The Halloween Scary Stories 2007
Five tales for Halloween 2007: a haunted Waterman from a Providence antique shop, two poems of things in the dark, a heartbeat that won't stop, and a true horror story about a toddler and a $350 pen.
The Nameless
By Stuart Williams
Living, as we do, on a tiny planet, spinning silently in a lonely corner of a universe full of strange things seen and unseen, of cold, dark matter, and yet darker energies that underlie what we see as "reality", what can we really know of the worlds beyond? Astronomers often say that we are "made of stardust", but some of those stars are dark indeed, and long-dead. And few writers realise from whence their darkest inspirations truly come. Nor did I, until one dark, late October afternoon in Providence, Rhode Island, I came upon a remarkable shop, by accident as I thought.
It was the kind of store you might never notice normally, tucked away as it was, but that day I was suffering from "writer's block" and, desperately seeking inspiration for my first book, I had determined to make a good beginning by buying a fine pen to write my first draft, and to bring me good fortune, as a kind of talisman, if you will. So, there I was, wearing out the sidewalks of Providence, and my boots, hoping to find a pen store, and rediscover my muse!
By now it was late in the day, and the sky was darkening ominously. I had found nothing to suit me anywhere, and the stores were beginning to close. Just one more, I thought to myself, and then I'm off home for dinner and the writing will have to wait. Dejected and footsore, I trudged on, eventually finding myself at an unfamiliar turning in the old town. "Hob's Lane", the rusty street sign said. Never heard of it. Shrugging, I peered down the narrow, winding alley. There were a few small shops, but all were dark, save one whose window glimmered dimly. Just one look, then, and after that, back home to my cosy house and a quiet evening by the fire.
"Arkham Antiques" it said above the window, which was shuttered, but chinks of light leaking between the peeling boards hinted that it might still be open. Stepping up optimistically, I entered, a bell tinkling as the door closed behind me. Inside, the shop was stacked from floor to ceiling with chests, cabinets, and a myriad of dusty objects piled higgledy-piggledy. Everything from a bored-looking stuffed crocodile hanging from the ceiling to a mysterious collection of dark crystals in a glass case, to row upon row of crumbling leather-bound books and... Wonder of wonders, four score or more pens, beneath a glass panel let into the dark wooden counter dividing the store. Standing there for a moment, leaning on the counter, almost breathless, my eyes caressed a remarkable collection that included nothing even remotely modern, and was all the better for it.
"Can I help you, sir?" A little man stepped quietly from behind the dark green curtain hiding the entry to the rear of the store. He was the kind of fellow you wouldn't normally notice, just like his emporium. I guess he was well into his nineties, stooped somewhat, and bald except for an untidy grey wisp above each ear. Those ears, together with a rather sharp nose, supported gold-rimmed eyeglasses with half-moon shaped lenses. A white shirt and brown waistcoat replete with pocket watch and chain, surmounted by a somewhat bedraggled spotted bow tie, all above baggy brown check pants, certainly placed him in a different era, entirely in keeping with the contents of the shop. "Well..." I tried to drag my eyes away from the pens and show a little courtesy, but it was not easy.
"Come, sir, you must have something in mind?" He looked a little irritated at first, or perhaps that was just the strange glint in his eyes, which reflected the flickering of the room's only illumination, a bare bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling.
"Well, actually... I'm a writer" I blurted out, rather self-consciously, "...and I'm looking for a pen, but it has to be a vintage fountain pen, none of that modern rubbish, something with real character and some history behind it. I've been all over the city today, and I can't find what I want anywhere. I saw you were still open, and to be honest, you're my last hope..."
"Funnily enough, sir, many people have said that to me over the years, and they usually seem to find something here, though it might not always be quite what they expected... Do you see anything you like?"
"I've just had a few moments to glance at these beautiful pens you have in your counter, is there anything you would recommend? I've always had a hankering for something with a nice flexible nib, but it has to be reliable and easy to fill, as I'll be writing the first draft of my new book with it." I looked hopefully at him.
"Let me see now, something special for a writer, something inspirational, in fact I know just the thing..." He knelt down behind the counter and seemed to be rummaging for ages, then stood up, holding a black tin box that rattled mysteriously. Placing it carefully on the counter, he flicked most of the heavy dust off with an old rag. "I'm sure this will interest you, sir! I picked this lot up in a local estate sale back in 1937. Apparently the fellow who owned it was a writer too, though he wasn't very well-known in his lifetime, in fact his name escapes me..."
Lifting the lid, the storekeeper reached in and pulled out, first of all, a stack of small black notebooks, apparently well-used, some of them with the elastic closures worn through. "Moleskines, ah yes, they were always popular with writers back then," he muttered as if to himself. Reaching deeper, he pulled out a small and rather battered cardboard box. "Ah yes, here it is! Just what you need, I fancy!" Grinning, he handed me the box. It was dark blue, and printed ornately across the top in white was "Waterman's Ideal Fountain Pen". I opened it and carefully took out the contents.
"It's a Waterman's #52 you know, lovely pens they are, this one was made in Canada about 1924. It has a firm left oblique nib that should stand up well to a lot of writing, I'm sure it would be "ideal" for a budding author such as yourself!" He chuckled at the pun, peering over his glasses as if to better see my reaction.
I looked closely at the pen, a simple but elegant chased black hard rubber tube, though it had seen better days and the black had faded somewhat with age. Some of the gold had worn off the clip and the lever filler. A wide gold-filled band just below the lever contained a panel engraved with well-worn script letters which I couldn't quite make out in the dim light. "Well, I was rather thinking of something a bit fancier, but if you think this would be a good writer's workhorse, then I'll take your word for it, and since it already has some history as a writer's pen, surely it will bring me good luck! How much?"
"Hmmm... Well, no-one else has ever been interested in it, and I'd rather it went to someone who will really put it to good use... How about a hundred dollars — and I'll throw in the notebooks as well, you never know, they might come in useful?"
"I'll take the lot, then, and thanks for your help." Grinning broadly, the little storekeeper threw all the battered Moleskines back in the box and carefully placed the pen within. "You're very welcome, sir — and there's no charge for the tin box. Just be sure to let me have a signed copy of your book when you're a best-selling author!" I handed over a small stack of bills, tucked the still-dusty box under my arm and strode out into the now-falling night, this time with a spring in my step, and headed for home, which was 10 Barnes Street, not all that far from Brown University.
Later that evening, having satisfied the inner man with a pleasant meal and a good glass of brandy, I removed to my study, sat down at my desk and opened the box again. As I did so, however, the window blew open and the rain, which was now falling outside, blew in, icy cold. I dashed over and shut it firmly, returning to the desk and the intriguing contents of the box.
Leaving the pen to one side for a moment, I now took the time to examine the notebooks. They were, as the storekeeper had said, Moleskines. The covers appeared worn and well-used, however on opening them, there appeared to be no writing on the finely lined pages. A pity, I would have loved to learn more about their previous owner from his writings — but on the other hand I now had a good supply of usable notebooks, waste not want not, as they say!
I pondered for a moment, and reaching into a desk drawer I lifted out, at random, a small, heavy glass bottle with a faceted black cap. "Ah, "Blue Night", just right!" Taking the #52 from its box and uncapping it, I tested the lever carefully. Remarkably, it felt like the sac was still pliable, so a practical test was in order. Removing the cap from the bottle, I dipped the nib and folded the lever gently out. A few small bubbles rising from the dark depths of the ink were encouraging, so I pressed the lever back in and wiped the nib. Taking up a sheet of Basildon Bond, I put pen to paper, but at first the nib was dry. Disappointed, I pressed a little harder, adjusting the angle of my hand; not being used to oblique nibs, perhaps there was a certain technique to it? Immediately, a wet, blue-black line began to form, and, scrawling my usual "Quick Brown Fox" test, I enjoyed a moment's doodling and swirling lines back and forth. Success! It was indeed a firm nib, but the shading was delightful, and the smooth travel of the golden point over the paper was an intoxicating tactile experience.
Inspired, I was ready to begin. And what better way to start than to try out one of the old Moleskines? If nothing else, it would be a tribute to that long-departed writer whose name I'd not been able to make out on his pen. Folding back the cover of the first notebook that came to hand, I wrote, swiftly and with style:
Of such great powers or beings there may be conceivably a survival... a survival of a hugely remote period when... consciousness was manifested, perhaps, in shapes and forms long since withdrawn before the tide of advancing humanity... forms of which poetry and legend alone have caught a flying memory and called them gods, monsters, mythical beings of all sorts and kinds...
"That's not right", I murmured under my breath, nonplussed. I had planned to begin a science fiction story, full strange planets and starships, but this was nothing like my intended opening passage. It made no sense at all. Somehow, the message from my brain appeared to have changed by the time it arrived at my hand, and written something completely incomprehensible to me, but surely that was impossible? I tried again on another page:
The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far. The sciences, each straining in its own direction, have hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the light into the peace and safety of a new dark age.
I lifted the nib from the paper, for now I was truly terrified, perhaps for the first time in my life. Yet the writing continued apace, without the intervention of any human hand or pen, filling page after page, and as it went the ink faded a little, as if it were as old as the pen itself...
The #52, now icy cold, fell slowly from my nerveless fingers; clattering softly onto the oak desktop, it rolled to a rest. The hairs on the back of my neck were standing bolt upright, and I began to come out in a cold sweat, my heart pounding. What could this mean? Suddenly the window flew open again, and the freezing blast from beyond brought me to my feet once more. I stared out into the darkness, but that in itself was a fearful sight, for the lights of the city of Providence were failing, one by one, and as I looked towards the horizon, they flickered and went out. All that illumined the scene was an arc of light from Interstate 95 off to the west, but what that fitful glow now outlined from behind was dreadful indeed, though it were seen only in silhouette.
The Thing I saw cannot be described - there is no language for such abysms of shrieking and immemorial lunacy, such eldritch contradictions of all matter, force, and cosmic order. A mountain walked or stumbled, and from the darkness came a voice that was not a voice; a chaotic sensation which only fancy could transmute into sound, a terrible, liquid, gibbering chant, repeated over and over: "Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn."
Slamming the window shut in abject terror, fighting an urge to run, to keep on running and never stop, I yet felt strangely compelled to return to my desk and, staring down at the fountain pen now once more clutched tightly in my hand, saw that it was somehow restored to deepest black. The fine chasing seemed to flow and twist like the moving scales of some dark serpent, but surely that must be a trick of the now flickering light. The trim shone again with crisp detail, the clip and lever unblemished, as if time had never passed for this pen.
Peering closer, I knew that I could now read the name engraved deeply upon the pristine gold-filled band: 'H. P. Lovecraft.' One final, uncontrollable urge to write laid down this fateful line: "In his house at R'lyeh dead Cthulhu waits dreaming."
Darkness fell, and my mind fled screaming into the abyss between the stars.
Blue Mesa
By Will Thorpe
Great ball of fire slipped from sight,
Heat of day turns to cool of night.
Light the fire among rocks stacked high,
See first star in the chalk blue sky.
Shadows growing jagged claws across the sand,
Night birds sing like some symphonic band.
Shadows turn purple among cactus so tall.
An evil silence bounces off Blue Mesa walls.
Fire burned low now just embers so red,
Horses staked out watered and fed.
On an old saddle I lay my weary head,
Watch the full moon rise over my bed.
I think of Nell shall ask for her hand,
The horses stir and paw the land.
Somewhere back east she sleeps so sound,
October moon now high and fully round.
Among the shadows I hear the beast howl,
The breeze brings a smell so very foul.
I'm on my feet in a dead run,
My Winchester with me my only gun.
I stare into the shadows with a squint,
From the moonlight I catch a glint.
Slowly moving as if to give no hint,
I see the dark form all hunched and bent.
I circle to my left into the wind,
The horses I leave to my next of kin.
I feel I'm about to be gored,
Up my Winchester boy she roared.
We stare down all through the night,
The attack will surely come at first light.
The dawn creeps in and I can see,
The old Mesquite tree that was after me!
When She Comes for You
By Keith Grubb
Sit close my love and hear this yarn of wretched on the fly,
an old and secret snatching thing tearing through the sky.
Dark and through the night she thunders over rock and grass,
whistling over sleeping towns and darkened mountain pass
Evening walkers feel a chill and sleeper's dreams are black,
ancient ones will bolt the doors...All Hallow's Eve is back.
All creeping over dirt and darkness flee to give her way,
she comes screaming, scratching, tearing, rumbling,
throwing stars astray.
Midnight finds a narrow shadow sliced across the wall,
at once she's through the window, dancing wicked down the hall.
Enough! you say, Balderdash! Tonight I'll hear no more!,
and just as you put out the light... there's a scratching at the door.
So up you go, and to the door and swing from the hinges wide,
and swiftly you are snatched away...to the other side.
Now your breath is fleeting, the light you leave below,
What happened to your earthbound life, none will ever know.
Now you fly with her... over rock and grass,
whistling over sleeping towns, and darkened mountain pass...
When she comes for you.
The Thumping
By T. Michael Weddle
You're out at night on Hallowe'en — that most frightful time of year.
There comes an eerie drumming and it seems un-natur'ly near.
You hear it in the silence when there's no one else about,
The thump, thump, THUMPING that makes you want to shout.
No matter where you wander, when you stop or run around,
It seems there's nothing you can do to evade this ghastly sound.
It keeps on getting louder, and louder even still.
You begin to wander — Is it something that can ... kill?
You run, you trot, you gallop,
You huff, you puff, you moan.
You cannot get there fast enough — the safety of your home.
At last, your door's firmly closed behind you;
You're home with kith and kin.
But the drumming does continue;
It starts way down deep within.
And now you finally realize — That sound from you will never part.
That ghastly, ghoulish thumping
Is the beating of your heart!
Pens and Small Children: A Horror Story
By Andy Abbott
Now #1 son, nearing 3-1/2 years of age, can be trusted to handle and examine nice pens (with supervision), but #2 son? Ah, #2 son, otherwise known as "Danger Boy", or "The Child Without Fear". Closing in on 18 months old, everything is new, fascinating, bashable, and, in many inexplicable cases, edible.
He is not to be trusted. Period. He is faster, smarter, and stronger than even those around him every day have any notion of. He is cheerful, active, curious, and has absolutely no regard for the risk of physical danger. #1 son likes dogs in theory, but not practice — I believe he's gotten to within 2 feet of, but never touched, one. #2 son would try to pull the ears off a Rottweiler, though in a friendly way.
Injuries thus far have been minimal, as God tends to watch over small children and drunks.
One of his delights in life is to try to steal whatever pen happens to be in my pocket or clipped to my shirt. It used to be my glasses, but when he saw that he got a more panicked reaction from swiping my Slender Maxima he knew he'd found his niche. I know this. I am ever mindful of it.
Usually.
This weekend saw the family unit at the San Jose Children's Museum — fantastic place — I would have had a ball there even without the chilluns, but would have looked a little more silly than I did with them. The better half and #1 son went in search of the loo, leaving me and Danger Boy standing in the long line to order lunch. As the line was long, reading the board of fare required a certain amount of squinting and.....attention. #2 was held to my chest (much easier to keep a place in line if one isn't constantly sprinting after a fleeing munchkin).
I turned my attention away from the menu in time to hear the familiar "click" of clip snapping to cap and to see my Danitrio Hana-nuri being filched from my shirt-neck. Not #2 son's finest work — his location with respect to the pen didn't offer him a good grip and required a backward heave to free it.
Heave was the operative word. The world around me slowed to a stop as I watched my favorite writer arc up and over his head — he may have an Olympic future in the hammer throw. My pen was moving, fast, away and down. I knew that even dropping the offending Lilliputian and diving after it wouldn't have saved it, and only led to an embarrassing Q&A session, it being a Children's Museum and all.
Q: You dropped your son to try and save a pen?
A: Well, it's my favorite daily writer. And it cost $350!
Q: YOU SPENT $350 ON A PEN?!?!
It went downhill from there in my mind, so #2 and I stood there and watched as my pen dropped from a height of 7 feet and landed 15 feet away on the concrete, where it then skidded under the lunch counter for God knows how far.
The shock. The horror. The visions — cracked cap lip? Crazed urushi? Some sort of funny crushed spot on the top of the cap, like denting a donut hole covered in a sugar glaze with your thumb? I felt ill, numb.
"Does anyone see a pen over there?" I called to the kitchen crew, who had watched the drama unfold. My lacquered projectile was handed back to me and I examined it, expecting the worst.
The landing had been hard enough to misalign the tines of the nib — writing would require some physical therapy. The rest of the pen? I peered at it, pouring over every detail. The only other impact of the impact was a single, super-thin, very shallow scratch less than a centimeter long. I almost missed it. My pulse slowed back to something akin to normal, but my nerves were shot for the day.
The moral of the tale, the lessons learned?
Dropping a favorite pen does not do good things for your blood pressure.
Urushi is tough stuff. I still can't believe how nearly-invisible the damage was.
I still can't find a way to justify a $350 pen to a civilian.
And never trust a toddler.