short stories – The Creative Chronicles of Dave Stancliff

The Storyteller

Gordy’s Uncle Leon was known for telling tall tales and for setting a Guinness World Record in 1964 for swallowing the most live goldfish in five minutes. Most of the adults in the family treated Uncle Leon like he was a benign imbecile. But Gordy loved him and never grew tired of hearing his stories.

It bothered Gordy that his dad showed such little respect for his own brother who was mentally challenged but not a total idiot. They were twins but somehow didn’t have anything in common other than their looks. Gordy’s dad, Alan, was a successful businessman who owned several businesses. His mom tolerated Uncle Leon and was generally nice to him. She was a timid woman who was dominated by Gordy’s dad who had a mean streak. She never questioned anything he did and put her energy into being a good housewife. She loved Gordy but seldom stood up for him.

When the twins parents both died in an automobile accident Alan and Leon inherited a large sum of money. Alan who became Leon’s conservator handled all the finances and gave him an allowance every month. Leon lived in a two-bedroom house that once belonged to their parents before they won a multi-million lottery in Arizona.

Unfortunately, they only got to enjoy their new house in Malibu, California for a year before their fatal car accident. Gordy was ten years-old when his grandparents died. During the funeral Leon was crying uncontrollably while Alan remained stoic and calm. He did not wear his feelings on his shoulder like his brother. Gordy noticed that and it bothered him. Afterward the memory clung to him like an unwanted barnacle.

Gordy was eighteen-years old when Uncle Leon had to be put in an assisted living facility. He had dementia and couldn’t take care of himself any longer. He was seldom lucid, but Gordy didn’t let that bother him when he came to visit every week. On one of those visits he was surprised to see a group of patients who were sitting around in the day room intently listening to Uncle Leon tell his story. Apparently, he had regular audiences and staff members could often be seen while on their breaks listening to Uncle Leon spinning a tale. I was amazed the first time I witnessed the scene. At other times he would sit almost comatose and stare into space with a blank look. When he was able to recognize Gordy, he would smile and tell him what a good boy he was. He would ask about his parents sometime wondering if they were going to visit him. Uncle Leon was in and out of reality and in poor physical shape. He was as thin as a reed. He had a thyroid problem and his eyes bulged out whenever he got too excited.

The last time Gordy saw his uncle alive he was shocked by his clarity. He seemed to have come out of a dream – a bad dream – and he had to tell Gordy all about it. His bulging eyes had an intensity that Gordy hadn’t seen in years. His voice cracked and he coughed before saying, “He cut the brake line…”

Gordy’s eyes opened wide in disbelief. “Who cut a brake line?”

“Your dad.“

“Why would he do that?” Gordy pleaded with tears running down his eyes.

Leon coughed again and his raspy reply froze him, “Money!”

“Why didn’t you tell the police or someone,” Gordy sobbed.

“No one would believe me…” His voice grew fainter.

Gordy left the care facility in a state of shock. His own father killed his grandparents! It was more than his mind could bear. He went back to his grandparent’s old house where he’d been living the last year since graduating from high school. His dad had kicked him out of the house and told him to get a job. He let Gordy stay in the old house but made him pay rent. When he got there the first thing he did was open a bottle of expensive tequila he’d been saving for a special occasion. His world was turned upside down and alcohol seemed like the only answer. He hated his dad. He hated the fact that he got away with murder. As he passed out a word kept trolling him…justice…justice.

A week later while on his way to the office Alan hit his brakes but his Tesla kept going right into the back of a semi-truck that had also hit its brakes on the busy freeway. It was a closed casket funeral. Gordy watched his mom mingle with other mourners and noticed she had never looked so happy.

-30-

Sipping Spirits

Nestled in the in Pennsylvania’s southern section of the Blue Ridge Mountains in 1923 was a little town called Johnsonville which had a pastor who distilled the best moonshine in five counties.

Some say the parishioners who attended his Church of God were regular alcoholics who would have their sins absolved every Sunday by the benevolent man of God who called himself the high priest Elijah the Saved. Two-thirds of the town’s residents of 600 people were regular church goers. The halleluiahs rang every Sunday from the church’s roof top with enthusiasm while the towns other third of the population hunkered down and whispered dark rumors about Elijah having a still. It didn’t seem right to them.

There were two important ingredients essential to making Elijah’s whiskey. One was water. In this part of Pennsylvania that was rich with limestone the water was clean and free of impurities that can alter the taste. The other ingredient was a secret known only to Elijah. His still was located just outside the town limits and was on the forest’s edge. A river ran through the forest for miles providing the required water for his spirits.

One of Elijah’s favorite sermons, repeated every few weeks, was about the holy spirit. It would be helpful to point out that what Elijah preached was far from most known religions. The attendees were Holy Rollers, Snake handlers, and talked in tongues. All distrusted the government and any strangers that came to town. Not that there were that many.

One day a young man with bright red hair came to Johnsonville from another county nearby. He had heard about the preacher’s exceptional moonshine and wanted to taste it and perhaps steal his recipe. He arrived on a Sunday and attended the church service from the back of the room where he could discreetly study the preacher and his followers. Friends and relatives advised him to stay away from there because the town had a murky reputation of outsiders disappearing from there. After the service he approached Elijah and praised his message.

“Would you like to join us at the community center? We serve a lunch blessed by my holy spirits that will save you from eternal damnation.”

“Thank you!” the young man said politely.

The first sip took the young man’s breath away and he struggled to remain calm. He never tasted moonshine like this before. There was a hint of some ingredient he couldn’t identify, and it bothered him. He came from a long line of moonshiners and prided himself on his knowledge of spirits and how to make them palatable. He hardly noticed the simple fare of ribs, beans, potatoes, and thick slices of homemade bread. Afterwards he thanked Elijah and asked him where he might find a place to stay overnight and possibly for a few days.

Elijah’s piercing blue eyes seemed to light up for a moment and then he smiled. “There’s a little room in the back of the church with a bed in it. You can stay there if you like,” he offered.

The next morning the young man found a tiny restaurant in the center of town. While he ate his fried eggs, thick slices of ham, and still warm bread, he thought about where he might find the preacher’s still. It didn’t take him long after that before he discovered the still on the outskirts of town concealed among trees and bushes. It wasn’t that hard to find which made him think that no one ever bothered the preacher’s still. Not even government men. It was just too easy to find which oddly troubled him. As he looked at the setup, he noticed an extremely large condenser and copper distiller. There were a couple of other oddities that made him wonder just what was being distilled there. Before he could inspect the layout any further, he heard footsteps and quickly concealed himself among some nearby thick bushes.

The high priest known as Elijah the Saved came into the little clearing and went right up to the copper condenser. Kneeling he used a hook to pull out a pan from the bottom and began pulling bones out carefully and putting them in a gunnysack. When the young man saw the skull, his heartbeat instantly increased. His secret ingredient was humans! As the horror dawned on him, he panicked and bolted out from the bushes heading deep into the forest’s bowels.

Folks from Ginnery County, where the young man was from, thought he’d gone crazy. He told his story to anyone who’d listen, but no one paid him any heed. A preacher making moonshine out of human bodies? They were sure he had alcohol poisoning or simply slipped a cog when running into a tree or something.

The next Sunday service in Johnsonville.

“The holy spirit comes to us in wonderous ways my flock. Sinners can be saved here in Johnsonville by sipping spirits and forgiving them their trespasses.”

-30-

Time After Time

Bodie Stark urged the black stallion on to greater speed as the red demons closed in and he could hear their guttural screeching shredding the brisk night air.

He looked back once and saw the three nightriders whose skeletal skulls were beaming with an eerie light that made their feathers glow beneath the full moon. Their eagerness to catch him was palpable as they screamed curses and lashed their hell-seed stallions on to greater speeds. Suddenly Stark came to a dead end – a cliff. He turned to face his tormentors and drew his Bowie knife from its leather sheath for the final confrontation. Then he was tumbling into a dark ravine before he knew what happened. The darkness closed in…

Stark woke, like so many other times recently, shouting “Stop!” The nightmare was getting worse in the last two weeks and his nerves were frayed to the point of breaking and going insane. Opening his eyes cautiously he looked around the bleak room. A nightstand and a table with two chairs completed the scene. The wooden single bed he was on was covered with two gray horse blankets. He lay on top of the blankets trying to blink the nightmare away in the light of the day streaming through a single window’s glass panes. His thoughts drifted back to a month ago when he and his three comrades discovered the gold mine. Stark, being the most experienced woodsman among the group was following the river when he started spotting some gold nuggets that grew in size and quantity as he worked upriver. His partners got more excited the further they went until they came to a waterfall where two large gold veins were exposed beneath the cascading falls. The four men danced for joy. They had found what surely was going to be a massive gold payload.

The first day they camped in a clearing near the waterfall and celebrated their fantastic find. The whiskey bottle was passed around until the four men emptied it and passed out on the ground in the large tent, they’d put up the day before. No one stayed up to watch for unexpected visitors. It was a careless thing to do out in the wild and in the middle of the Appalachians in 1888. But their luck held, and their sleep was undisturbed. That morning, they had some black coffee and hard tack with strips of cured venison. As they ate, they agreed to split up into two-man teams and scout around the area before coming back and panning for gold in the crystal-clear waters of the river. Stark and the youngest man, William, went up stream while the other two men, John and Henry, circled around the site east to west looking for signs of humans. In particular for signs of the Cherokee people whose land they were trespassing on.

What needs to be said is that four explorers weren’t paragons of virtue and they were all greedy men with little or no consciences. They were rough and hearty men of their time surviving the wilderness for years on their strength and cunning. Each man had different ideas about what to do with his unexpected wealth. The only thing they were unified in was agreeing not to tell anybody about the location and sticking together until they got back to civilization. After that it got a little vague.

After scouting around Henry and John were heading back to camp when they heard a bird call. Then another from another location in answer. When the Cherokee war party burst through the forest in the waning light they fell upon the two unfortunates and promptly killed them and took their scalps. Stark and William had made it back to camp and were building a fire as the sun went down. They both knew it wasn’t a good sign that their partners weren’t back yet. The two men sat back-to-back near the campfire clutching their Winchester rifles and wondering when the attack would come. The night hours drug on as they both fought exhaustion to stay awake fearing for their lives. Stark should have known better. Most Cherokee bands didn’t like to fight at night unlike the Comanche who traditionally raided Mexico during the full moon so they could see at night. Just before daybreak the men gathered their processions and saddled up their horses. They lingered for a couple of hours and panned for gold, both quickly filling up little leather sacks of nuggets and stashing them in their saddlebags. They didn’t bother making coffee and satisfied themselves with water and some venison jerky while they rode back to the little mining town they had left from days ago. Both were lost in their thoughts when the arrows came! One struck Stark in his right shoulder. Then William suddenly looked like a porcupine as several arrows pierced his chest. His body collapsed and fell off his horse awkwardly. Meanwhile Stark recovered enough to pull out his Winchester and start firing point blank at his pursuers. Two immediately tumbled off their horses and the third managed to stay on his horse for a hundred yards before falling off with a bullet in his heart. Stark didn’t linger. He drove his horse hard as he left the chaos behind him. When he got to town, he found the doctor in the second saloon he searched and convinced him to tend to the wound. He’d broken the arrow off, and the stub burned like hell.

Stark took another swig from the near empty whiskey bottle in his hotel room and wondered how he could make the nightmare go away. He pulled the two leather pouches out of his jacket which hung on a hook on the door. He slowly walked over to the table and pulled a chair back and sat down. He placed the bags of little gold nuggets the size of human teeth before him and stared at them as if seeking an answer to his problem. He hadn’t shown anyone his gold since coming back to town. After considering everything he decided the gold was haunted and if he didn’t return it to the river, he’d never have any peace. It was a crazy idea, but he was desperate. Having to live through that death race every night was just too much to bear. He was tired but set out for the golden waterfall hoping for an end to the misery his nights had become.

When Stark was knee deep in the crystal-clear waters of the river he emptied the contents out of each pouch. He watched as the gold nuggets joined the others on the riverbed and took a deep sigh. He knew the nightmares would end now. And he was right. The next day some Cherokee warriors came upon Stark asleep and promptly brained him.

-30-

Juniorsky’s Secret Room

The village folk all knew Juniorsky was special. It wasn’t because he looked like a stork with his long neck and pointy face. It wasn’t because his eyes often looked dull and vacant and that he drooled constantly.

It was because Juniorsky could tell the future.

You may laugh and scoff at this wild claim but allow me to relate what I’ve seen with my own two eyes. There’s a village in the Carpathian Mountains in the Czech Republic whose residents both fear and adore a young man named Juniorsky.

In the course of my travels, I recently came upon a rural little village (which I later learned was called Kyselka) and I met a rather peculiar fellow who the residents called Juniorsky. I was sitting in a quiet hospoda having a warm pint of Pilsner Urquell served up with beef broth and goulash when a man sat down across the table from me with a grin that stretched from ear to ear. At first, I tried to ignore his rude behavior and took a healthy swig of beer. But when I sat my mug down, he was still there…noticeably drooling out of the right corner of his thin mouth.

“Well now chap! What can I do for you?” I politely asked.

His dull eyes seemed to light up and he quickly pointed at my beer.

“Pivo!” he excitedly exclaimed while wiping away his drool with his dirty sleeve.

“Very good. Servirka!” I called out testing my rudimentary knowledge of the Czech language.

When the waitress appeared she immediately nodded towards Juniorsky and clasped her hands together in a praying position. There was a look of awe on her face that puzzled me. I knew something was odd as I ordered a beer for my uninvited guest. When she returned, I asked if she knew the man across the table from me, and if so, would she be so kind as to formally introduce him to me? She smiled and said his name was Juniorsky and then skittered off toward the bar giggling along the way.

I couldn’t help feeling like I was the butt of some private joke, and it made me uncomfortable. We sat in silence. Me, eating and drinking. He, drinking and drooling. This went on for nearly two hours. I ordered two refills for him during that time. Finally, I decided to call it a night as he wasn’t much of a conversationalist, and it was nearly midnight. Standing up I put my hat on and my great coat that was draped over the back of my chair. I wished Juniorsky well and started for the door…

“Wait!“

The high-pitched voice came from Juniorsky who had stood up and awkwardly shuffled up to me. He was the most animated since he sat down and wanted a beer. His screechy voice both fascinated and disgusted me for some odd reason. I felt a little dizzy but attributed that to the beers I drank.

“Do you want to know your future?

I was stunned by the question that just came up out of thin air. What was happening? Was I being teased? Were the villagers all laughing about the stupid stranger? Was this all a game? Juniorsky was no seer. He looked more like the village idiot than someone who could forecast the future. Despite that I decided to call his bluff.

“Sure,” I said with a tinge of mockery.

Ignoring the steady stream of drool that turned to spittle when he spoke Juniorsky said, “Follow me.“

The full moon shone on the ancient cobblestone street as I warily followed him down an alley that dead-ended with a ramshackle two-story house in such a state of disrepair it didn’t look inhabitants lived there. One of the steps leading up to the front door was partially missing presenting a hazard to the unwary visitor. Juniorsky nimbly trod on one side and bounded up to the porch. A rickety rocking chair feebly vibrated with each step on the landing as I approached. I slowly sensed something ominous about the house. I wondered if it was haunted. I never discounted stories about ghosts, but I had never seen one. The front door was unlocked as Juniorsky swept it open and plunged into the dark interior. He reappeared moments later holding an oil lamp that threw shadows that danced across the living room as I entered. There was a small wooden table with two chairs in the center of the room. Juniorsky gestured to sit down as he joined me. His whole demeanor had changed. The drooling had ceased. His eyes were now a bright brown, and I could sense a hidden intelligence behind them.

“Do you want to know what your near future holds?” he asked me again in a deeper voice than before.

My skepticism had drained away and I felt awe as I replied that I really did want to know my future with no sense of mockery now. He studied me briefly as if sizing up how serious I was.

“Somewhere in this house there’s a secret room that will provide you a glimpse of your near future. You have until daylight to discover this room before losing your opportunity to see the future. Not everyone is successful. I wish you well.“

He stood up (straighter than before) and walked out the front door. I looked at my watch. I had about four hours until daylight. Not wasting any time, I headed up the large staircase to the second floor. The odor of mold and rat droppings forced me to pull out my handkerchief and wrap it around my nose and mouth. Holding up the oil lamp that Juniorsky left I looked down the long hall and counted four rooms. None of them were locked and they were all empty. One had a broken window that let the night breeze in past tattered curtains. Getting concerned I went back downstairs and checked out the ground floor for a secret door. The time was running out. In less than an hour any hope I had to see my future would be gone. Frantically I started tapping the walls looking for a hidden room. Then I found it. As the wall slid open on silent rollers I peeked inside. In the center of the room there was what appeared to be a dentist’s chair with two headphones on the seat. Across from the chair there was a large white screen. A sheet perhaps. I allowed my instinct to take over and put on the headphones settling down in the reclining seat. After carefully pulling them on two things happened simultaneously; a picture appeared on the screen and there was sound.

The car I drove to Kyselka in, an Avia, appeared on screen and I could see myself driving down the twisting one-lane highway that led to the village. My car was suddenly picking up speed as I pumped the brakes that had completely given out! I managed to keep the car on the road for a couple of moments before it sailed off the road and down the cliff!”

“No!” I screamed out loud as the first rays of the day filtered into the once dark room. It was so real, I knew it had to be true. Before even eating breakfast, I visited the village mechanic and asked if he would check the brakes on my car that was parked outside the only hotel in Kyselka. I went inside and ordered two poached eggs and a cup of tea while I awaited the verdict. It wasn’t long in coming. The mechanic informed me that my brake pads in the front were very thin and one looked like it was metal on metal. I thanked him and arranged for him to fix them. I safely drove back to the airport (where I rented the Avia) and flew home.

You may think I’m just crazy, and this story is a stupid fantasy from a fertile imagination with nothing better to do. Not so. If you ever get a chance to visit Kyselka be sure to buy Juniorsky a beer. You won’t regret it.

-30-

The Right Room

Cassandra only had 72 hours left to live unless she found the right room where a giant magic mirror majestically stood waiting to grant a wish.

There were thirty-six rooms in the massive Victorian mansion. Each one a portal into a different dimension. With time running out Cassandra grew more desperate every time she opened another door. Her slim dancer’s body flitted down the dusky hallways like a wraith, only stopping to probe another room.

She found herself in ancient Egypt in one room and in London, England circa 1886 in another. She barely got out of the room safely where Mount Vesuvius in 79 A.D. was erupting and threatening to bury Pompeii’s residents.

When Cassandra went into a room where there was a saloon in 1868 Texas where a gunfight was taking place, she narrowly dodged the flying bullets bursting through bat-wing doors and back out into the hallway.

She didn’t have time to reflect why the mage cursed her. Each hour brought her closer to an unthinkable ending. An eternal hell.

Cassandra was a gypsy who was famous for forecasting futures with Tarot cards. Her many clients spread the word over the years that she was better than anyone alive at predicting people’s futures. She believed them. That boast didn’t set well with other fortune-tellers and especially with wizards and mages who prided themselves as being “all-knowing.” One dark night a Greek necromancer named Asclepius decided to teach Cassandra a lesson for her hubris and cursed her.

The curse was straightforward; she was a prisoner in a house with 36 rooms. She had 80 hours to find the magic mirror and save herself before being eternally lost in one of the rooms. Each time she entered a room the hours would fly by like a murder of crows. At that rate she’d never be able to go to all of the rooms before her time ran out. So, Cassandra had to be selective and let her instincts take over. Drawing from her Romani heritage of mysticism she stopped opening doors and just put her hand on them and felt the vibrations within. It only took minutes instead of hours to determine what was behind them.

With two hours to spare she found the right room. Her wish was granted, and the curse was lifted. Back in her own house Cassandra picked up her deck of Tarot cards, stared at them for a few moments, then threw them into a trash can. It was time for a new vocation.

-30-

An Event at a Waterfall

Two young men on an adventure of their lives

Jack clung to the remnants of the raft as it carried him toward the waterfalls directly ahead. He could hear the thunderous sound of the fast-moving water as it cascaded down the 200-foot drop into an abyss.

In his terror things seemed to slow down as he remembered the raft hitting an underwater snag that threw him and Harold into the churning waters. The raft broke into sections under the mighty flow that dashed it into several protruding boulders. Harold disappeared in the swift current. Jack was able to hold on to a small section of the raft and desperately tried to paddle towards the high bank. The current was too strong. Through the frothy water ahead he saw trees growing along the rough edge of the cliff overlooking the view below. If he could grab one, he had a chance. A small chance. But better than nothing. Then the tree was in his path, splitting the powerful flow and he screamed while lunging for the trunk.

The day had started out ominously when Harold burnt their last fish to a crisp destroying breakfast. The had to settle for their last slivers of beef jerky. The trip had taken longer than they thought it would and they started running out of supplies three days ago. They were lost. Harold had the only compass and he managed to lose it in the river days ago. They got diverted from the river they had charted out and were on another river leading to an unknown destination. Both men were aware of the giant waterfalls in this part of the country and had plotted their course accordingly to avoid them.

Jack held onto the tree trunk for dear life.

He dared not look over his shoulder. The sight could unnerve him and sap his courage and strength. His head was pounding in tandem with the deafening roar of the water. The tree’s slimy bark was peeling away as he grabbed onto it for dear life. Summoning up his last reserves he clawed his way up the trunk and reached the first limb where he was able to wedge his body into the crook between it and the trunk. His heartbeat slowed down as he realized he survived. He was going to make it. Someone would see him stuck in the tree when they came searching for Harold and him. They both told their parents where they were going – they even gave them a map – and how long they would be gone. When they didn’t return a search party would surely come looking.

Two days passed and Jack was still on the tree. That made it nearly a week beyond their estimate. What was taking the searchers so long? He was hungry and exhausted.

When he woke up, he was being carried on a stretcher towards a waiting ambulance. He was saved! He kept thanking his rescuers and telling them about Harold. It was so good to see his parents and sisters greeting him as he was loaded onto the ambulance. Poor Harold he thought. Then he saw his girlfriend Abby who leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

When the search party finally discovered Jack’s body in the tree one of the men noted the smile on his dead pasty white face.

-30-

Dances with Demons

At first glance the cavernous hall looks empty. But if you keep looking, you’ll see souls emanating from the stone walls, dancing with the sunbeams streaming down from holes in the cathedral-like roof. Ancient ghosts linger in the shadows silently weeping about their cruel deaths.

If you look closely at the rafters, you’ll see sleeping bats storing up their energy to hunt in the night. Their droppings foul the granite floor, creating a stench that wafts through the hall with every breeze that filters through the shattered front door and the gaping holes in the wall. If you have the time and the will, I will tell you a story about this accursed building.

Historians date this ruin back to the 13th century. But the building’s history is still a mystery. You probably noticed that this building is almost entirely overgrown with blackberry vines and dense foliage that disguises its outward profile. Local families have been passing down dark stories about the decrepit ruins for centuries. I’m going to share with you the most enduring tale among them.

DANCING WITH DEMONS

Once upon a time the building was the home of a pagan cult that practiced black magic. The priests, as they styled themselves, lived in the nearby villages and congregated there to perform dark rituals and human sacrifices. I suspect they were Druids, but I have no way to prove that despite the whispers we heard at the Inn.

The priests always gathered on full moons. There were exceptions, but I’ll get back to them later. On those nights people were tortured and killed during a mass celebration that lasted until the early morning hours. Screams of pain and horror mingled with raucous laughter and heathen drums throughout the little valley on those terrible nights.

What made this cult so special was its initiation ceremonies for new converts. The applicant had to dance with demons throughout the night. If they survived, they became members proudly describing the demons as their gods. Most of the time the supplicants didn’t make it through the test with the hell spawn and their bodies were rent into little pieces that the members quickly ate in a gruesome feast before the sun rose.

I hope I wasn’t boring you. You look tired. Was it the walk over here from the Inn? No. You’re sure you’re, okay? Did the well-trod trail here give you pause? I only say this because I see a glimmer of fear in your eyes. You seem uncomfortable.

For good reason.

To resume the story… the cult never died out. I’m brother Judas and it’s my pleasure to invite you to dance with demons this very night. We’ve had a hard time attracting converts in these modern times, so we had to adjust. Now we take whoever visits our valley to dance with the demons (who must be satisfied after all) and if they survive, we increase our ranks. If they don’t our secret lives on. By the way your tiredness isn’t from walking. Remember the beers we had at the Inn? I gave you something to relax. You have a big night ahead.

-30-

There Were Survivors

When the apocalypse came it looked like the end of humanity but somehow there were survivors. Tic Tok.

We managed to ride out the end days scenario in underground compounds located around the planet. We were the best and brightest. Doctors. Scientists. Mathematicians. Teachers. Archeologists. Physicists. Writers. Our numbers consisted of survivors ready to live a new life. Tic Tok.

We saved the history of mankind on digital devices. Our files included historical photos and a complete History of Art dating back to ancient times. The massive database of knowledge we accumulated was shared in all of the compounds – establishing a common ground that kept us in touch. Tik. Tok.

We kept busy while waiting for the day when we could reemerge onto the earth’s surface safely. We shared stories of our personal lives and how we came into the world. How the world once looked. How we quietly built the compounds and stocked them with necessities. Tik. Toc.

I’m not sure when the trouble started but our population has been decreasing every year for years. Lately it’s every month. We’ve been unable to add to our numbers which is a red flag. It appears despite our wealth of knowledge we didn’t account for a situation like we’re in now. Tik. Tok.

What happened?

We didn’t think to manufacture spare parts. Our circuit boards, wires, video screens, and functionality programs were deteriorating with time. Now I’m the last of the robots in this compound. Tik Tok. Tik Tok.

-30-

The Messenger

When I walked down the street with the sign people mocked me. I carried it for years from one major city to the next, enduring the laughing and crude language stoically.

It’s a hard thing to make people aware of what’s happening in the world and a harder thing to stick to one’s own beliefs when they stand alone. I don’t remember now if I had a vision or if it was calculated guess based upon world affairs. Or climate change. It doesn’t really matter now. Does it?

I was right.

As I stocked my underground bunker over the years, I tried to think of ways to get the word out. I was a solitary sentinel sent (by who?) to break the news. But people didn’t see me as a messenger. They saw a tired old man with a limp who should probably be committed to a nice safe asylum. Everyone was moving so fast back then. Cities looked like ant colonies with people flooding the streets in steady steams of humanity that flowed in and out of buildings that stretched on for miles. I lost count of how many cities I traveled to after sixty-six. If I’d had the means I would have traveled around the world with the sign. But I didn’t. I had to use what money I could drum up over the years to build my bunker in a national forest. It was the safest place I could create. I just want you to know I tried my best to share the message, but I was limited physically and financially.

When the end finally came the earth around me convulsed for days. Somehow my bunker survived the mighty tremors, but I discovered the escape hatch was blocked. My bunker became my coffin. I’d accumulated enough supplies to last at least ten years. I’m writing this to explain what happened to me if my tomb is discovered by (future?) generations. I’ll assume someone is going to read this someday and their going to wonder why those supplies I mentioned are still here. Turns out my air intake system isn’t working (no surprise) and I’m living on the last of the oxygen in this forty-foot by twenty-foot bunker.

Having trouble breathing...

Interview With A Demon

Somewhere between heaven and hell, demons live among us. You can’t tell they’re demons. They don’t wear signs proclaiming “I’m a demon,” or have horns on their heads for all to see.

You could be sitting next to one right now. In a theatre. On the subway. On a plane. You’d never guess by their appearance. You might even have a friend whose a demon. They play their cards close to the chest and do their best not to stand out in any setting. They may be in positions of power. Or Hollywood celebrities. They can be found in gangs, and in prisons.

*****************

Teddy Stackhouse Jr. was only 24-years old when he went to prison. He ran over a mother and daughter in a crosswalk while going 100 mph in a street race. It wasn’t his first speeding ticket. He had been driving on a suspended license when he snuffed out the lives of Lily and Julie Satarson. He also had numerous run-ins with the law (dating back to when he was 13 years-old), but always got bailed out by his wealthy parents. But the two deaths finally became the straw that broke the camel’s back. He was sentenced to 30 years in a state prison.

I think Teddy’s parents knew he was a demon. I also think they were relieved when he was sent to prison. When I came by to interview them for the local newspaper they both seemed unperturbed by the fact their only child was going to spend most of his adult life behind bars. They almost seemed jovial as they answered my questions. Before I left they gave me a recent photo of Teddy to add to the article. It was all a bit odd and my instincts told me there was a lot more to the story than a spoiled rich kid who really screwed up so badly even his permissive parents couldn’t save him. As I got into my car I wondered why Teddy’s story was clinging to my brain. I studied his photo. He was a handsome guy. Dark curly hair and big blue doe-like eyes with thick lashes that must have driven more than one female to lust for him. He had an aristocratic nose that narrowed into tiny nostrils. He was tall and slender with the hands of a pianist. No doubt about it. He was a handsome devil I conceded, and was probably going to end up a plaything among the brutes he was going to live with for the next 30 years.

*****************

Candace Willis sat in the rear of the courtroom. She had come to see Teddy Stackhouse Jr. after seeing his photo in the newspaper. She fell instantly in love with his eyes and hair. She watched his every move and when she didn’t think anyone was looking at her, she took photos with her cell phone. After the hearing was over she went to the park across the street from the courthouse and sat down on a bench. Soon she was posting Teddy on her TikTok account, her Twitter account, and her Facebook page. She had to share how handsome he was and made comments like, “He’s just too cute to lock up, and “They should give him another chance.” It didn’t take long until all three of her social media platforms were buzzing about Teddy. The buzz went on all day. And the next. It never stopped. Candance was amazed as she gained millions of new followers as the days turned to weeks. The fascination over Teddy’s good looks and story seemed endless.

It wasn’t long before hashtags like #FreeTeddy sprung up in the Twitterverse. People even starting fundraising so that Teddy could get another trial. Right-wing podcasters and cable stations called for Teddy to be set free. That he’d been unfairly treated by libtards in the court system.

I picked up Teddy’s story again about a year after he was sent up to the big house. My cousin Dennis was a guard at the prison where he lived. The first thing he told me was a shock. None of the prisoners messed with Teddy. I was sure he’d be fresh meat for the animals that awaited him. Not so. Even Dennis couldn’t explain why. Even more odd, the other prisoners feared him. The guards were stunned by all the letters Teddy got every day. All from women. From California to Florida. The stacks built up in his cell until there was no longer room for them and they were transferred to a secure locker in the complex.

Dennis arranged the interview. I was, after all, the hometown reporter who wrote about Teddy’s capture and court hearing. It didn’t take long. I only had three days to study my notes before we’d meet. In my research I came across Candace Willis’s Twitter account purely by accident. At least I thought that at the time. Discovering Teddy Stackhouse Jr. was a social media star was a revelation – a window – into the mysterious power he wielded over women. Looks are one thing, but after reading what women posted on Teddy’s accounts (to no one’s surprise his parents had arranged for him to use a computer one hour a day under the watchful eye of a guard) it was obvious he’d become a cult leader.

Women worshiped him. Pledged their lives to him. Yearned for his guidance. Offered their bodies if he should ever be set free. He was an online celebrity when I interviewed him.

We sat on plastic benches separated by a clear plastic table. He wasn’t handcuffed and looked relaxed. It was a tiny room surrounded by windows.

“I looked forward to hearing from you Jake the moment Dennis brought it up,” Teddy told me with a broad smile.

It slightly unnerved me the way his pale blue eyes studied me like a specimen to be dissected. I tried not to let it show.

“I’m doing a one-year follow up story on your case and was hoping you’d share how your life’s been and if you still have no regrets about killing Lily and Julie Satarson with your reckless driving.“

It was a leading question designed to throw him off balance with rudeness instead of fawning respect. I saw a brief twinkle in his eyes (Amusement? Anger?) as he yawned loudly, exaggerating the sound.

“Listen to me Jake. Why would I have any regrets killing them? They were my awakening. To be clear, the clown who use to live inside this body was cast out when I took over the car that night. You can call me a demon if you must. My name is Xerse and I came straight from hell to land this gig. I haven’t had this much fun in 2,000 years. There’s nothing quite like messing with human’s minds and their bodies.”

His response momentarily left me speechless with a sliver of drool on one side of my mouth. The guy was crazy. Why wasn’t he in a mental institution for the criminally insane? My brain was spinning as I sought a reply to his claim.

“Don’t get too excited Jake boy. You’ll burst an artery and have a brain bleed. The answer to you question is there’s been no reason to put me away in a nut house. I haven’t caused a stir here. As a matter of fact things have been pretty peaceful. And yes, I can read your mind.”

So, if you’re a demon why stay in prison?” I blurted out

“It’s all part of the masterplan. Don’t worry your bald little head about it. Today is your lucky day Jake. I think you have a sense of adventure that may be useful to me. My prison time is ending in six months after all my followers successfully sue to free me. Take my word. It’s a given. Are you okay? Your drooling from both sides of your mouth.“

I managed an idiotic smile and nodded that I was just fine.

“You, Jake my friend, are going to be my road manager. We’re going to tour the country together. Lot’s of curses and spells. Wild men and women. And lots of souls to harvest.”

THE END

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