torrent. And in my incredulous mind. Those strokes were falling into some dark abyss invisible to the eye. I couldn’t believe it. What was he trying to pull? It was a painting of himself. What connected this self-portrait with the carving he had found? My state of mind was flying into crazy, because I was thinking… What the hell is going on… There was something seriously wrong with James and his painting.
James interrupted my thoughts when he said. “Watch this.” He raised his arm and approached the painting with his fingers outstretched, and as they touched the canvas, they went right through. He withdrew his fingers and they were coated with color.
“Isn’t it amazing.” He exclaimed, smiling and then repeating the action with his other hand.
Now, saying right here. The events unfolding is beyond imagining; is an understatement. I walked over to the painting and tried it for myself. But when I touched the paint nothing happened. My fingers didn’t pass through; it was just a painting.
James laughed, and the sound made me think he was under some wicked and unspeakable force. Then without a moment to collect my thoughts, he said. “I’ll be seeing you later.” He jumped into the painting and was gone. Leaving me dumbfounded and alone, while a million unanswered questions raged through my mind, in waves of confusion and disbelief.
* * *
I stayed in James` studio all-night, and most of the next day. Falling in and out of sleep. Hoping James would come back. But he didn’t. So, with no other options. I decided to take the painting home… to keep my eye on it. That was three months ago, and still, there is no sign of James.
I’d placed the painting in my lounge room… and I know you think I’m crazy, or, maybe, I’ve had too much weed. But I’m telling you. That painting changes all the time.
James is always the same. He is wearing that old cowboy hat and scruffy clothes. It’s the background that changes. Sometimes it’s a scene in Paris, where I can see the Eiffel tower behind him, and its not a time in the 20th century. Other days, show him walking through the backstreets of Rome. Where narrow cobblestone streets separate tall apartment buildings, with their high and narrow windows. Once I saw him standing in a London street. Black carriages pulled by black horses, moving up and down, passing one another, while carrying passengers to and from unknown destinations.
Overtime my imagination started taking over and I became accustomed to the paintings` ever changing scenes. Picturing James, living somewhere in other ages, while traveling the world through time and space. I had, shall we say, become comfortable with the story. And, possibly, a little jealous. Nevertheless, the idea James was happy, comforted me. It stemmed my loneliness at losing my best friend. Everything was going well until… last night.
* * *
I woke from a sweat drenched nightmare. I could have sworn I’d heard James screaming. Something was wrong and I knew it the moment my eyes flew open in the darkness. Throwing the sheets from the bed. I ran into the lounge, flicked on the light and glared at the painting. The painting was where it had always been. Propped against the wall facing the couch. In this position, I had watched it for hours. What I saw now, nearly froze my blood.
James wasn’t in the same strolling position he had been through all the changing backgrounds. James was back in that yellow field, and it appeared he was running from something. His face wasn’t staring out. it was twisted, looking behind him. And I could distinctly see. A hooded apparition holding an enormous scythe in hot pursuit. It looked like a reaper hell-bent on killing him. I felt the breath knocked out of me. “What the hell?” My legs started shaking and my heart pumped double time. “James,” I called in panic, “run James run.”
Then to my horror and as if James had heard me. His painted head began to turn around. The reaper was closing in. This was the first time I had seen the painting change in front of my eyes. Normally, I would wake each morning and find something different. And the scene would remained the same, until the next day. But now it was happening in live time.
When James` face came into view, his mouth was agape. His hat had blown off and was tumbling in the wind over the yellow grass, and when James` bulging blue eyes collided with mine… I saw shear terror. A moment later, his lips were moving and I heard him screaming. “Help me Jack. HELP ME…” That was the last straw. My traumatised mind could take no more, and like any respectable coward. I blacked out.
When I opened my eyes. I was on the floor staring at a small carving made from charred wood. The object was no more that a few inches from my face and laying in front of the canvas. And that wasn’t all… the self-portrait was gone and what replaced it... was blood, running red and black paint. James and all scenes had disappeared.
I struggled to my feet because my legs were still shaking. How long, had I been out of it? I wasn’t sure, but the sun was well over the horizon, as I watched fingers of light, come through the window, playing shadows with the furniture.
Staring down at the carving, wondering where it had come from, and at the same time, knowing it had fallen right out of the canvas. My mind revisited the scenes of the night before. “James,” the word, a horrified whisper emitting from my insensible mouth. While hoping, he would suddenly appear through the doorway safe and sound.
As I stared at the item. I could have sworn I heard James` voice. It was just an echo sounding from somewhere distant. “Jack, pick it up. I need your help.” But I didn’t want to touch that thing. What was I going to do? My best friend is calling, and he needs me? What was I going to do?
I was going to run. That is what any sane person would have done. But I wasn’t sane. Not anymore. I didn’t know it, but that parasitic carving had infected me just like it infested James.
* * *
I was never going to see the police report written in the local paper. ‘Murderous painting in yellow fields of grass’ Nor hear the shaded musings of the towns people as they whispered tales of how homicide was committed. All the evidence, they said, was in a painting, found at Jack's house. A painting done by his best friend James, revealing I was his killer.
But where was Jack now? What has he done with James` body? A question they never answered. The dream police were never going to find me, just like they would never find James. I, like my best friend; are cursed. He, lost in shards of time and his love of art and I into the pages of this story.
James and I remain trapped in the imaginary and extraordinary world of Words and Art. So, let the reapers come to suck the life from invention. Let their bloodied blades of criticism come to steal our dreams. We will not allow it… for by the power of creation, we are free and standing on Hallowed ground.
YE`OL` ANTIQUE STORE
C. S. Caspar
Catherine Stepancic/Caspar Copyright©2017
I have often wondered … Does a person’s home reflect their personality?
The same question still haunts me as I open the small timber picket gate, and enter the short but meandering path bordered with thick green foliage.
The effect of traveling through a shaded tunnel created in green by someone with harbored secrets; left imaginary fairies and cheeky gnomes to watch this unwary traveler. I felt like I had just entered the twilight zone.
Then my thoughts flew towards a strange dream; one that had left its owner’s borders of reality and entered mine.
The antique store set in an old timber home stamped my first impression. I had stepped into another world…this was no ordinary antique store. Instead, it was the architecture of an artist’s imagination; eccentrically designed, while finding its vision inside the master of surrealism. And its creator had unwittingly revealed her collection of memories for all to see in forgotten dreams. Dreams, that were once real. Dreams of belonging, of living and of love. Dreams, now left behind by former owners and on display; priced into the past.
Moving quietly, gripped by an unexplained sense of secret invasion. I was consciously aware, yet unable to explain why? I was trespassing in a stranger’s decorated version of former lives. Then, behind me, a small and unearthly voice said, “Hello.”
Disturbed by the inhuman sound, my previous thoughts fell like a stream of confetti. I turned sharply to discover a large cage hidden inside extra thick green foliage. The cage was in an abdominal position and didn’t allow any sunlight to enter the prison; inside was a lone white cockatoo. Once again he said, "Hello" this pleading for attention, in that little voice, forced me to turn away less I be tempted to set the bird free.
Moving forward and without entering the store; astounded at the sheer volume of clutter . . . started my sense of warning . . . 'tread carefully.'
Watching for the small step. I ventured into history.
Immediately to my right I saw bric-a-brac and furniture stacked haphazardly. The chaos blocking any attempt to reach the end of the hall. Atop the stack and closest to the doorway was a small wicker basket. Sleeping in the centre, on a moth-eaten blanket, lay a hideous, stuffed, gray and white kitten. Obviously, some drunk taxidermist’s idea of a joke.
“Welcome.” Said another voice. “Come inside there is so much more to see.” Followed at once with. “Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”
“Well it isn’t the stuffed kitten.” I replied rather flippantly. Trying to hide my disgust.
The tall, thickset woman, with dark half tinted curly short hair; hair that had not seen a comb anytime this morning, laughed and said. “Yes, the kitten is . . . rather disgusting.”
Her smile was wide and genuine and I liked her at once. However, those dark feline eyes calculated me with interest, and I wasn’t conned by the faded black T-shirt and leggings that had seen better days. This woman, obviously a native of the Cook Islands, had lost her accent long ago, and she was no pushover. Nor was she a fool and I knew within three minutes, she would have my character summed up to a millimeter of accuracy. She would have decided how much money I may be carrying, and preparing me for negotiations.
At once, a warning signalled in my head. This store would carry no fixed priced items. Sales would reflect each individual customer, based on opinions earned from the owner’s vast experience in people and trading.
Entering the store, I followed her through another door, placing her age around the early sixties. She was still a hardworking, strong woman. And her square features and straight stature confirmed she had once been a real beauty. Soon, I was wondering about the men that may have loved her. Visions of a youth that had promised so much, yet offered so little. Events that finally lead her to this quiet country town. Forever, to revel in cold objects of a discarded past. A past that allowed her to itemize her memories and absorb her history.
“Watch your step.” She said, as I followed her through the small packed walkway formed through a maze of glass cabinets filled to bursting with everything imaginable; used, bought and traded antiques. A history of once loved, or gifted goods that became a trader’s gold.
Here and there, along the pathway of yesteryear, were stiff and smiling mannequins dressed in period clothes, while covered in colored shawls and old jewellery. They peeked out from cluttered corners or standing next to heavily laden tables; tables that would never leave this room. And the display of goods made me wonder… if anything was, in fact, for sale? Or, had I stepped into a macabre museum? I had no doubt, that most of these items were part of a personal history locked-in their owner’s desire to hoard.
Viewing the displays became secondary to-safety, while negotiating a route along the array of different runners laid haphazardly, one on top of another. The timber floor complained. Sagging and squeaking under the weight of our passing. Towering mountains, where show-cases and old tables hidden under pots, statues, books and other paraphernalia, threatened to succumb to the white ant invasion. Treading tentatively. I wondered if this was the day the floor would just give up and give way, carrying not only I, but the whole place down into some unending dark hole underground. Some sort of ancient antique hell lurking in wait to swallow all the dreams of dead souls, who left their unending need, attached to items of some tragic past.
“I think you would really like this.” Said the woman distracting me. Then, picked up a statue of a Bali Buddha made in thousands by poverty-stricken individuals. “It's unique.” She added.
I smiled, thinking my deception of ignorance was successful and replied. “No thanks. I’m more interested in the wood carving of the old man with his hands over his ears. It reflects how I’m feeling right now.” Her eyes grew wider as she said, “Well he’s hand carved and only twenty dollars.”
“I’ll take him.” I replied. “For ten.” The clever woman gave me a wry smile. “It’ll be twenty and I’ll throw in the stiff kitten...no charge.” We both laughed and the next few hours followed the lost passages of time in an old hoarder’s tales of antique goods and secret treasures.
TIMES HERO
C S Caspar
Catherine Stepancic/Caspar Copyright©2017
“Watch out!” But it was too late. The tunnel was collapsing. A cloud of dust and dirt filled the cave. Paul scrambled from the rubble while Tommy, standing close by, grabbed Paul’s arm and tugged. When both men were clear of falling stones, Paul was smiling.
“Where are the others?” Said Paul, passing a lunch box to Tommy, then dusting his jacket with his left hand.
“They’re up ahead. And damn it, Paul. I told you to leave it alone.”
“Com`on . . . A laptop computer and a lunch box. Down here? I thought we were the first people to set foot in this cave.”
“Obviously, someone’s been here before.” Tommy, not wanting anything to do with the lunchbox shoved it into Paul’s chest. “The question is . . . Why did he leave his stuff?”
“Maybe he hasn’t left. He could be lost, or injured.” Paul opened the lunchbox; the food was fresh. “Well, he can’t be far. This food is still okay.”
“Let’s go.” Tommy started heading for the tunnel then speaking over his shoulder. “Pete will want to have a look at that computer. He’ll find something about its owner.”
Paul and Tommy left the area and entered a tunnel that veered to the left. The two men then followed a tight path to cavern three. Here, they found Pete and Mike sitting on a large boulder checking equipment.
The four men had entered Screamers Cave early that morning, despite the warnings that monsoonal rains were imminent, and the high risk of underground rivers flooding. But when Pete insisted. His friends knew there would be no discussion. Pete, was one stubborn son-of-a-dog with a death wish.
Paul approached Pete while waving the laptop around. “Have a look at what I found back there with a lunchbox.”
“What the hell is a computer doing down here? Is that a kid’s lunchbox?” Mike moved over to Paul and took the box then examined the contents. “Four apples and four peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. What the . . . This is kids’ stuff. What’s he doing down here?”
“Don’t know. You tell me.” Said, Paul.
“Pete. I thought you said no one has explored this cave.” Tommy picked up his back pack and threw the straps over his shoulders.
Pete grumbled something under his breath, obviously annoyed at Tommy’s comment. Then roughly stuffed the rest of his gear into his backpack.
Paul sat the laptop on a flat rock and lifted the lid.
Pete frowned, dropped his backpack on the ground. Then joined the other three men as they gathered around the computer.
“Here, let me have a look.” Pete shoved Paul aside.
The first picture filling the screen was a smooth-skinned, blue-eyed teenager. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen years old. He was using the computer camera to video outside the cave's entrance. The boy stepped back from the camera and the men saw he had a backpack and a torch. He was wearing blue jeans and a blue jacket.
“Well . . . Hello gentlemen.” Said the boy.” He looked at his wristwatch then back at the screen. “Today is the 20th-September, 2098, and the time is eight-thirty in the morning. As you can see. I’m heading into Screamers Cave.” The boy moved aside and extended his arm, showing the mouth of the cave. “Oh and don’t worry about me. These days, there are steps and lighting. They even added a flying fox to cross the river. A real suburban adventure.”
He introduced himself.
“My name is George Elliot.” His face moved in close to the camera and offered a big infectious smile. Involuntary, the four men smiled back.
Pete paused the video. “Hang on. Did he say 2098? What’s this stupid kid talking about?”
“He’s bullshitting. We’re not going to find anything here.” said Mike.
Tommy walked away. “The kid is playing a stupid joke. Stole this computer, dumped it, and has skedaddled back home where he belongs.”
Pete decided he’d heard enough. He slapped the lid shut then walked toward his backpack.
“No way.’ Said, Paul. “He wouldn’t leave this computer down here. Why didn’t he take it with him? Something must have happened. I can feel it in my bones.”
“For a forty-five-year-old man, Paul. Your bones do a lot of talking these days.” Tommy chuckled. “It's gonna rain. I can feel it in my bones. This isn’t right. I can feel it in my bones.”
Mike playfully shoved Tommy. “Leave it alone, idiot.” Both men laughed. Picked up their packs and were putting them on when Paul, ignoring Tommy’s snide remarks, lifted the lid on the laptop.
The scene had changed and George was now inside a house. Paul guessed it was a bedroom.
“This is really important.” The blond-haired boy continued his narration. “Listen up and listen good. Yes, I’m talking to you, Mike Peterson, Pete Benger, Paul Anderson, and Tommy Blair. Hoping that you are all watching my video right now. And . . . I know you’re not going to believe anything I say, but you better. Because your lives will depend on it. You have exactly three hours.”
“What the . . . Hey guys, get back here now; you’re not going to believe this.” Paul paused the video.
When the men were standing at the laptop. Paul pressed start.
“George moved in close to the camera. “On September 27 − 2018. A week from today. That’s your today, not mine. You’re bloated and rotting corpses are going to be found floating downriver near the Coppermine Mill. That monsoon coming your way in around thirty minutes from now. Is the worse rainstorm to hit the area in one hundred years. The cave is going to flood and as you probably already know . . . There is no way back. You guys need to go forward and find another way out. But like I said, you don’t have much time.”
“What’s he talking about.” Grumbled Mike while adjusting the straps around his torso securing the pack.
“He knows our friggin names.” Cried, Tommy.
George smiled into the screen then popped a stick of chewing gum in his mouth. Spending some seconds chewing before reaching for something on his desk. George slapped an old newspaper clipping against the screen. Now the men were looking at a heading CAVERS FOUND FLOATING AT COPPERMINE. And the discovery of their bodies in 2018.
“See . . . I’m not kidding.” Said George, as his round-face popped back on-screen.
The four men stood dumbfounded watching the unbelievable. They knew the monsoonal rains were coming, but no one had mentioned it would be a record making downpour. However, right now. The weather didn’t matter. The men focused on the idea. This kid claimed he’s living in 2098 and has somehow left a computer in the cave in 2018.
Mike broke the silence. “Holy hell. Does anyone else feel like we’re in the twilight zone?”
The four men didn’t have time to collect their thoughts before George began speaking.
“Right about, now, you’re curious, but still don’t believe me. And unfortunately, I can’t show you today’s paper because newspapers don’t exist in the future.” George leaned back on his seat in front of the computer. Folded the fingers of both hands behind his head, slouched, glanced at the ceiling, then rotated his seat sideways.
The four men standing sentinel and silent waited for the kid to speak again.
George decided his little tease was over and he brought his forearm down hard on the table and leaned into the camera. “You won’t know this, but I’m a genius. I’ve created a time machine. Well . . . it's what you might call a time machine in 2018. I can’t personally travel in time. The human body is too complicated, and well . . . After what happened to my lizard . . . But I can send objects through time like the laptop and the lunchbox.”
“You see guys. In the future. The postal service is also, non-existent. These days. Every home has a Transporter. It looks a little like your old convection ovens. The Transporter is used to send mail and packages. All you need is the code−to send. Punch it in, then Bingo! Instant delivery.” But I did some meddling with our Transporter. Like I said before. I’m a genius. But if my parents find out . . . Oh boy.” George blew lungs full of air, then pressed his face to the screen. “If they knew . . . I’d be dead.”
“Crazy kid Ehi!” Mike laughed and slapped Pete on the back.
George paused, then for the benefit of the men viewing, cleared his throat and as good as any professional actor, recited. “Gentlemen, we are not live yet. But will be in a moment. So, everything I’m saying, is me guessing that you’re watching. If the calculations I made are correct while using the information gained by historical records of your arrival at the cave, and when the Monsoon hit. I’m estimating, but pretty sure, you are in cavern three−half a mile underground. Further calculations confirm you have about three hours to get out. If you follow the map.”
“I’ve also calculated the time continuum elapse evaluations, counting in your coordinates. Things you couldn’t begin to understand.” The men heard him mumble something about talking to Neanderthals while watching George typing on his computer. A moment later, his smile widened. “Got it!”
“I’ve managed to link my time with yours. Allowing me to do this!” George pulled out a piece of folded paper from his pocket and waved it at the men. “This is the map. You’re going to need it to get out. So, watch this space.” George disappeared from the screen and the men were now speechless while staring at a perfectly made bed and a very tidy bookshelf. Filled with science books.
Short moments passed while the men wondered what was going to happen next. When close by, they all saw a blinding flash of light. It lit the cave for less than a second. Materializing from where the light had been, was the map George had been holding only moments ago.
Mike picked up the paper. “It's warm.” He said and handed it to Pete.
Opening the folds. Pete revealed a very detailed map of the cave system. It showed several ways out. However, George had marked in red, the path they were to take.
“Well, I hope you have it.” Said George reaching for something to his left. “Oh Yes. Yes . . . You’re going to make it out . . . Look at this.”
He held up the old newspaper clipping and the story was beginning to fade. In a few moments, the ink had entirely disappeared.
George looked at his watch and smiled. “Well, I’ve done my good deed for today. I’ll see you later . . .” His smile widened. “Or maybe not.” George vanished and what filled the screen was a tattered old novel. ‘Escape from Screamers Cave.’ By Paul Anderson.
“Not a bad read, Paul.” Said, George. “The chapter I like the most is when you found my computer. And, of course, how you escaped the flood. Nevertheless, I’m always going to wonder whether you ate those sandwiches I made for you. Too bad you left that part out.”
George was gone and the screen went dark.