The Halloween Scary Stories 2008
Four stories for Halloween 2008: a Duofold that will write only one word, a pen maker with a secret material, a flea-market Aztec with a devil's bargain behind it, and a red ink with a terrible recipe.
The Pen Arrived in the Mailbox
By Jean Buchser (JeanB)
The pen arrived in the mailbox, packed in a grey box.
My name and address was written in a cursive elegant red line.
It was there ! A large black Permanite Duofold. Purchased on the Bay. The seller said he changed the ink sac. The pen looks mint, new old stock perhaps.
The nib is a huge piece of gold. I have to test the pen.
Blue Quink will be perfect.
Unscrew the blind cap; dip the nib into the ink; press a few times the button. That's it.
Now the paper, ivory, soft.
And the word I write when I test a pen: "fountain"
But the pen does not write "fountain", but "blood" !!!!
No, that's not possible ! I try again: "blood"!!!!
My hand writes "fountain", but "blood" comes onto the paper...!
And...NOOOOO !!! The ink is not blue. Comes red and turns to brown when it dries...like BLOOD !!!
The pen falls off my hand. That is a nightmare ! I pack it back hastily and will send it to the seller !
What's his name ? Vlad D.
Address: 666, Transsylvania Street. Helltown.
I go to the Post Office with the pen packed and wrapped into the pocket of my coat.
At the Post Office I prepare the shipping documents and.....the pen has LEFT my pocket !!!
I run the way back...Nothing !!
I open my door: I am safe now...Good Lord ! What a story !
A few hours later, when I sit on my desk...The black Duofold lays on the ivory white paper...
When I check the nib, it is not engraved "DUOFOLD" but "BLOOD"...
Something Was Wrong
By Allan Hall
Part 1
Something was wrong, there was always something wrong. Today it was the battered box the guy in brown just delivered with a smile as if he had just delivered Christmas presents. One would think placing the bright orange stickers proclaiming the items in the box to be fragile would provide some form of protection from the rough treatment. That seems to not be the case.
"I was wondering when these would get here" Abe said with a scowl. He had been waiting not so patiently for this package, unlike the multitude of other packages Abe's Writing Emporium received on a daily basis. Perhaps it was due to this particular package coming from the world renowned Peter Kipling. Or perhaps it was because the package took three days to be delivered from across town. Either way, the package was finally here and Abe was happy.
"It's here?" asked Brian, a tall slender man who obviously was the store's counter salesman with a company shirt housing two Parker 51 pens in its breast pocket. "Yup" replied Abe "let's see what we have." Abe slid his pocket knife under the tape and gently started removing packing material. Inside was another box which when opened revealed six beautiful teak boxes which Abe placed on the counter one at a time.
Abe had owned this store since his father died some twenty years before and had never had pens, or for that matter, any items, sell like Kipling pens. These were the only items he marked up fifty percent and still could not keep them longer than a week. Every month he received a set of six pens, each set named after someone who was missing for more than a year, and each sale helped pay for posters and television ads to help locate the missing person. But that was not the reason they sold so well Abe suspected. The fit and finish was on par with the best pens in the world, they were all hand crafted, and no one knew how Kipling could produce such masterpieces as just one man.
Yes, you could tell that each piece was layered in beautiful urushi. Yes, the furniture was solid gold. But it didn't look like wood, plastic, celluloid, or any other material Abe had ever seen. The surface was smooth and yet had almost a grain pattern like wood but the grain was not circular. The material was dense and yet very light. Whatever it was, it was indeed the perfect material for a fountain pen body. Rumor had it that the material was a new composite and that Kipling worked on the material at DOW Chemical before retiring to make pens. A new composite, that made sense.
Today was a very special day. Not because Abe just received a shipment of these wonderful pens. But because he had asked so many questions, poked and prodded so hard to find information on these pens, and even was asking around about an X-ray fluorescence analyzer to find out what the pens were made of that he received a letter from Peter Kipling inviting him to tour his pen manufacturing facility. Tonight, at eight pm, Abe would have his answers.
The chime of the front door gave Abe a jolt back to reality from his thoughts of visiting Kipling's. "That them?!" urged the short and stocky man entering the store. "Larry, what do you do, follow the delivery driver around waiting on him to deliver here?" Brian joked. "Let me see them." Larry retorted.
Brian carefully placed one of the boxes on the corner of the counter for Larry who slowly opened the top with gleaming eyes. "Wow!" Larry exclaimed as his eyes slid from one end of the pen to the other. The pen was a deep red with gold stripes almost poured into the red material. Ornate engravings in the gold crown and base gave way to the elegant stripes down the sides of the pen. The clip was perfectly aligned with a stripe keeping the pen perfectly formed. Slowly unscrewing the cap revealed a huge solid gold two toned nib. Unlike conventional two toned nibs which are usually gold and platinum or rhodium this nib was gold with a deep red mask which matched the pen body. "Stunning" replied Brian.
"Anna West, what a beautiful name for a beautiful pen" Larry said as he opened the little booklet that came in the box with the pen. The booklet showed a picture of Anna, talked about when she disappeared and how purchasing this pen would send two hundred dollars to a foundation in the city that helped to find missing people. Of course it also spoke to the making of the pen by hand, how each set was crafted for a specific person and how Peter Kipling did all of this to help support the foundation that was still looking for his missing brother.
Larry placed his credit card on the counter and slid two of the ornate teak boxes towards the register. "Only two?" asked Brian with a grin. "Until next time" said Larry as he uncapped his Parker 51 to sign the receipt. "I guess we will see you next month right after the delivery then." Brian joked. As Larry was leaving he turned with a smile and said "you betcha!"
Part 2
Abe left the store a little early to get cleaned up and have time to make it to Kipling's by eight. He toyed with the idea of taking a moleskin with questions in it to make sure he did not forget to ask some important ones or to write down any important answers. That just didn't seem polite. Neither did taking a camera. Kipling was a private person and indeed Abe was shocked to even receive the invitation so he was not about to foul things up by acting like a reporter. No, he would just go and satisfy his own curiosity.
As Abe turned on to Briar Street he wondered if he had written down the wrong address. This was the worst of the worst area in Detroit. This place was so bad Abe wasn't sure if the police would even respond if he called 911. In his fifty years of living here he had never once driven into this section of town, with good reason. Ninety percent of Detroit's crime was in small little pocket areas, and this was the worst. Low and behold there was the address he had written and on the front of the three story tenement building was a sign, Kipling Pens.
As he knocked on the door he wondered what possessed someone to live here who did not have to. Obviously Kipling had money, so why here? Maybe this was his family home? His mind was snapped back when the door opened and a man asked "Abe Broman?" "Yes. Mr. Kipling?" "That's me, come in please".
The inside of Kipling's home looked much nicer than one would expect from looking at the exterior. Most of the furnishings looked like antiques and they were all quite beautiful. Standing in the entryway one could see the stairs going up to the two higher floors to the right, dining room to the left and what appeared to be the living room directly towards the rear. Family pictures hung on the walls which looked like several generations of Kiplings, one in particular hung just inside the door of an older gentleman with Kipling's features in a white jacket and a stethoscope hung around his neck.
"Right this way" said Peter as he led Abe down the short hallway into the living room. Just as they entered the room there was a bright flash of light which caught Abe off guard. "Sorry about that, I was taking pictures of the house for my website and forgot to turn off the camera's timer" said Kipling. "That's OK, wonderful place you have here." Abe said as he sat on couch. "Thank you, and not at all what you expected I assume?" Replied his host. "Well, no actually."
The two of them discussed the pen business, past, present and future for a good half hour before Abe finally said "So where do you make your pens, the kitchen?" "No, not exactly" said Kipling, "Follow me". Kipling rose and walked to a doorway under the staircase. Abe was getting a little excited at this point. The door opened to reveal another set of stairs leading down. "You know the success stories always seem to be someone starting off in their garage or basement? Well mine is in the basement" Kipling chuckled. Abe let out a short laugh, it was true, every success story always started with two guys in their garage or something like that.
Kipling flipped a switch which started the familiar hum of fluorescent lights. The two descended the staircase that ended in another door to the right. Opening that door revealed a much larger room than Abe had expected. "Here it is, the mad scientist's lab" Kipling grinned. "Wow." Abe said.
The room was much different than what Abe thought. Sure, there were the needed lathes, presses and what appeared to be a forge, but they were on the far wall. On the left wall was a series of workbenches that looked like they were for working on jewelry and on the right wall was a desk and drafting table littered with papers. The entire room seemed to be soundproofed no doubt to appease the neighbors. The peculiar part was the center of the room.
There was a stainless steel table about seven feet long with two lights right above it. The table was about three feet wide and it stood about four feet off the ground. The edges of the table rose up about six inches and there was a drain at one end. This must be where he makes the material for the pens Abe thought. Next to the table was a smaller stainless steel rolling cart with a white towel folded neatly over what must have been the tools he used to form the material.
Abe was even more interested in the table to the right which had several drawings on it. He made his way over to the table and as he suspected these were drawings of pens that Kipling was working on. One beautiful full color picture with notes scribbled on one side really caught his attention. "Is this the next pen you plan on releasing?" Abe asked. "No, I plan my pens far in advance, that one is my latest design but will not be released for about a year." Replied Kipling. "Oh really? What's its name?" was Abe's next question. "The Abe Broman" was the reply.
Abe stuttered "Wha...wha...what?" as he started to turn around. He caught a glimpse of a large shiny object slicing through the air towards him, then there was the pain in his side, his knees buckled, the lights started to dim. Something was wrong.
The Uncommon Pen
By Pablo Perez Trabado
As he always did every first Saturday of every month, Alan woke up very early, took a fast breakfast, and left for the Leavenworth Square flea market. Years of the pen collecting bug had already taught him that the early bird gets the work, and that you rarely found anything worth the effort at fleas unless you got there while the stalls were still being set up.
Of course, being a bachelor English literature lecturer at one of the oldest East Coast universities, living at the University's premises, had its advantages: there was no wife mumbling about you being a crazy fool for going out on wild pen chases at unholy hours and for disturbing her sleep. And he had few other expenses, so he could indulge in his pen collecting passion without much remorse.
It was a freezing and windy November morning, and when he got out to the street the cold bit his face. He walked, absent-minded, the way he already knew by heart, wondering if today's hunt would be worth the effort. Not too far ago, and being in an ancient city full of universities, good pens had been not too difficult to find at fleas. However, the increasing interest in pen collecting of recent years meant that, nowadays, pens were more and more scarcer at the stalls, and many times they were hard-beaten third-tierers, not worth a second look.
He arrived to Leavenworth Square, to be greeted by the usual frenzy of dealers setting up their stalls. He paid the early admittance fee, entered the main corridor, and started the routine stall-by-stall navigation, looking, as always, for those pesky jars full of junky pens, where, with a ton of luck, you could find the hidden gem.
However, the hunt today was even weaker than usual. After a whole hour of fruitless efforts and cold feet, he was already aiming towards the output, wishing for a nice cup of hot coffee and some bakery.
However, just at that moment, he noticed a small stall, almost hidden at the darkest end of the darkest corridor at the Square. The stall was narrow and lugubrious, but maybe it was worth to have a look. The only strange thing was that Alan was sure of having already gone through that corridor, but he didn't notice that stall before. Oh, well, probably he was looking the other side when he went by the first time.
There was an old gentleman at the stall. There was nothing peculiar on him, other than his unbelievable calm. The stall was deep and messy, as things were still within the big carton boxes. It was queer: in less than twenty minutes the market would open to the general public, and still this gentleman was doing no effort at all to set up properly his stall, as if he didn't care at all about selling his wares. Alan addressed the gentleman:
"Good morning"
"Good morning, sir"
"I'm looking for old fountain pens, and thought that maybe you might have some"
"Sorry, sir, but I've got just one. You can see it down there, in that wooden box"
Alan lifted the long, thin box of black wood, and opened it. And suddenly all his wildest dreams of Sumgaidom rushed him, when he saw what looked like a Parker Aztec!!. With an intact nib!!
Trying to hide from his face the emotions he was feeling, he addressed the old man:
"Oh, well, seems one of those things you filled with an eyedropper"
"Beats me, young man. The only thing I know is that this box has been round here for years, and I'm fed up of seeing it".
"And how much would you ask for it?"
"Fifty bucks and it's yours"
Alan couldn't believe it. However, trying to play it cool and avoid to look too anxious, he replied:
"Forty, and we have a deal"
For a moment, Alan believed to detect a devilish glint of joy in the old man's gray gaze, but just a moment later he looked again just another bored, unremarkable seller. Probably a trick of his overexcited mind, thought Alan.
"OK, young man, it's yours"
Alan paid the man, and left feeling as the Sumgai to end with all the Sumgais. However, when he was near the output gate, he realized that knowing the origin of the pen could be a nice touch. So, he traced back his way, in order to ask the old man where had he found the pen.
Well, that was the idea. But no matter which way he took through the corridors, he was unable to find again the stall. It was certainly disconcerting, as he thought that he had indeed visited the corridor where he remembered the stall was. But, after many turns through the maze of corridors, he was no longer sure of even remembering where that corridor was. Oh, well, it was not the first time that he had found a promising stall still being set up, left for returning later, and then being unable to find again the stall...
Forgetting about the breakfast, Alan took the way back home, in an exuberating mood. However, while he paced through the empty streets, his joy was gradually tuned down by the uneasy feeling of being followed. Twice he even turned round to check it, but both times the street was completely empty, with no place where a potential pursuer could hide. Still, he felt as if someone, or something, was watching him, not too near, but not too far.
It was queer, also, that this feeling didn't disappear once at home. Indeed, for no reason in particular, he felt better with his back to the wall. "Oh, well", Alan thought, "must be the mental excitement after such a luck stroke".
After quickly drinking a glass of milk, to calm down his empty stomach, Alan rushed to examine his find. The box was of a severe, surprisingly deep, black color, only broken on the lid by small golden letters, on which Alan could read the name "Rufus A. Magdem".
The lid opened easily, and Alan saw that the inside of the box was lined on a felt as black as the outside wood. On this background the pen gleamed. But as Alan started to examine more carefully the pen, disappointment took over. True, the pen was certainly very old, and looked the part like a Parker Aztec. But the swastikas were reversed, turning the wrong way!! And the nib was completely devoid of any engraving.
Obviously this pen had never come out from the Parker factory. But it was, anyway, a very strange and unusual pen, and maybe its value was also high.
Just at that moment the phone bell rang. Alan left the pen on the pen stand, and went out to the kitchen, where he had left the wireless phone terminal. It was Thomas, another colleague, reminding him that they had to proofread a paper, and that he would be at Alan's home in one hour.
Alan returned to his desk, thinking on using his new pen to write the margin notes, as it had what seemed a nice fine, flexible nib. He reached for the pen at the stand, where he had left it. Well, that's what he thought he had done, as the pen was in the middle of the desk. "How stupid", he thought, "leaving there the pen, risking it to roll over the side of the table and falling. Probably didn't thought on it as I rushed to get the phone. Unusual thing, however, as I always care to leave the pen on the stand since I bent the nib on that pen that fell from the table".
Alan examined the pen. It was not mint, but certainly it had been well cared for not too much ago. It was completely clean, and there were no traces of old ink or crud at the nib or feed. It opened easily, and Alan filled it with the eyedropper.
He closed the pen, and tried it. Surprisingly for a flea market find, it wrote first try, without hesitation. It was a nice wet writer, with a delightful flex; pity that Alan's writing was not able to properly use that flex.
Suddenly, Alan nodded and woke up. "Oh, darn", he thought, "I must have dozed right here sitting on the desk, with the pen in my hand. Guess that this morning's excursion has taken its toll..."
Then he saw something that froze his blood on his veins. On the paper, before him, he could see the test lines he had written with the pen. But he also saw some lines written with a neat calligraphy hand, with full use of flex, and which was not his own. In these lines he could read, once and again:
"By Lord's sake, save my soul!. Save my soul!"
Alan was frightened to realize that he was still holding the pen and finishing the word "soul" with a calligraphy hand that he had been never able to reproduce, and which was not his own.
Slowly, as in a nightmare, he raised his head and looked at his left, where a mirror reflected the scene at the desk. What he saw was someone sitting at the desk, exactly where he was, and holding the pen. But that someone was dressed on a black robe, and was wearing some sort of hood that showed just a whitish, rounded forehead, and a few very long and sickening hairs. Then the head turned towards him, and the last thing Alan saw before fainting were black, dark coves where eyes should have been...
There, sprawled on the floor and still unconscious, was found Alan by his colleague Thomas, who, alarmed by his lack of answer when he arrived for the proofreading session, managed to get the door opened by the manager of the building.
But what both men found most disturbing was that, when they opened the door, the pen was still writing a last line on the paper, all by itself, with no visible support from anyone. However, as soon as they entered the room, the pen fell to the table, rolled to its edge, and fell to the floor, nib first.
With the help of some ammonia salts and a healthy dose of scotch, both men managed to revive Alan. A lively conversation was held among the three men, punctuated by periodic, nervous glazes towards the pen, which did not show any intention to leave its resting place at the floor.
A few minutes later, three very nervous men put the pen back in its box, carried the box to the basement, and threw it to the heating furnace. For a moment, everything was still. Suddenly, a thrilling loud shriek was heard, and a yellowish sulfurous smoke got out, for a moment, from the furnace, to be quickly absorbed again to the flames...
Not many clues could be found about Rufus A. Magdem. Only an obscure reference in a very old newspaper spoke about a certain talented local artisan, not very popular at the town, who had apparently an obsessive wish to create the perfect writing instrument and became rich and famous, and who suddenly disappeared, never to be seen again.
What happened to the soul of Rufus A. Magdem we will never know. Alan is quite convinced that the destruction of the pen put an end to the contract done by Rufus with an truly unhealthy partner; what he is unsure is whether the soul returned to its original owner, or stayed forever with its devilish buyer.
And we should add that Alan has been unable since then of entering again a flea market...
A Very Special Ink
By Nikolaos Syrigonakis
It was time for George to buy a new ink. He had this rule in place, a mental rule to be precise. Starting a new story required a new ink. It had been this way since he started using fountain pens almost 5 years ago. His pen collection had grown at a steady pace and he needed more inks to go with it.
He put his coat on and closed the door behind him. Winter was just around the corner and darkness covered the evening. The wind was breathing its cold breath on his face and dead leaves were dancing aimlessly as gravity commanded them towards the ground. He walked fast down Parnassou Street and headed for the center of the sleepy small suburban town in the outskirts of Athens. Ermou Street was the name of the main shopping area of the town. The warm lights from the shops, cafes, and restaurants were certainly very inviting but George had other plans. He stood in front of the window of the small stationary shop and peered inside to make sure the owner was there. The small window front had the same deco for years now and it seemed that all the owner Mr. Dimitriou did was dust it from time to time. Scattered notebooks, a pen stand from the 1940s with some fountain pens in it, a modern stand with ballpoints, pencils and colored pencils and a bunch of art supplies, yellowed aquarelle sheets and dried up paint tubes from God knew when. Although the shop seemed to be aging at the same rate as its owner there was something magical about it for George and a bunch of its dedicated eclectic customers. It was a place where time slowed down. A place where they could chat about their fountain pens and inks with similar minded people and not been thought of as fools in the era of computers and PDAs.
That evening though the shop was empty. When George opened the door and walked in, Mr. Dimitriou was on the top step of his wooden ladder trying to reach a box that seemed impossible to get to for a man of his age and height. The old man turned towards the direction of the squeaking door.
"Can I help you with that Mr. Dimitriou?" George offered.
" No, thank you dear George, I almost got it!" He made a sudden cat-like stretch that contradicted his physique and grabbed the box, then climbed down the steps.
"I need a bottle of red ink Sir" George said. "I need a very special red. The richest, most interesting red your experienced eyes have ever seen. I am starting a new story that I think will be a marvel. I need the nicest red ink to use in my grandfathers Parker 51 for this story Mr. Dimitriou."
The instructions were clear and the old man started scratching his white beard that had sporadically grown on his chin.
"I think I have what you need. A very special ink for sure. Something I have kept for myself for many years now. I have a whole stash of it tucked away and it is more than enough to last me a lifetime, or at least the few years I have left." He smiled and looked at George through his tortoiseshell frames that held a couple of very thick bifocals. His introduction was enough to get George's heartbeat speed up as he grew full of anticipation.
Mr. Dimitriou, shuffled his feet towards the back of his tiny shop in order to get the ink. He returned seconds later holding a tin box. The box had dents and scratches all over it but the dark green color and the big Red Cross on it revealed its origins. A box from an army medical kit of some sort. Reusing is always better than recycling George thought.
"Here we are" the old man said and a wide grin appeared on his face. There was something sinister about that grin no doubt about it. It was like two kids about to share a dark secret and make a pact not to reveal it to a soul after that. He opened the box and took out a dusty small ink bottle. It was a bottle of Parker Quink ink dating from the 1940s. The label was still clear.
"There is no Quink ink inside it" Mr. Dimitriou said and the sinister grin reappeared. He took out his own parker 51 that he carried in a leather case that was attached on a leather string hanging from his neck, unscrewed the barrel and filled the pen with the aerometric filler. He reassembled the pen and capped the ink bottle. He scribbled his name on a testing notebook that rested on the counter and handed George the pen.
"From Count Dracula's personal stash my dear friend. This is as close to the color of blood as you can get. I personally mixed several inks back in 1949 and created this blend. Oh yeah, it was a good year. Everyone was using fountain pens. The National army was strong and crushed the rebel communists that tried to take over. We squashed them like the little bugs they were." His voice became louder and full of pride.
"You know son, I served alongside your grandfather. Yes, he was a good man and you could count on him in battle. Too bad we never became close friends but the stories from our service in the National Army will always be our connection. He was a good man, rest in peace.
This struck George by surprise. He had been in Mr. Dimitriou's shop several times with his grandfather but he clearly remembered that his grandpa was always distant with the old shop owner. It seemed very odd that he never mentioned that he fought alongside the old man. George tried the ink and immediately fell for the gorgeous color and the depth of shades it left on the paper. Only hesitation was the fact that it wouldn't dry very fast, but that was only a small issue. When you are trying to create a story on a piece of paper you have plenty of time to wait for the ink to dry.
"I want to buy a couple of bottles Sir". George said. "It is the best red I have ever seen. I can't believe the depth of color. I am hoping one day you can reveal your secret recipe to me."
"Perhaps one day son! Take the ink, go home and use it. Come back and tell me what you think. You don't have to pay me. Consider it a gift to a loyal customer. I need to close down now if you don't mind." Mr. Dimitriou grabbed his keys and headed for the door.
George thanked him and walk out of the shop. He felt really special since the old man entrusted him with this unique vintage ink. Once he got home he ran upstairs to his study after saying a quick hello to his wife Anne who was enjoying a book by the fireplace.
He took out his grandfather's Parker 51. A beautiful 51 vacumatic in a deep plum color and a gold filled cap with his grandfather's name engraved on it. It all started with this pen. His grandfather gifted the pen to him a year before he passed. He explained all the war action that the pen had seen and how it never failed to perform when needed. The pen carried a couple of dents and scratches but they were full of meaning. George held it for a moment. The color and warm feel of the pen against his fingers, its timeless design and everything about it carried an enormous infatuation for George. He felt really warm from the fast walk back from the shop and the excitement about the new ink. He opened the window and filled the pen with ink. He took out his notebook and started to write.
"Sketching Lives" That was the title of the short story he wanted to write. It would have been about a lonely person who had the gift to make sketches of people he met on his way to work but place them in settings that revealed their darkest inner secrets. He looked at the title and his name next to it and smiled pleased with the way the fine nib of his 51 in combination with Mr. Dimitriou's ink performed. The perfect combination for my darkest story yet, he thought.
While gathering his thoughts in order to lay them on the paper, his hand involuntarily started to scribble down. George was shocked and the hair on his spine stood up. A cold chill run across his body almost paralyzing him. His right hand had scribbled down 5 names on 5 lines in his notebook. Kostas Argyriou was the first one. The other 4 followed in alphabetical order. George put the pen down. The lightweight body of his 51 felt like a cement block. He rubbed his eyes hard with his knuckles and stared at the paper. The names were still there in red ink and he was shivering. He felt like his body wasn't his. He felt like he was observing this whole scene from somewhere else. The director's cut. He was being watched, or it was him watching someone writing these meaningless names down. The eyes behind the eyes, behind the eyes. The names were scribbled down hard on his notebook with a lot of pressure. The edges of the letters were sharp and the ink had bled through several pages. It wasn't his handwriting for sure. It wasn't him writing this down. Yet his right hand and his pen were responsible for it. He was terrified. The wind picked up strength outside and the curtains in his study sprung into life. He put the pen down got up and closed the window. He caught a glimpse of his face on the glass as he pulled the curtains. His face was white as the curtain he was holding and his eyes glazed and full of terror as if they had seen something horrific unfolding before them.
He returned to his seat still shivering and picked up the pen again. Once again he continued scribbling down names, one after the other in alphabetical order. The pressure with which he held the pen was heavy and constant. The fine nib was pretty much tearing through the pages of his notebook. By the time he was at the final name Thanos Ziotopoulos he was gasping for air and thick tears were streaming down his cheeks and onto the paper adding to the mess. Below the list of 30 names his hand wrote the name of his grandfather Georgios Kountouris and right below that Mr. Dimitriou's name. Yannis Dimitriou.
After the list was complete his breathing was restored to normal and he felt his body warming up again. He looked at the names carefully, one after another trying to establish a connection of some sort but to no avail. The only names that made sense were his grandfather's and that of Mr. Dimitriou. He thought that it all had something to do with the Army service of his grandfather and Mr. Dimitriou and something that happened to them then in connection with the names. Somehow the pen and the ink had woken something or someone up. It was certainly not him scribbling these strange names on paper. George wouldn't even dare to think who or what had taken over him during the compilation of the list and decided to go to bed without saying a word to Anne. Moment after he got under the warm beddings he was fast asleep.
The nightmares had just started. George was dressed in a military uniform. He was in standing position and a rifle rested on his shoulder parallel to the ground. His head was tilted and his right eyeball was aiming towards someone straight ahead and only a few meters away from him. His left eye was shut tight. His heart was beating like a funeral drum and his mouth was dry as a riverbed in a 10 year drought. His index finger touched gently the trigger of the riffle. A loud voice emerged from somewhere behind him and started calling out names in alphabetical order. The names were in the exact same sequence as in his notebook, and the voice although sounding younger sharper and louder was unquestionably that of his grandfather.
George got his left eye momentarily off his human target and turned his head to his right. There standing right next to him was Mr. Dimitriou. He also took his head off the target turned towards George and produced the exact same sinister grin the man had on his old sunken face that evening.
His grandfather's steady voice ordered the men to take aim and undo the safety switch on their rifles. He shouted: " The lot of you have betrayed the Hellenic Republic and its laws and have been sentenced to death"
George focused on his target. A tall thin man dressed in torn clothes, his hair messy, sticky with dried up blood and his face bruised and battered raw. He stared right into George's eye along the aiming line. His gaze was penetrating and George felt as if a spear run through his skull. He closed his eye quickly opened again focusing on the task ahead.
"Fire" his grandfather shouted. Dry rifle shots echoed across the camp in the early morning hour. The bullets hit their targets and most of the men free fell on the cold hard ground. Bullets shattered their craniums and blood and brain matter spilled out. Carotid arteries were severed and hot blood sprinkled across the ground around the dying bodies.
"Fire" the order came again and another round was fired to finish off what the first round left undone. Arms and legs were separated from their torsos and the collapsing bodies let off steam into the cold morning air. The ground was painted red, a red very similar to the ink in George's pen. George felt sick. Other men in the firing squad felt sick too and had to spill their semi-digested breakfast on the ground. Dimitriou next to him, walked over to his kill to make sure the man had expired. After satisfying his curiosity he walked back to George who was doubled-over breathing heavily and trying not to vomit. Dimitriou's boots were glistening from the fresh blood of his kill. He helped George back up and said:
"Damn traitors, they only got what they deserved" He spat on the ground looked at George. He grinned again and this time it was the Devil personified. A grin of enormous satisfaction and longing for the executions that were certain to follow was carved on his wide face.
George jumped up from his bed screaming "No". He was shivering and sweat pearls formed on his forehead. Anne tried to calm him down, but when he attempted to sleep again he was haunted by the faces of the doomed prisoners that stood right in front of the firing squad. He got up and went back to his study but didn't dare to touch his pen or attempt to write anything down. He just sat there thinking. It all sort of made sense in a dark and twisted way, yet he had no proof of anything apart from a list of unknown names and a freaky nightmare.
He decided to confront Mr. Dimitriou the following morning but before he did anything silly to embarrass himself in front of the old man, he wanted to investigate a bit further. He went to his basement and after removing several carton boxes containing all kinds of junk he found his grandfather's wooden chest. His grandfather was a person he always looked up to and had kept whatever he could find from his personal belongings in this old wooden chest. He moved the chest right under the glowing light bulb and opened it. There were a lot of photographs of his grandfather dressed in the National Army uniform carrying a revolver in a leather holster on his right side and a long sword on his left. He went through stacks of papers, certificates, notes and other personal items. He found a leather bound folder with the date 1948 stamped on it and opened it. Flipping through several pages with official army documents, maps and memos from superior officers he froze. His eyed opened wide and a chill visited his body once again. In front of him was a document carrying the seal of the Military Court and numerous signatures all over it. It was dated October 31th 1948. On the document appeared a list of all the names that were in George's notebook in the same order. It was the death sentence document of those 30 arrested prisoners. That document marked the end of their lives. George stared at the date on his wrist watch to confirm what he already knew. It was October 31st 2008 and the wandering souls of those 30 doomed prisoners were right there in George's basement chilling the air he was struggling to breath.
There was a page attached to that document. It appeared to be torn out of his grandfathers' diary. The date was November 17th 1948 and the handwriting of his grandpa seems shaky, tired, and sort of dragging on the page. Very unusual, since his handwriting was always clear and sturdy. He read on:
"After the mass execution of October 31st I haven't been able to catch a wink of sleep. The moment I close my eyes I am haunted by the desperate faces of these dead men. Disfigured, distorted faces and bodies with torn limbs are all I see when my eyes shut. Warm thick blood is poured all over my uniform and I am stuck in it not being able to free myself from it. I believed I am doing my country proud by getting rid of traitors in the name of the Republic but I am not so sure now. Their dead eyes follow me everywhere I go. They are staring at me as I write this down. I am shaking like a dead autumn leave not knowing what to do to end this. I was told a few nights ago that this evil snake Dimitriou and the head nurse of the camp, extracted large amounts of blood from these doomed prisoners claiming they needed it for blood transfusions for our wounded soldiers. Last night I overheard Dimitriou bragging about the chemical formula he devised to make red ink using the blood of..."
The sound of shattering glass broke the silence. The light bulb in the basement exploded as if an invisible palm squashed it. Darkness filled the room along with the presence of those fallen on October 31st 1948.