The 2010 Pentrace Scary Story Contest
The judges couldn't choose, so all three writers won: Kurt Hammerbeck with four stories and a Poe parody, Pablo Perez Trabado with a foreclosure clerk's free Montblanc, and Vicki Hillis with a warning about the search for the perfect pen.
Associate judge Rena Dundovic and Len Provisor read and re-read all the 2010 scary stories several times. They flipped and flopped back and forth, but in the end agreed that all were so well written, and so worthy of an A+ Goose Bump rating, that Kurt, Pablo and Vicki could each claim the honor of 2010 first place winner. In alphabetical order:
- Kurt Hammerbeck: "In the End I Won" and The Black Pen are so frightful that Rena's electric bill will run up as she keeps the light on in her closet at night. His other entries, Without an Inkling and With Apologies to Mr. Bradbury, follow.
- Pablo Perez Trabado: Business as Usual is worthy of today's headline mortgage robber barons going about their evil business, the pen of choice devouring his soul with an oh-so-clever, gruesome and final twist.
- Vicki Hillis: "Nib" Van Winkle touches us all. We've been there, done that, we know the feeling. Our middle-age angst is so true we can feel it coming. Stop and look around: have you arrived yet?
Each winner chose a THINK fountain pen or rollerball from the Fountain Pen Hospital, a fountain pen book (Mabie in America, signed by David Moak, or George Kovalenko's Fountain Pen Patents), or four bottles of Private Reserve ink.
"In the End I Won..."
By Kurt Hammerbeck
In the end I won, since eventually I got my money back. After deciding on purchasing that pen I saved and sold almost everything else just to be able to own it. It was beautiful bright silver and maroon in an unusual shape, not your usual cigar. The package was huge, not the largest that I have ever received but at least in the top 3. Unpacking took time; I waited until late in the evening so I could do it quietly. I even took pictures of each layer as it was removed to expose the pen sitting on the small pillow. But it just didn't seem to be right, I tried to write with it but it did not fit my hand. You understand that the amount of money the pen cost was the most I had ever paid for a single thing except my car or house, it should have been perfect but it wasn't, nothing I could put my finger on but there was something out of order. I filled it with different inks and tried different papers but there just was no pleasing it as the frustrating line would keep me from complete enjoyment. So I cleaned and flushed it out, like I had been told, with clean clear water. Then dried off and back into the layers of the box. But it sat there and mocked me how much I had let go and then spent to acquire it. It stayed in my thoughts for weeks until I decided to try and return it. At the store the owner wasn't helpful, I tried to explain what the problem was but he wouldn't understand
He wouldn't understand that the pen was properly working but it was wrong. There was something wrong with the pen. It would not write properly for me.
To me it did not write well. The pen was wrong and he needed to take it back.
I told him that and he said it had to go back to the manufacturer. The manufacturer would deal with it.
That it would need to be serviced, that the manufacturer's service would help.
He was lying;
he didn't want the bad pen.
Washed his hands of me.
Tried the ole brush off.
But I insisted that he take it back; take the bad pen back to get it away from me.
I needed it away from me but he would not take it back,
The bad pen he would not take it back.
Take it back,
back so that it was not near to me.
I insisted but he still would not take it back,
The bad pen, he would not take it back.
But finally he took it, He thought he could sell me the bad pen, he knew what it was and he sold it to me, sold that pen to me even knowing that it was bad.
I gave him the bad pen and he took it,
he didn't want to just was his hands of me and the bad pen.
there was so much red then but it was all right since he took the pen back.
I took back the money from the drawer since he wasn't getting up.
I don't know why he didn't get up maybe the bad pen kept him there on the floor.
Down on the floor with the pen in its box and the red ink, red all over.
All over.
All over.
Over.
It was later that the police came. They asked me questions about the store and the pen; there was a number on the pen so you could check.
Now I safe from the bad pen it can't get through the bars.
Will you come back again?
I haven't told anyone else about the bad pen.
No one would believe me at the trial
But you believe me,
Don't you?
The Black Pen
By Kurt Hammerbeck (a rough bit o' doggerel)
Once upon a desktop dreary, while I wrote out weak and weary,
A list of desired pens of which I wanted more,
While I thought about some writing, there came a banging,
Like someone was loudly clanging, clanging on my front door.
"Tis the mailman", I muttered, banging on my front door-
That is it and not much more.
As it was a cold November, colder than I could remember,
With frost hoary on the window and the door.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; for vainly I had seen tomorrow
Was the day the postman my signature would implore?
On the package neatly wrapped up, wrapped upon the floor.
That is it and not much more.
Now my voice grew stronger; and I called like a monger,
Of fishes in the street going door to door.
Postal sir or madam, of your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact that I was working like a monk was I clerking,
And so quickly came your clanging, clanging on my front door.
And with this sound I open wide the door;
I stood out in night air, with darkness and little more.
Down I looked and saw some papers, rather small so I could trundle
Back to my desk with it held beneath my arm walking cross the floor.
In the pack were voter demands, coupons colorful and with my hands
Grasped the catalog of pens so pleasant to adore.
Finally I said it's here only that is it and nothing more.
Open here I flung the paper, when, with, many a flirt and flutter,
Was there shown a stately pen of the saintly days of yore.
It was shown with words asunder, nothing chance or a blunder;
Since to sell it was the highest priority of the store;
Only marketing it was only that and nothing more.
To figure out how to plunder and to tear me and my cash asunder
Was all that lived in the dark hear of the maker's bore.
There are pens out there that are better with nibs of gold & much wetter
Lines produced by nibs hand ground on a bamboo floor
But the page said this was the best pen, it is best and nothing more.
Then the words went all in order, making a very lovely border
And implied that only fools would purchase at another store.
Because in life people think less, if owning a pen that does not press
Itself into your lifestyle and bring it all above board.
It's a way of social climbing that is it and nothing more.
The black pen, never tiring, with a company bent to desiring
On that pen the highest priority of my mind to bore;
And my eyes have seen the scheming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the advert that tries to force me to want that pen some more;
But I Shall purchase one - nevermore!
Without an Inkling: An All Hallows Eve Story
By Kurt Hammerbeck
He awoke with a start and the feeling of dread that he was the only living thing in the house but not alone. Morning light was spilling across the desk illuminating the puddle of red ink on the desk, except that he only used blue...The ink wasn't from the desk but dripped down from the widening stain on the sealing and coagulating on the lamp.
When he went upstairs he found his uncle dead on the bed his body bled dry.
Glancing out the window he saw the police arrive. This is too tidy, killing one of the keepers and framing the other. It had to be the Six. No one else knew they were here and up until now he ought to have kept it from them as well. This was not good. The greed and evil of the six was without equal. The number people who were destroyed by them was huge. And now he was their next victim, running wouldn't be possible as their reach went to the highest level of government or the lowest sheriff in the land. These six arrogant heads of the hydra were on the earth for one thing and that was to complete their plans of world domination.
He knew he was in trouble before this as the keepers had begun to go missing, In Ireland, Belgium, New York and Indonesia wherever they had fled to keep safe the items that were never discussed.
The police took him into custody and the rest was a blur of questions and accusations.
Alone in the cell he tried to remember who else was alive and could help him as he drifted off to sleep.
It was a complete surprise when he found himself with a mouthful of chloroform surrounded by robed men.
They returned him to the house and tied him up as a sacrifice pushed to the side of the room along with all the furniture so that the symbols could be drawn on the floor, it seemed that he was to be the desert of this evil dinner or at least coffee.
One began chanting Latin with a European accent, reading from a large tome and fitted the four pieces from across the globe together into the form of a pen. He assumed his uncle's blood filled the inkwell which was beside the chanter's feet.
In the center of the chalked symbols was a brazier and the smoke took substance from the shadows of the room as the walls bulged inwards then breathed out. The streams of darkness flowed into several bodies now created, grasping and holding the Six in place with tooth and claw.
But we did what was required, pleaded one of the six we prepared the pen and ink
I laughed and repeated "quinque not quattor" you fools there are 5 pieces!
They stood and writhed as the creeping evil they had called up from hell slowly peeled the flesh from their bodies and a whirlwind increased as blood splattered on the walls.
His eyes were closed when first the noises began as a memory bubbled up about not looking into the abyss or it would look into you.
Those creatures and their rules always were obeyed.
As quickly as the screams started the wind stopped leaving in the middle of the floor equidistant from the piles of carrion the book, thicker now.
He heard them approach and then stand in a half circle in front of him. He squeezed his eyes closed afraid that he would open them in a start.
One leaned closer and in a soft voice whispered in his ear,
"now there's room for more."
With Apologies to Mr. Bradbury
By Kurt Hammerbeck
He was so excited that it couldn't be contained as he burst into the living room and took off his raincoat.
"Do you realize he's here just down the road." he told his wife!
"Who dear?" she replied
" William Traut, the greatest calligrapher ever." he replied, "I heard it when I was at the store".
"That's nice dear", as she continued making dinner.
"Don't you understand maybe we could get something from him, it would be worth a fortune?"
"That's nice dear", as she continued making dinner.
"I mean just a little piece of paper would be enough to keep us to retirement"
"That's nice dear", as she continued making dinner.
"I can't talk to you" as he stormed out the door into the twilight.
He walked and talked to himself for blocks not seeing another person until he came across a bent old man with a piece of cardboard that was wet with ink from a paper plate.
Standing back he could see that the white wall was covered in letters, beautiful letters spelling out a poem in some European language he didn't know.
As he was marveling at it Mr. Traut put down the cardboard and slowly strolled away.
He looked around then back at the wall, and then started walking then began to run home, with thoughts of trying to remove the surface of the wall or maybe buy it and coat it. But always the beauty of the letters came back and made his heart ache with the purity of them.
Again he burst through the front door and started talking too fast to his wife.
"Sit down and tell me about it."
But he couldn't and she didn't understand why he began to cry as she went to close the window on the rain that had begun to pour down.
Business as Usual
By Pablo Perez Trabado
The evening was being business as usual for Rob.
As one of the young lead employees in his "foreclosing mill" firm, Rob Dieb was in charge of keeping the wheel spinning, by pushing the foreclosure claim expedients as fast as possible through his desk towards the court. He had also a personal interest in it: of the $1000 awarded to his law firm for every successful foreclosure, he would get a nice 10% share.
It was already late in the evening, and he was just going to call it a day when he suddenly saw something interesting. It was a foreclosure claim involving a very old Fannie Mae mortgage, dating from the mid-30s. It seemed that the final payment was done, but due to a clerical error the bank didn't notice, and was now trying to foreclose. And the owner of the house should be now as old as Matusalem, and probably as credulous as a granny. Great!. A chance to get an extra buck by milking the old fool with the bank-scare scam, and then foreclosing the house. After all, old judge Petersen always sentenced against the foreclosed, and he didn't bother to even look at the paperwork, so no one was ever going to notice.
Thus, he took a detour, in his way home, to visit his victim. The interview went as well as expected. The old goat couldn't understand a word of the legalese in which Rob flooded him, and agreed to sign tomorrow whatever documents Rob thought necessary. Hey, this was going to be a very productive milk-run!
Just when he was about to leave the house, the old man addressed him:
"Lad, you left your pen here".
Rob could see a Montblanc Starwalker fountain pen on the table. Strange. He had no such pen (but had wanted one for long), but he was also sure that the old man had not produced any pen at all throughout the whole interview, and the man seemed very sure that the pen was Rob's.
Hey, if the man didn't want it, why not?. Rob said: "yes, it's mine, thanks". For a moment Rob thought to see a glint of devilish glee at the old man's gaze, but it was gone as fast as it came, and the old man seemed as boring and fool as usual. So he took the pen, and went home to prepare tomorrow's paperwork.
Once at home he sat at his desk, took his newly "found" Montblanc pen, and started writing on the document. Rats!. Why on earth the old fool had loaded the pen with red ink? A nasty, sanguineous red, nothing less!
Suddenly, Rob realized with a shiver that, instead of Rob's name, what his hand wrote on the paper through that pen was a red-blood "Thief". Scared as hell, he looked to the top of the cap, where the floating MB star was in a Starwalker. Instead, he saw a tunnel-like hole, black as coal. He was not able to neither take out his eyes from the hole, nor release his grip on the cap. Slowly, he saw something crawling up that hole, getting nearer and nearer. The nearer it got, the more nasty details became visible. The thing was full of tentacles, which waved towards Rob. The thing had a mouth, open wide. A mouth full of teeth. VERY sharp teeth. And the stench of death, coming out of that mouth, was becoming stronger by the moment.
The thing was already at the top of the tunnel, and still Rob was unable to move. Oh, God!. The thing started to get out of the hole, surrounding Rob with his tentacles!. The horrible open mouth and his teeth came straight towards Rob's face!. The stench was suffocating! NO! GOD, NOOOOO......!!!!!
.........
The policemen looked at the CSI finishing his work. They have been called by some of Rob's neighbors, alarmed by the horrible scream they had heard, coming from Rob's apartment. When they forced the entrance they found Rob, still sitting at his desk chair, holding in his hand a pen, and dead, with a fearful expression on his face.
The CSI addressed the policemen:
"OK, I'm finished here".
"Did you find something?"
"Nothing at all. No signs of violence, no toxics, no alcohol, no nothing. Of course we will have to wait for the results of the analysis, but if you ask me I'd say this guy was literally scared to death. Just look at the fear on his face, and how tightly he is holding the pen. So tightly, in fact, that he has cracked the cap".
"Maybe the pen released some kind of toxic stuff?"
"Doubt it". The CSI took a brief, but informed, look at the pen. "Indeed, it is just a very common Chinese Starwalker fake. I really can't understand what he saw in that pen to take it with him to his death..."
"Nib" Van Winkle
By Vicki Hillis
This, gentle reader, is a tale of caution — a warning, lest the search for the perfect fountain pen take you down the same sad path that I have taken. Turn back now, and save yourself.
My story begins and ends, or so I believe, in the early morning hours of a Halloween on which I cannot sleep. I'm tired, but my thoughts of pens race ever faster, leading me on a frustrating chase further and further from my desired slumber. What to do? How to drug my weary mind, or at least to corral and contain my runaway thoughts? Perhaps an hour or two on the computer might help ...
Let's see ... a click takes me to the Pentrace Market Board. I review the latest offerings and find that nothing catches my fancy, or at least nothing within my price range. But it's good to look and acquaint myself with what's out there and what prices they're fetching (or not fetching, as the case may be).
A quick jump to the yellow Message Board and all the usual suspects appear. Hmmm, the Sunday PSF topics are listed and I remind myself of the pictures I'll want to post. I haven't had my light box out in a while (a light box built using instructions gleaned from this very site, I remember) ... too little time, too many pen avenues and side roads to wander down.
Another quick "favorites" click and I'm at the 24/7 flea market, the 'Bay. Let's see, I type in "fountain pen," then hit "search", and I find 21,670 offerings spanning 433 pages. No harm in scanning through those that end soonest, followed by those newly listed (in case there are attractive BIN offers, of course). So many entries ... so many inexpensive knock-offs ... so many special Phillip Benz one-of-a-kinds. Where, oh where, is my PERFECT pen?
Perhaps it's the gradual rising of the sun outside my office window, or the smell of brewing coffee made by my now risen husband, or just the customary early morning sounds of our household, that roust me from my pen-induced stupor. I look around and am surprised by all the pens and bottles of ink cluttering my desk. Where did they come from? How did they get here? "Ah," I think, "surely my husband has conceived and executed the perfect Halloween trick on this pen junkie."
I stumble to the kitchen to confront him and, rather than having my questions satisfied, find my confusion fueled further. Here, in my kitchen, sitting at my table and reading my newspaper, is not my youthful and vigorous one true love, but a gray-bearded and wizened — older! — version of my beloved. "Who are you? What have you done with my husband?" I shout.
Then I look around ... my spotless kitchen has somehow aged and become grimy overnight. There are dirty dishes piled high in the sink, there are years' worth of grime on the stove top, cobwebs are hanging from the ceiling.
I rush to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. "Surely this is all a bad dream," I tell myself, but feel my panic rise when I see her in the mirror, staring back at me from where my face ought to be — a woman who is the spitting image of my old gray-haired mother!!
And so, dearest reader, heed my warning: Give up your search for the perfect fountain pen now, while you still have your youth and mind. Be satisfied with the writing instrument currently in your hand, or you may return from your quest older, grayer, significantly poorer, and certainly no closer to your elusive quarry.
Written with my new Danitrio Tosca and Noodler's Nightshade!