The 2009 Pentrace Scary Story Contest
The winners of the 2009 Halloween contest: a detective's Parker "51" that won't let anyone write a lie, a five-dollar pen with an appetite, a Parker "51" handed over in a diner, and a burglar who isn't alone in the pen shop. Plus an early Christmas story.
The winners
Every scary story submission was outstanding. Our Pentrace writers are always very creative and it was a pleasure to read them all, even 'tho we was very a'scared. Our judges haggled and screeched, grumped and groaned, and finally, in the wee hours under last night's full moon, they scritched their long crooked fingernails on the jagged stained wall of the crypt to tally the results.
- First place: Justice Prevails, by Pat Morgan
- Second place: Five Dollars, by Kurt Hammerbeck
- Third place: A Thank You Note, by T. Michael Weddle
- Fourth place: The Pen Is Mightier Than the Sword, by Jean Buchser
Winners chose their prizes from THINK fountain pens, signed copies of Maki-e, an Art for the Soul by Bernard Lyn and Mabie in America by David Moak, Jonathan Steinberg's Fountain Pens, and four bottles of Private Reserve ink. Rena Dundovic was the judge.
Christmas 1954, by Pentrace Poet Lariat Will Thorpe, went on to the 2009 Christmas Story Contest, but he also received an early bonus, his choice of Private Reserve ink, for turning in early homework.
Justice Prevails
By Pat Morgan (first place)
It's another case for the books. Sometimes my real life cases are so unbelievable that even a sci-fi writer would find them so hard to fathom. That does not matter though, even I sometimes find these cases too strange and I am a witness to them. I just put them down in my journal and hope that one day they will be published. I don't put too much stock in it though; I mean these cases are so surreal that is probably just best to let them stay in a bookcase hidden away. But then again, it would be interesting to see what would happen if I told you about one of them.
Dad was a detective for the NYPD who worked hard enough over the years that he was able to solve almost all of his cases getting more confessions than any other detective in the department. Dad had this way about him that he was able to gain the confidence of those on the other side of the table and then push a paper and pen in front of them to tell him about the event, which put them behind that table. They wrote down their side of the story and then Dad brought it to the DA and the next thing you know there was a plea bargain and the perp was behind bars. Dad retired after over 30 years as cop.
I wanted to follow in his footsteps and joined the academy. Dad and Mom were quite proud of me and cheered louder than any other parent at my graduation from the Academy. I was able to score Dad's shield with the number 2752 worn proudly on my chest and hat. Dad wiped away many a tear that day when he saw me, his little girl become a cop. Mom of course was nervous but Dad never feared for my safety. He knew I had more common sense than most people and without a worry told me to go after those criminals as he had.
After a few years working a beat in the South Bronx in the same neighborhood where I spent the first 10 years of my life, I managed to impress a few bosses and was promoted to detective. At my promotion ceremony Dad handed his prize Parker 51 which he had carried with him all through his years as a detective. It was given to him by his mentor and now, it was given to me to use. Dad never would let me touch that pen when I was growing up and now it was given to me. He told me that it when came time to question a perp and you see they start changing their story, have them use this pen to write down their version. Then have them read it back to you. Then watch the fun and games.
I never understood what Dad meant by all of that until one day it came time for this one dirtbag to tell me his side of the story. A homicide was committed one Saturday afternoon and my partner and I rounded up a bunch of people who fit the description of the man with the gun. We liked this one guy who kept changing his story. It was all very subtle, but he changed enough to make me like him for the crime. I asked him if he would write it all down, everything he had said and he was quite ill at ease concerning that. I asked him to humor me. So he started to write his adventures of Saturday the 16th.
Never using a fountain pen before, he was unsure how to use it. I just told him to write and to just enjoy the feel of the pen. He started to write on the yellow legal pad and then he turned the page. Another page of script appeared after a bit and then a third page was written on. He looked up and said here is what happened. Remembering what Dad said, I asked him to read it back to us. And then something told me to stop him before he read us the written word. I told him to sign it and date it. I don't recall how this thought came into my head but I could just hear Dad saying, "Make him sign it." Our perp did just as he started to tell us his story, again. At this time our Lieutenant had come into the room and wanted to know what was going on. I just looked at my boss and said our friend was going to read back to us what happened giving us his alibi. The Lt was intrigued. He sat down at the table and listened.
Our perp read his words and halted. He started again and halted. It was different he yelled then what he what he wrote. What kind of hocus-pocus was taking place? What he read were not his words. I grabbed the paper and looked at it. He was right; it was different than what he had originally told us. What he started to read to us was a confession. A full confession to the crime was being handed to us. I read it out loud and he became quite violent yelling and screaming that it was not what happened. Yet, there were details in the written confession that I held in my hand that no one except for the perp would have known.
I read it to him again telling him we have his written confession. No one coerced him that he wrote out what had happened out of his own free will. He went ballistic and then broke down in tears saying yes he killed that man and that he did steal his watch and smashed the all of the Disney character statues in the room because he hated Snow White and the Seven Dwarves because the Evil Stepmother reminded him of his stepmother. He confessed over and over again that he killed this man because over charged him on the private sale of the DVD player. We had the written confession before we had the verbal one. He went to court pleading guilty with the hand written confession brought into evidence and I got my win for the good guys.
I went home and asked Dad about his pen. Dad just looked up and whistled. He told me to do the same thing again and watch the fireworks. As any good daughter would, I followed my father's instructions chalking up in the next month over 10 confessions written prior to the verbal confession. I went back to Dad's asking him how he figured it all out. I cornered my father and insisted he tell me what was going on. We went into the library and he said be ready for the tale of a lifetime. Dad walked over to the bookcase then took down his scrapbooks. He showed me the photos of his mentor, Detective Samuel Warner. . .
Detective Sammy Werner prior to becoming a cop worked for the Parker Pen family. Even though he was an employee of the Parker dynasty that produced pens for years, Sammy always wanted to become a cop after spending a few short years in research and development. He was on the team that produced the first Parker 51's just about when WW2 was starting. Sammy was asked to go to South America to test market some of the pens and while he was there he met some people who dabbled in the psychic arts. They told him about the US entering the war and how this pen would be necessary to help win the war. Not understanding what they were talking about, Sammy asked them to explain. One of the men who held the pen blessed it after placing it in a solution with some herbs and then told Sammy to write his innermost secrets. Sammy did and was quite astounded to see that instead of his original intention to write about his further research and development plans; he wrote that he wanted to be a cop. He had never told anyone he wanted to be a cop and he just confessed on paper to strangers his most secret desire.
As the men explained to him, from now on, anyone writing with this pen would only be able to write the truth. They might lie to the rest of the world about anything and everything, but if they used this pen to write down anything, they could not lie at all. Of course Sammy did not believe them. They advised him to experiment with the pen and then return to the temple. Sammy ran out the door and asked people questions asking them to lie and then told them to write the lies down. They could not lie. He asked at least 200 people to lie and not one person could write down a lie. Sammy was astounded and believed the men. He ran back to their temple at the end of his week of experimenting and the temple was not there. He asked all around the town if anyone knew of the temple where the men were but alas no one knew a thing. He even handed to people the pen to see if they were hiding anything and he discovered they were telling the truth. He even used the pen to write of his experience to see if he was imagining anything but he could only tell the truth. The temple was gone and he held in his hands, the pen that would not let anyone write down a lie.
So Sammy became a cop and when a young detective was assigned to him, he gave him the pen and together the two fought crime in NYC finding criminals and clearing the innocent. Their record for convictions slowly grew as they learned to use the instrument wisely. They never used the pen for personal gain, just to fight crime. Their success was so great the upper brass of the department wondered how they did it. Never would these men tell their secret. Sammy passed away a few years later and Dad never told a soul, not even Mom about this pen. I was the first person that he ever told and oh my, was that a burden. I told my partner about this pen when I understood how this pen worked and together we decided to play crime fighters. Oh wait, we were crime fighters. Well, together we decided to play the ones who would seek the truth.
So on to my big case. I get a call from the Lieutenant yesterday which comes down from the Chief of D's herself which comes from the Commissioner and of course from the Mayor, that since I have the best arrest and conviction record in this city, it's up to me to find the person who murdered an unpopular newscaster. We had our assignments and off we went.
My partner's name is Big Al and we go out there and start questioning everyone we can find associated. More and more alibis are checking out. I mean we are handing this pen to everyone and it did not matter who picked it up, the truth came out. Both Big Al and I were quite amazed at our ability to lock those up who were perps and to let lose those who were innocent. We also were able to have witnesses provide alibis for the innocent and those who witnessed a crime could not cover it up. We were hot, we were smoking and we were the best improving our ability to learn who lied and who told the truth.
So Mayor Campbell calls us into his office. He wants the two of us to find out who killed Jack Bentley and left him on the steps in Central Park. It was a high profile case and most important, it was an election year for Mayor Campbell who was ready to launch a new budget and tax plan for the city. It was also a rather unpopular year for our mayor. His polls showed that most New Yorkers were on the fence about him. In fact, his opponent had met with Jack Bentley about a week before his murder and gave Bentley some information that became an exclusive for the anchor concerning our mayor.
Mayor Campbell had some personal financial problems. He was a person who had a few grand in his personal accounts when he became mayor that was basically a fluke, he was the underdog and no one expected him to beat the incumbent Mayor Wilson. But Campbell did and the upset was felt throughout the city. The unions who originally supported him did not like him nor did he have the trust of the citizens of this city after he raised their taxes over 20 percent. The real estate moguls though did like him. All of a sudden building in the city which was previously stalled, took off and then the mayor raised the property taxes. The real estate moguls were not happy campers either. There were enough enemies against the mayor and Jack Bentley was slowly but surely showing on his broadcast more and more information concerning the mayor and his so called ethics.
Big Al and I were sitting in his office with our commissioner. The mayor decided we were the best for the job and he wanted an arrest by nightfall the next day. We gave him his wish. Big Al asked the mayor about his fountain pens that were on his desk. The commissioner was rather startled but said nothing. The mayor explained he collected Mont Blancs and has been doing so for years. In fact, Mont Blanc came out with a special New York limited edition honoring the mayor. He showed them to us and I asked if he liked vintage pens. The mayor was not someone who liked vintage goods, he ran on his campaign on progress and the future. I took out my 51 and handed it to him and asked him to write his impressions of the murder of Bentley. The mayor took the pen and started his writing.
When he finished I asked if I could read it out loud and the mayor granted me permission.
"I met Jack Bentley in Central Park on Friday October, 16, 2009 and I asked him if he would stop the articles against me. He replied that he would not. I was angry with him, very angry with him and struck him with my hand. Bentley fell to the ground and would not get up. I took a tree branch that was nearby and kept striking him with it until I heard his skull crack and the blood oozing all over the ground. I left him there to die and ran away towards the lake. I did not call police nor did I tell anyone about this meeting. I took his Iphone, his wallet, his address book, his Rhodia webnotebook and even took his Mont Blanc. All these items are in the bottom drawer of my desk. I killed Jack Bentley"
The mayor started screaming that he did not write that, he started jumping out of his seat trying to grab me about the neck. Big Al stopped him and I retrieved my pen. I asked the commissioner if he wanted the collar and he said we should take it.
The mayor looked at all of us, and then started to sob. He was quite upset and replied that what he had written was all true. He signed his name to the confession using my 51 then returned it to me. Bracelets were placed on his wrists and off he went to Manhattan Central Booking.
Our commissioner was quite confused but we told him not to worry, getting confessions out of people is quite simple when you have the right tools.
Dad saw all of this on the news and congratulated Big Al and I and mom made my favorite pasta dinner. A glass of champagne was shared by all and the celebration began.
I am home right now and putting all of this down on paper in my journal. One day I will have to pass this pen on to someone who could be trusted to use it correctly. Right now it sits in a safe in the wall hidden by a photo of one of Len Provisor's images of the Parker 51 plane. All is well.
It's another case for the books. Sometimes my real life cases are so unbelievable that even a sci-fi writer would find them so hard to fathom. That does not matter though, even I sometimes find these cases too strange and I am a witness to them. I just put them down in my journal and hope that one day they will be published. I don't put too much stock in it though; I mean these cases are so surreal that is probably just best to let them stay in a bookcase hidden away. But then again, it would be interesting to see what would happen if I told you about one of them.
Five Dollars
By Kurt Hammerbeck (second place)
Kurt wrote the first version of this story for the 2004 Halloween contest; this is his revised version.
He never gave a second thought why the pen was at the yard sale amidst the cast off debris of what must have been a dirt poor family or at least a family that had lost most of what it once had.
"How much?" he said awaiting a rather high number.
"Five dollars" came the reply from a woman whose base voice summed up years of smoking with a greenish tint to match, "That's dad's pen no one never used it since."
Well Sumgai today he thought handing over a ten and awaiting change. Driving North from Arkham he figured to stop somewhere around Derry but dinner would come first. Near dusk sitting in a Denny's his eyes locked onto a store in the strip mall. Office Mac was open and doing a brisk business. A quick jog over and he had a bottle of Quink black which crinkled in the bag on the passenger's seat.
He pulled into the motel at 10pm after a short transaction with the desk keep he was ready to just lie down. But the pen called to him as if an inanimate object could. It wanted to be held and filled and used . He took the ink out of the bag and box setting it on the small round table next to the window. Fumbling in his pockets he brought out the prize.
It was a black pen with no outward ornamentation except the clip which might look like a bill of a bird or arms of some aquatic creature. He polished it on his sleeve then held it up to the fluorescent light. As the light shone along the length he could almost see shadows deep within the pen that played and chattered in the dark depths. "Let's see what the nib looks like." he said to no one in particular but felt better for saying it none the less.
Grasping the cap it would not budge. He walked over to the sink and began to try and soak the pen with no better results. As he tried harder it seemed as if the pen squirmed by itself and he cursed as the clip bit deep into flesh between his thumb and forefinger. Bleeding he tried to staunch it with a hand town but only succeeded in making more of a mess. After he had wrapped his hand he noticed that the pen was lying open at his feet . Its nib looked like nothing made by man it was a growth of gold somewhere between a fang and a claw pointing out from the pen's body. He reached down to pick it up but continued over as the loss of blood and long drive conspired against his continued consciousness.
He awoke past midnight in the opposite corner of the room. Written and engraved into the walls were long strings of what could only be letters. "Ogthrod Ai'F Geb'L.. EE'H Yog Soth'NGah'Ng Zh'rooh' he read them aloud as a bell slowly rang far away.
The sound of the door opening caused him to stop. "I see you opened Daddy's pen." she said with glee. "I'd do it myself but he's always so hungry when first awakened."
"That used to be my Dad's." she said to the man as he held the pen.
"How much for it?"
"Five dollars."
A Thank You Note
By T. Michael Weddle (third place)
Mike told this story in photographs of pages from his journal, written with a fountain pen. He posted it again on the message board on Oct. 30, 2014, as "My Hallowe'en Story from a few years ago," which is how the pages survive.
The last page, with the pen. (T. Michael Weddle)
The Pen Is Mightier Than the Sword
By Jean Buchser (fourth place)
He was there.
He wished he wasn't alone...
But, was he alone ?
Not sure...
The shop was dark. The silence was dense. It was so easy to get in.
Too easy....as if the pens would have invited him for a party, in the middle of the night.
Earlier in the day, he decided to come back in the shop, when he saw all these beauties in the showroom, and the crazy prices....He will take them all and sell them on the web...
So easy, too easy !
Now, he is sure: he is NOT alone....
Does not know who is there, but he feels a presence, eyes perhaps, watching how he moves in the dark shop...
"Is there someone ? IS THERE SOMEONE ??"
The silence answers...
"I know you are here! I KNOW YOU ARE HERE !!"
Nothing...He shouldn't have come !
OK. Take the pens, put them in the bags and leave...All in 5 minutes, not more !
The showroom first...His hand takes one pen...
He will never take a second one.
The following morning, Tom Penink opens his shop...
The body is there, in a dark blood pool, with hundreds of pens hammered in his back.
He was right: he wasn't alone, with all these pens watching how he moved in the dark...
Christmas 1954
By Will Thorpe
It was Christmas 1954 and I was in the 6th grade. Those were tough times in the hills of Kentucky with the coal mines on strike, the Korean War was over but lots of young men were still overseas, and the houses floating down flooded rivers were a miserable sight. Most wallets, for those who had wallets, were empty that year. Mountain people are make do people so we made it with what we had and I don't remember people having a lot.
I was feeling a little low as the redhead in my class who also lived next door was sort of my sweetheart. Christmas Eve was now at hand and I without a nickel to my name had nothing to win the lifetime affection of my favorite girl. I did have a red Esterbrook SJ fountain pen that I had somehow inherited from my sister who had recently taken the train to Valdosta, Georgia to marry a fellow in the Air Force.
Then with a stroke of brilliance I took that red Esterbrook SJ fountain pen and with a nail very carefully on the cap scratched the name of my girl — R O S L Y N N. I wrapped that pen in some fancy paper, sealed it with some Scotch tape, and marched uphill through the snow to the house next door. Roslynn had tears in her eyes when she unwrapped that pen and I knew I was set for life.
I think it's a Bob Wills song that says "Time Changes Everything" and things did change. The next year Roslynn and her family moved up the river to a coal mining camp. A couple of years later I took the bus out of town and never looked back.
Many years later I was at the Washington, D.C. pen show, the 2002 pen show, and I bought a small bag of Esterbrook pens for parts. A few days after I returned to Texas from the pen show I proceeded to examine those pens. Darn it this one is useless, somebody has scratched a name on the cap.
I pulled out my fancy magnifier to give it a close look and sure enough right there on the cap of that red Esterbrook SJ fountain pen somebody had indeed scratched a name. It looked like it was done by an 11 year old kid, and it said — R O S L Y N N. I sat there a long time and stared at that cap before the memories came back and the tears started to flow. The tears are flowing now.
It's a long way to Harlan,
It's a long way to Hazard,
Just to get a little brew,
Just to get a little brew.