Who Let the Devil In? – Short Cut

•March 22, 2012 • Leave a Comment

Many temptations. Only two paths. And a choice.

This is the ‘Short Cut’ version of the story, ideal for telling.  Look for the ‘Extended Cut’ version for a longer edit of this story, ideal for personal reading.

By Jeffrey Bishop

Our actions have consequences, as the Devil is happy to teach young Kevin.

Tell Time: 7 minutes
Scare Rating: 4/5 Ghosts

Kevin let himself in his house.  Safely inside, he dropped his backpack, slammed the door and locked it behind him.  Breathing hard, he leaned against it and tried to calm himself.  He hadn’t been followed home, but he sure felt like he had been.

His Olympic trials-qualifying sprint quickly followed his shoplifting escapade.  It wasn’t the first time he’d performed a five-finger discount at Wigglie’s Corner Store, but it was the first time he’d been caught.

“Whaddya doin’, Kev?” said Jimmy the clerk, clearly disappointed at seeing Kevin slip a candy bar into his jacket pocket.  “Gimme the loot back and get out of here before I call the cops.  Or your mother!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.  I didn’t take anything!” Kevin lied.

“Drop the act, and the candy bar!” Jimmy held out his hand to receive the merchandise.

“I said I don’t know …” but before Kevin could finish the sentence, the jumbo-size candy bar slipped out of his pocket and fell to the floor, in front of both of them.  Mortified, Kevin dodged past Jimmy and ran the three blocks home.

A close call, but at least he was safe now.  Safe to think about what he should do about the situation.

Small-time crime was a relatively new hobby for Kevin, but it was one that he was perfecting — and was increasingly enjoying the fruits of.  He’d recently started to shoplift comics or candy at the store; he couldn’t believe how easy it was.  Then, of course, he’d make up stories to cover up his new possessions with his mother, about found items or his generous friends sharing with him their candy or toys.

While the prizes of his new calling came easily, it seemed to Kevin that a corresponding degree of hurt came with it.  The afternoon that he’d swiped a five-dollar bill from his best friend’s desk drawer stash preceded the evening that his mom came home early from her second job — fired.  His mom was a hard, honest worker, and she really needed the job to help pay the bills.  And though Kevin was glad to give her his new five-spot (“I earned it helping Mrs. Woods with her yard”) to help out with groceries that week, he couldn’t help but wonder how his ill-found fortune was related to his mom’s poor luck.

With this latest scare adding to his doubts about the criminal life, Kevin decided right then that he’d have to fly straight for a while, until things cooled down a bit.  But then there came a voice.

“Whaddya doin’, Kev?” called a voice from the living room.  It was the exact phrase that Jimmy had said, although it seemed rather more sinister this time.  It was a deep voice, but had a sickening-sweet sing-song to it, both encouraging and mocking at the same time.

Who had said it?  He was home alone.  Kevin was obviously freaking out, paranoid.  Afraid to look, but also afraid not to, Kevin slowly stepped toward the doorway to the living room and looked in.

There, sitting on the family couch, sat a slender man in a slick, dark suit.  His face was also dark, and reddish.  He wore a pointed beard on his chin and a faux hawk on his head — both of which looked pointed and sculpted with gel.  At each corner of his forehead were two smaller points — cowlicks or something else, Kevin thought.  The man looked very comfortable — at home even — as he took long draws from a thick cigar, the smoke of which reeked of rotten eggs.

“Who are you?” challenged Kevin, more boldly than he might have wanted — or felt.  “Who let you in, and what do you want?” he asked, more timidly.

“Why, I’m the Devil, of course,” replied the stranger.  “But you knew that already, didn’t you?  As for who let me in, it was you who let me in!  And what do I want?  I want you … ” he paused for effect. “I want you and me to spend a lot more time together.”

Kevin shuddered at the suggestion.

“What happened to you today was a little setback, sure. You feel bad, a natural feeling.  You’re worried that your mom’s going to find out. Oh, she will!” said the Devil, almost gleefully.  “But I can fix that.”

Kevin stared off into space as the Devil filled the air with smoke and words that were equally sickening-sweet.  He could feel himself being drawn — almost physically — into what the Devil was saying.  No, not drawn into the words, but drawn into the Devil himself — in a more-than-physically way, as though he was leaving his body behind him in the chair.

It was easy to let go and be drawn in that way, but it made Kevin feel sick, too.  It felt like one too many rides on the tilt-a-whirl.  It felt like too much Halloween candy.  It felt … wrong.

“You said I let you in,” interrupted Kevin, struggling to emerge from his stupor.  “How did I let you in?”

The Devil laughed heartily at the question — or at the fact that the boy still had the will for any questions left in him despite the bewitchment.  His amusement quickly soured, however, and he assumed an accusatory demeanor.

“You are a smart boy,” stated the Devil, opening his case. “You go to Sunday School with you mother. You know right from wrong, good from evil. You know what sin is. I’m winning when I tempt you to sin. I don’t need to knock, knock, knock on your door, like He does. Every time you let yourself be tempted, you crack open the door a little bit more for me.

“You didn’t think I’d get in though, did you?” sneered the Devil.  “Did you think that maybe you weren’t that evil?  Or that you weren’t evil that often?”  The formerly charming imp was now like a seething snake, spitting his accusations at the youth.

“You’re on the path now, boy!” said the Devil, bellowing now with a storm of fervor and excitement that appeared from nowhere.  “Let’s you and I go for a ride to oblivion!  I think you’ll have a grand time on the way down!”

The Devil rose and extended his hand in invitation.  Wisps of smoke rose from his fingertips.

Kevin didn’t know what to do.  He’d enjoyed the prize, and he’d even got a little thrill from the deeds he’d done.  But he’d always felt shame and remorse.  More than that, he didn’t want to hurt anyone anymore — not himself, not his friends, not Jimmy and not his mother.

Kevin closed his eyes and prayed.  He prayed a real prayer, perhaps his first real prayer ever.  It was a heartfelt call for a way out; for help.

He never did hear a voice.  But almost as the plea fell from his lips, he recalled something from the Bible that he’d learned in church.

“Get behind me, Satan!” he yelled.  Filled with another power, Kevin took a step toward the Devil, whose hand seemed to wither and withdraw in the face of such resistance.  “Get behind me you snake!  Get out of my house, and get out of my life!”

With those words, the Devil recoiled.  He seemed to physically shrink before the boy.  Though not as small, he seemed almost like a mouse as he scurried about, tracing small figures on the floor.

“Get out!” Kevin commanded as he crossed the room to unlatch and open the door.  The Devil, shriveled and pathetic now, scampered out the door and away from the house, clearly defeated.

Kevin’s mom arrived home from work soon afterwards, and found her son asleep on the floor in the living room, passed out from exhaustion.  She gently wakened him, and he hugged her tightly.  He knew he was safe.  He might not tell her about the Devil, but he would tell her about what he’d done, he would apologize and he would change his ways.  And it would all be ok.  Because he knew — for the first time since he’d taken a bad road — that he was safe.

THE END

Copyright 2012

Posted in 1. Scary Stories
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The Ghost OnBoard

•March 18, 2012 • Leave a Comment
The OnBoard Ghost

The Ghost OnBoard!

By Jeffrey Bishop

The latest automotive technology is eternal.

Tell Time:  8 minutes 30 seconds
Scare Rating: 2/5 Ghosts

On Maggie’s 16th birthday, her dad took her to buy a car.  He’d scoured the newspaper for weeks prior, searching for the perfect vehicle: a late-model car in good condition, with low mileage, good reliability, faithfully maintained and with excellent safety features.  The holy grail among such cars was the “Sunday-morning driver” — the car that some little old lady owned for just a few years and only used to get to and from the grocery store and church a few times a week.  Impossible though it would seem, such a car might be out there waiting for him to find for his little girl.

That car doesn’t really exist, but for a dad like Maggie’s, it’s the standard against which all used car buys were held.

But could it be?  Could he have found just such a car?  The vehicle that they were going to see that Sunday afternoon had the following ad:

For sale: one used sedan.  Low miles and great condition.  Stored in a garage, well maintained and lovingly cared for.  Sporty but safe — an ideal car for a young new driver.  Must sell — priced to move.

Maggie and her dad almost didn’t respond to the ad — it seemed too good to be true.  But when they arrived at the residence of its former owner, there it sat in the driveway, gleaming in the early afternoon sunlight.

While Maggie climbed into the driver’s seat to check out the interior features, her dad chatted up the seller, trying to get the real scoop on the car.

“My aunt loved this car,” said the seller in response to the dad’s interrogations.  “She’d never driven before my uncle died.  She learned to drive at 55!  She drove his old car for 10 years before it finally gave out.  When she bought this one three years ago, she fell in love with it — she loved the comfort, the styling and all the other modern conveniences and technology of the modern automobile.

“She didn’t drive it much by our standards today; that’s why the miles are so low.  But she drove it when she had the need or even a good excuse to drive, and I don’t think she was much happier any other place than inside this car.”

Maggie’s dad liked the story, but wasn’t fully convinced.  “So why are you selling the car?  And why for such a low price?”  he asked.

The man paused — no, hesitated — before finally answering with a sigh.  “My aunt died in the car.  Behind the wheel.  She’d just pulled into the stall at the grocery store and put it into park when she passed away.  They say that she had a smile on her face and two hands on the wheel.  She must have been there all morning, because rigor mortis had set in, and the EMTs had to pry her hands off the steering wheel.

“Frankly, although I loved my Aunt Esther, I’m a bit creeped out by the notion of driving in the car that she died in.  I’m just hoping to offer it at a low enough price that the buyer is able to overlook that.  I hope you understand why I was reluctant to tell you.”

Maggie’s dad was just about to respond — to walk away from the deal — when he heard Maggie start the engine and call out to them, “Dad, this car is great!  Let’s take it for a test drive!”

Although he was still bothered by the seller’s story, Maggie’s dad assented to a test drive, and the trio piled into the used car and took a quick drive around town.  Using her new skills acquired through high school driver’s ed class, Maggie — a careful and skilled driver — deftly piloted the machine through the city square, onto the highway for a high-speed test, then back to the drive where they’d started.

The car ran well, and the look of joy on Maggie’s face as she drove almost clinched it.  What sealed the deal for dad was seeing the other potential buyers waiting to check out the car as they approached the man’s house.

“Do you like it, honey?” he asked his daughter as she stopped the car and pulled the emergency brake.

“I love it, Daddy!”

Having driven in the car, Maggie’s father had overcome some of his initial skeevies over the car’s back story, and was equally motivated by his daughter’s enthusiasm and by the sudden appearance of competitors for the deal.

“Then we’ll take it.” he said.

~

Maggie loved that car every bit as much as did its former owner.  She drove it a bit more, perhaps, using it to get to and from school and her cheer practices and other activities.  She took care of the car the way her dad taught her, by keeping it clean and maintained regularly.  And the car took care of her, too, insofar as it smoothly and reliably got her where she needed to go, with economy and style.

The car proved to be extremely safe, too, owing as much to Maggie’s careful and attentive driving as to the features of the car.  However, there was one night that Maggie did run into trouble in the vehicle.

On this evening, the teen had been at the university library, studying for a term paper at that institution’s well-stocked stacks.  She was tired when she pointed her car toward home, and not especially familiar with the winding country roads she had to travel.  The fog was lifting in the fields to either side of the road, and Maggie was more than a little spooked and anxious to get home.

As she rounded a corner, a ground hog sauntered into her headlights.  Maggie braked hard and swerved, anxious to dodge the innocent critter.  Her well-intentioned move doomed her.  With her hands firmly gripped at 10 o’clock and 2 o’clock on the steering wheel, the car nonetheless left the road and into a rain-swollen pond at the side of the highway.

The car hit the surface of the water nose-first.  Its airbags deployed, protecting Maggie, but also stunning her.  She didn’t fully grasp what had happened to her until she felt the cold water climbing up her legs, quickly soaking her jeans as the car sank deeper into the water.  Immediately in a panic, she drew her legs up to the seat, screaming while she fumbled with the door handle.  The door didn’t budge, due of the water pressure against it.

Maggie was still screaming and slapping her hands against the glass window when she noticed a blue light glowing on the rear view mirror, and heard a clear voice calling her name.

“Maggie!  Maggie!” called a woman’s voice, seemingly  from a speaker near the mirror.

“I know you’re in trouble, Maggie.  I can help you, but you’ve got to calm down and listen to me!”  said the voice.  The blue light ebbed in rhythm with the voice.

Maggie relaxed somewhat at the soothing sound of the voice and at the glowing blue light  before her.  “This must be the car’s OnBoard safety system!” she thought to herself.  “Daddy must have programmed it for me.”

“Oh thank God!” she burst out loud, clearly relieved.  “I’m so glad I’m not alone.  What can I do?”

“Open the glove box. Press the yellow button in it.”  The reply was soothing, firm and confident, all at the same time.

By now, the water was up over the seats, as the car’s heavy engine pulled it nose-first into the lake.  Maggie sloshed across to the passenger’s feet to follow the voice’s instruction.

She heard a loud clunk from the back of the car.  “What was that?” she asked.

“That was just the trunk, Maggie,” the voice replied.  “That’s how you’re going to get out of the car.  Climb into the back and pull down the back seat.  Then crawl into the trunk.  Once there, just push up the trunk lid and jump out.

“The water’s deep and it’s cold,” the disembodied voice added, “but you can do this!  Be brave!  Help is on the way.”

Maggie did as she was instructed.  But she paused as she was about to enter the car’s cavernous trunk.

“Who are you?  What’s you’re name?” she asked the voice.

“My name is Esther, dear,” the voice replied.  “Now go!”

“Thank you, Esther.”  said Maggie.  Then she quickly clambered into the trunk and raised the lid as instructed.  With the edge of the lake in clear view in the starlight, Maggie focused her sights on it before she jumped into the cold water.  As she swam toward the shoreline, she saw the lights of approaching vehicles on the highway.  One of them was flashing blue and red.  More help had indeed arrived!

~

Less than 30 minutes later, Maggie was sitting on the back tailgate of an ambulance with a warm blanket wrapped around her.  Medics had checked her out and confirmed she was uninjured.  Her dad had arrived and sat beside her, giving her comfort and listening as the deputy sheriff took statements from the girl for his accident report.

“So after you realized the doors were stuck shut, you figured out how get out through the trunk?” asked the deputy.

“No,” Maggie said, “at that point I was a mess — I didn’t have a clue how to get out of the car . I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for Esther, from OnBoard.”

“OnBoard?  You mean the auto safety and security monitoring system?” asked the deputy, who was plainly incredulous.

“That’s right,” was Maggie’s simple reply.

Maggie’s dad was also perplexed by his daughter’s assertion.  He wrapped the blanket more tightly around his daughter before stepping away from the ambulance with the deputy.

“Mister, I’m so glad for you that your little girl is safe,” said the deputy when they were out of Maggie’s hearing.  “”I don’t know who this Esther is.  But I know one thing for certain:  that make, model and year car did not have OnBoard on board.”

“I think you’re right,” said the father, remembering the name of the seller’s aunt.  “But she loves that car.  Do you suppose we’ll be able to pull it out of this lake for her?”

THE END

Copyright 2012

Posted in 1. Scary Stories
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The Nose Snatcher

•March 12, 2012 • Leave a Comment
Katie's nose has been snatched!

Katie’s nose has been snatched!

By Jeffrey Bishop

The perennial family reunion creepy uncle earns his comeuppance!

Tell Time: 3 minutes 30 seconds
Scare Rating:  2/5 Ghosts

Katie was screaming as she came running into the kitchen where her mom and aunts were visiting.

“He’sh dot my node!  He’sh dot my node!” she screamed.  Her hands covered her face, muffling her voice.

“Settle down Katie!” admonished her mother, “and take your hands away from your face.  I can’t understand a thing that you’re saying!”

Katie pulled her hands away slowly.  On her face, where her perky freckled nose used to be, there was only flat, smooth skin, stretched tight from cheek to cheek.  “He’sh dot my node,” she said again, sobbing violently.

With eyes grown as big as the coffee mug that dropped from her grip, Katie’s mom fainted on the spot.

~

The manhunt for the infamous Nose Snatcher, who had left a path of terror across the mid-state counties all summer long, began immediately.  Katie had reported that the villain was an “Uncle Clyde,” but she didn’t have an uncle named Clyde.  In fact, there was no one named Clyde expected at the Olafsen family reunion.   A number of the parents had seen the man at the event, but none had recognized him; each had just assumed he was an out-of-town relative from the other side of the family.

Witnesses said they saw the man shuffling among the children, wearing a ratty tan tweed jacket and khaki pants.  They said he had the appearance, gait and demeanor of a circus clown — out of uniform perhaps, but not out of character.  Little Brent reported that the man had done the quarter-from-your-ear trick on him and on some of the other cousins.  Andy said the man had slid his thumb on and off its stump in front of him and his sister, making them both cry.  Whoever the creepster was, it was imperative that he be caught.

The break in the case came the very next day.  Mrs. Johnson called the police when she heard loud crying and screams, along with an incessant clink-tink-clink sound, coming from a bungalow on 8th street near downtown.  Police staked out the home, and surveillance quickly discovered a man who matched the description of Mr. Clyde coming and going from the house.  Getting a search warrant was a simple deed, and the sting was set for that night.

Wearing tactical gear, and not really sure of what to expect from such a character, the police busted in at 8 p.m. and moved swiftly through the house, looking for the evil Uncle Clyde — and for Katie’s nose as well.  In the front room they saw what Mrs. Johnson had heard; there they found a teenaged boy strapped to a chair, with his head strapped painfully, tilted to one side.  From out of his ear dripped a ceaseless flow of quarters — plink, plink, plink — falling to an overflowing bowl on the floor, forming a small fortune from a rather large puddle of coins.  One officer went to his aid, stopping the flow by simply straightening the boy’s head, as the other men moved through the house.

In the next room, the lawmen found one of the things that they were looking for: as he opened a closet door, the officer — thankfully garbed in riot gear — was buried in a flood of small noses that poured out on him.  The room had been filled with noses nabbed over what must have been a decade-long crime spree.  The officer quickly secured the area with yellow police tape to protect the small schnozzes, while the rest of the team closed in on the perpetrator.

When they caught up with Uncle Clyde, they found him climbing out an upstairs window, giggling to himself with a quiet but incessant titter.  They pulled him back inside, and with all the legal and necessary roughness befitting his horrible crimes, they took him to the station, where they pressed charges against him.

Uncle Clyde would certainly plea insanity — that was made especially clear when they went to fingerprint the criminal.  At the printing station, the clown — still softly tittering — slid the end joint off of each hand and placed his thumbs into the palm of the booking officer, to do the printing job for him.

THE END

Copyright 2012

State Farm Insurance clearly drew from the same font of inspiration!

Posted in 2. Humorous Scary Stories
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The Death Certificate

•March 9, 2012 • Leave a Comment
Jacob's death certificate

Jacob’s death certificate

By Christopher Bishop

Jacob finally gets his just reward!

Tell Time:  2 minutes
Scare Rating: 3/5 Ghosts

Once there was a very special and talented boy named Jacob.  But for all his talents, he had no rewards or trophies to show for it.  One day he realized this, so he went to his parents and screamed at them, “I want a reward!”

His parents were used to this sort of attitude from Jacob, but didn’t care for it.  Eager to dismiss him, they told him, “You’ll have to find a competition and win it, if you want a reward.”  So that’s what he did.  Later that day, he was looking through that day’s newspaper for a contest to enter, but he couldn’t find one.  He asked his parents where they kept all of their past newspapers, so they told him. Jacob was up until 9:30 at night, looking through all 900 newspapers.  He looked through the job pages, and all the classified ads, but he never found a contest. So finally, at 9:31 p.m., his step mom came in and told him that it was time for him to go to bed.

Later that night, around 1 a.m., he heard a ghostly voice in the night say, “You want rewards, Jacob?  I can get you a painful reward!”

The next morning, Jacob’s parents told him to go check the mail, so he did.  When he was inside, he went through the mail – he’d received a letter.  He gave his parents their mail, and opened his.  On the front of the envelope, there was no return address or name, and the envelope was glowing with a dark, sickly yellow glow.  Jacob was confused. Though he didn’t want to open the letter, he did, and inside was a certificate, along with an odd-shaped rock. He was so happy at this unexpected prize that he started dancing.  At least 5 minutes later, after celebrating, he actually read the certificate.  It said, “This is your Death certificate.  Are you ready for your death?”

Suddenly, the rock burned through the envelope he was holding and fell to the ground, where it absorbed Jacob.  Jacob was never seen again.  Everyone was so scared that nobody touched the rock ever again after the incident.

THE END

Copyright 2012

Posted in 1. Scary Stories
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Who Let the Devil In? – Extended Cut

•March 6, 2012 • Leave a Comment
Image of a well-clad Devil sitting on the living room couch.

“It was YOU who let me in!”

This is the ‘Extended Cut’ version of the story, ideal for reading.  Look for the ‘Short Cut’ version for a more tell-able edit of this story.

By Jeffrey Bishop

Our actions have consequences, as the Devil is happy to teach young Kevin.

Tell Time: 8 minutes 20 seconds
Scare Rating: 4/5 Ghosts

Kevin let himself in his house, dropped his backpack and slammed the door and locked it behind him.  Breathing hard, he leaned back against it and tried to calm himself.  He hadn’t been followed home, but he sure felt like he had been.

His Olympic trials-qualifying sprint quickly followed his shoplifting escapade.  It wasn’t the first time he’d performed a five-finger discount at Wigglie’s Corner Store, but it was the first time he’d been caught.

Certain that he couldn’t be seen, Kevin had slipped a candy bar into his jacket pocket.  He thought about grabbing another, thought better of it, and headed for the door, only to be confronted by Jimmy, the clerk.

“Whaddya doin’, Kev?” Jimmy asked him, shaking his head with disappointment.  “Gimme the loot back and get out of here before I call the cops.  Or worse: your mother!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.  I didn’t take anything,” Kevin lied.  He was only a little surprised at how readily the lie came to him and off his lips.  “I just gotta get home!”

“Drop the act, and the candy bar.  I saw you pocket it.  Let’s go.” Jimmy held out his hand to receive the merchandise.

“I said I don’t know …” but before Kevin could finish the sentence, the jumbo-size candy bar slipped out of his pocket and fell to the floor, right in front of both of them.

Mortified, Kevin dodged past Jimmy and ran the three blocks home.

A close call, but at least he was safe at home now.  Safe to think about what he should do about the situation.

Small-time crime was a relatively new hobby for Kevin, but it was one that he was perfecting — and was increasingly enjoying the fruits of.  He’d recently started to shoplift comics or candy at the store; he couldn’t believe how easy it was.  There had been times that he’d take things that belonged to his friends when he was at their houses.  Then, of course, he’d make up stories to cover up his new possessions with his mother, about found items or his generous friends sharing with him their candy or toys.

While the prizes of his new calling came easily, it seemed to Kevin that a corresponding degree of hurt came with it.  The afternoon that he’d swiped a five-dollar bill from his best friend’s desk drawer stash preceded the evening that his mom came home early from her second job — fired.  His mom was a hard, honest worker, and she really needed the job to help pay the bills.  And though Kevin was glad to give her his new five-spot (“I earned it helping Mrs. Woods with her yard”) to help out with groceries that week, he couldn’t help but wonder how his ill-found fortunate was related to his mom’s poor luck.

There was also the first time he’d snatched a comic book from the store; he rode home on his bike fast, but wiped out at the corner in a mess of loose sand that had collected there.  He banged himself up pretty badly, and his front wheel still bears a slight wobble.  But that was all coincidence.

With this latest scare of almost being caught, however, Kevin was almost scared straight.  He was suddenly starting to have doubts about his new and previously successful life of crime.  He decided right then that he’d have to fly straight for a while, until things cooled down a bit.

“Whaddya doin’, Kev?” called a voice from the living room.  It was the exact phrase that Jimmy had said, although it seemed rather more sinister this time. Who had said it?  He was home alone, but he was apparently hearing voices in his head as a result of his misadventure.  Kevin was obviously freaking out, paranoid.

“Come in here and let’s regale one another about the fun we’ve had together lately!” came the voice again.  It was a deep voice, but had a sickening-sweet sing-song to it, both encouraging and mocking at the same time.

Afraid to look, but also afraid not to, Kevin slowly stepped toward the doorway to the living room and looked in.  There, sitting on the family couch, sat a slender man in a slick, dark suit.  His face was also dark, and reddish.  He wore a pointed beard on his chin and a faux hawk on his head — both of which looked pointed and sculpted with gel.  At each corner of his forehead were two smaller points — cowlicks or something else, Kevin thought.  The man looked very comfortable — at home even — as he took long draws from a thick cigar, the smoke of which reeked of rotten eggs.

“Who are you?” challenged Kevin, more boldly than he might have wanted — or felt.  “Who let you in, and what do you want?” he asked, more timidly.

“Why, I’m the Devil, of course,” replied the stranger.  “But you knew that already, didn’t you?  Because this isn’t our first meeting.  As for who let me in, it was you who let me in!”

The Devil took a long draw from his cigar and motioned to Kevin to sit in the armchair across the small room from him. The young man remained standing, but his legs were trembling, maybe from the run home.

“And as for what I want,” continued the tempter.  “I want you … ” he paused for effect. “I want you and me to spend a lot more time together.” Kevin shuddered at the suggestion.

“What happened to you today was a little setback, sure. You feel bad, a natural feeling.  You’re worried that your mom’s going to find out. Oh, she will!” said the Devil, almost gleefully.  “But I can fix that.”

Kevin stared off into space as the Devil filled the air with smoke and words that were equally sickening-sweet.  As the guest droned on, almost hypnotically, Kevin became focused on the fine Italian leather shoes the imp wore, and traced his eyes over the delicate stitching that ran around the toes of the slipper.

Kevin could feel himself being drawn — almost physically — into what the Devil was saying.  No, not drawn into the words, but drawn into the Devil himself.  And not drawn physically, but rather, more-than-physically — metaphysically, if he’d known the word — as though he was leaving his body behind him in the chair.

It was an easy feeling being drawn in that way, but it made Kevin feel sick, too.  It felt like one too many rides on the tilt-a-whirl.  It felt like too much Halloween candy.  It felt … wrong.

“You said I let you in,” interrupted Kevin, struggling to emerge from his stupor.  “How did I let you in?”

The Devil laughed heartily at the question — or at the fact that the boy still had the will for any questions left in him despite the bewitchment.  His amusement quickly soured, however, as he assumed an accusatory demeanor.

“You are a smart boy,” stated the Devil, opening his case.  “You go to Sunday School with you mother.  You know right from wrong, good from evil.  You know what sin is.  I’m winning when I tempt you to sin.  I don’t need to knock, knock, knock on your door, like He does. Every time you let yourself be tempted, you crack open the door a little bit more for me.

“You didn’t think I’d get in though, did you?” sneered the Devil.  “Did you think that maybe you weren’t that evil?  Or that you weren’t evil that often?”  The formerly charming imp was now like a seething snake, spitting his accusations at the youth.

“You’re on the path now, boy!” bellowed the Devil, with a storm of fervor and excitement that appeared seemingly from nowhere.  “Let’s go for a ride to oblivion — I think you’ll have a grand time on the way down!”

The Devil rose and extended his hand in invitation.

Kevin didn’t know what to do.  He’d enjoyed the prize, and he’d even got a little thrill from the deeds he’d done.  But he’d always felt shame and remorse.  More than that, he didn’t want to hurt anyone anymore — not himself, not his friends, not Jimmy and not his mother.

Kevin closed his eyes and prayed.  He prayed a real prayer, perhaps his first real prayer ever.  It was a heartfelt call to God for an answer, for help.

He never did hear a voice.  But almost as the plea fell from his lips, he recalled something from the Bible that he’d learned in church.  He stood up to the Devil before him.

“Get behind me, Satan!” he yelled.  Filled with another power, Kevin took a step toward the Devil, whose hand seemed to wither and withdraw in the face of such resistance.  “Get behind me you snake!  Get out of my house, and get out of my life!”

With those words, the Devil recoiled.  He seemed to physically shrink before the boy.  Though not as small, he seemed almost like a mouse, and scurried about, tracing small figures on the floor in front of the divan.

“Get out!” Kevin commanded as he crossed the room and unlatched and opened the door.  The Devil, shriveled and pathetic now, scampered out the door and away from the house, defeated.

Kevin’s mom arrived home from work soon afterwards, and found her son asleep on the floor in the living room, passed out from exhaustion.  When he woke, he hugged her tightly.  He knew he was safe.  He might not tell her about the Devil, but he would tell her about what he’d done, he would apologize and he would repent.  And it would all be ok.  Because he knew that for the first time in a long time, he was safe.

THE END

Copyright 2012

Posted in 1. Scary Stories
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

The Art of Scurry Tails

•March 2, 2012 • Leave a Comment

By Jeffrey Bishop

When we started Scurry Tails, the primary thought was toward creating a venue for simply sharing our stories.  But since the web is by nature a multi-media communication channel, we were compelled to pay almost as much attention to matters of visual interest of our postings as we were giving to matters of plot and story arc; to copyediting and to Scare Ratings.

Necessity being a mother, we got creative, fast.

Now, reflecting on this after almost two months and 13 postings, it’s worth noting that the creation and sharing of artwork supporting these posts has been every bit as challenging – and enjoyable – as our writing efforts have been.  So with this post, we’d like to give our readers insights into the processes used to create some of the more creative images used on this site.

For many pieces, we started off with some of our own original, personal photography, and used these essentially unaltered.  For edited photographs or “from-scratch” artwork, we leveraged a basic knowledge of Photoshop Elements, Paint and PowerPoint to add or enhance the “creep-out” factor of the art and to make sure that it complements the story it supports.  As you can see, there’s even dry-erase-marker art here as well; indeed, we are open to all forms of artistic expression (coming soon:  interpretive dance?  Probably not, but do watch for pen-and-ink and other visual art media).

All artwork is original, although in a couple of instances we obviously creatively reinterpreted others’ work for noncommercial purposes here (our understanding is that this is within fair-use boundaries, but we’d be motivated to cease if our understanding is incorrect and if asked to do so by those in the legal trades).

Follows is a discussion specific to five images we’ve created.  Click the thumbnail to see the art full size.

To Helen Bach
Letter on desk addressed to Helen Bach
For this image, we hand wrote in cursive one of Johnny’s letters from the story – not an easy feat since it’s been about 25 years since the author last wrote that much cursive.  The letter was set on a wood-grain table with other historic-looking stationary items – an ink pen and a brass letter opener (a real World War II trench art item).  Once photographed — via smart phone — the image was cropped tight and a lighting filter was used to add dramatic effect.

Scurry Tails
Scurry Tails
The youngest of the three of us created this image in Paint based on his interpretation of the story.  The clone tool came in handy to make the hoard of scurry tails.  As the caption says, they appear “just as we imagined the critters!”

Moon Screen
A bottle of MPF 50-rated moonscreeen
In PowerPoint, we used Word Art, Insert>Shapes and Right Mouse Click>Format Shape tools to make this one.  The bottle of Moon Screen was placed over a sylvan-green gradient background in Photoshop, and a lighting filter was applied to simulate moonlight on the bottle.

We’re Coming to Get You
'We're Coming to Get You'
For this image, we started with an open-source image (taken by talented Air Force photojournalist Val Gempis) of an HH-60 Pave Hawk helicopter, which the Air Force uses for search-and-rescue operations.  We did a lot of work in Photoshop; with little regard for craftsmanship, the background was replaced with a dark blue to simulate night, and the image was cropped tight, to show only what might be visible through a bedroom window, and to remove the tell-tale hallmarks of a helicopter – the rotors and the tail.  A color-to-transparent gradient was used to create the bright white spotlight and colored position lights, and a lens flare filter was added – all to help the Earthly aircraft further simulate an alien spacecraft.

The Blue Eyed Cat

This piece of art started as a photo of our beloved cat Sabra, who passed away last fall after 17 years with us.  She was a Russian blue – a silvery-grey breed.  To give her a ghostly white appearance, we used Photoshop to convert the color photo to black-and-white.  The color profile was inverted, making our dark cat light – almost white.  Finally, we converted the black-and-white image back to RGB and used a digital paint brush with a moderate transparency in a shade of blue to re-color the eyes.

As we continue our creative efforts, we sincerely hope that the art aficionados among our visitors continue to enjoy the site and the stories, as well as the art.  And that readers alike value and appreciate the art that helps to “tell” the tales found here.

THE END

Copyright 2012

Posted in 4. Non-Fiction
Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

The Dancing Bag Thriller

•February 29, 2012 • Leave a Comment

By Jeffrey Bishop

Some troop traditions are silly.  Others can be a little sickening …

Tell Time: 3 minutes
Scare Rating:  1/5 Ghosts

It was the first meeting for Troop 55 — an all-zombie troop — since summer camp.  It was a great get-together; the boys spent some time cleaning up open merit badge requirements from camp before they were released to play capture the flag — zombie style, which featured removing a body part from someone on the opposing team and safely returning to base without losing a limb of your own.

As twilight approached, the leaders called the boys back in to hand out awards and achievements earned over the summer.  Following this formal part of the event, there was only one thing left on the agenda.

“Now it’s time to conduct our last post-camp tradition!” Mr. Granger announced.  “We have to return lost property to its rightful owner!”

There were groans and giggles from the assembled boys — they were quite familiar with the tradition, which went like this:  Boys being boys, oftentimes items were lost, forgotten or left during a camp-out — typically a mess kit, a flashlight or a sock.  And in a zombie troop, sometimes there were items of even greater value left behind.  To encourage greater responsibility at future camp outs, the group long ago established the practice of calling the offending boy before his peers to sing and dance for his property — a mild and fun “punishment” for all involved.

The first item drawn from Mr. Granger’s olive drab duffel bag was a hand crank-powered LED flashlight.  A number of the boys coveted such an item, but only its owner, Michael, was allowed to dance for it.  With his hands stuffed in his jeans pockets, he did a modest little backwards shuffle with just his feet — a move that had just enough style to earn a pass from Mr. Granger and the return of the flashlight.

The next few items went quickly, with ham-bones among the boys eagerly coming forward to do hip-hop versions of nursery favorites like “I’m a Little Teapot” — and at the same time raising suspicions among the adult leaders that they’d left their items behind on purpose just so they’d have for a venue for their showboating a few weeks later.

Eventually they managed to work to the bottom of the big green bag.

“Now our last item’s a real doozy!” said Mr. Granger, relishing the suspense he was creating.  Reaching into the bag once more, he slowly drew out the item.  Holding it at its top end, he set down — of all things — a disembodied leg before the gathered ghouls.

“Now who does this belong to?” he asked.  The question wasn’t as absurd as it sounded: looking around, there was more than one or two zombie boys who were missing a leg.  Sheepishly, one of them hopped forward to reclaim the limb.

“It’s mine, Mr. Granger.” said Scott, a Star Scout.  “I knocked it off with an axe while working on my make-shift shelter at camp.  It must have rolled down the hill.  We looked and looked, but we couldn’t find it.”

“That’s ok Scott,” said Mr. Granger.  “Wilderness Survival is a tough badge to earn — and it’s even more difficult without both of these.  You can have it back … but you’ve still got to dance for it!”

Scott stepped forward to retrieve his lost limb and shoved it back on its stump, causing a squishy, wet sound as rotting flesh met rotting flesh.  With a heavy sigh, he picked his head off his chest (not literally, this time) and started dancing, stamping his feet and clapping his hands in some sort of zombie rhythm.

Feeling the groove deep within his soul-less form, Scott headed for the door. Clearly a natural leader, it wasn’t long before all the boys got into the spirit of the moment and lined up behind him.  Together, to the beat of an unnamed ’80s pop song running through Scott’s head, they all shuffled out of the school and into the street to dance until dawn.

THE END

Copyright 2012

Posted in 2. Humorous Scary Stories
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

How the Braves Became Wise – Short Cut

•February 25, 2012 • Leave a Comment

The Monster They Made

By Jeffrey Bishop

This is the ‘Short Cut’ version of the story, ideal for telling.  Look for the ‘Extended Cut’ version for a longer edit of this story, ideal for personal reading.

Sometimes a campfire story is just a campfire story.  And sometimes it’s a rite of passage.

Tell Time: 7 minutes 30 seconds
Scare Rating: 3/5 Ghosts

It was evening at summer camp.  The boys of Troop 502 had finished cooking their dinner, had eaten heartily and had washed and put away their mess kits.  With the dads milling about the camp kitchen, the boys – twelve of them – gathered around the camp fire to tell jokes and stories, as they always did on campouts.

As night fell deep and dark around them, Ben, an older boy in the troop and a patrol leader, stepped forward to tell a story that he’d seemingly been holding on to all evening.  Here’s how it started:

“This ground we’re gathering on – this entire camp site in fact – is hallowed ground,” he said, quickly gathering the attention of the boys around the fireside.  “This camp site once belonged to our forefathers, the Native Americans who used to live and hunt in this area. 

“This is the place where, every year, a new group of young braves – always only the oldest twelve boy-leaders of the tribe – ventured into the woods alone.  They traveled here together to test their courage, their creativity, their resolve and their wisdom, against the elements and against the spirits.  The boys would gather around a fire just like ours, and each boy would describe a single, different feature of an incredible creature; a feature  of their imagination and creation. 

“Once they all had finished describing a part of it, one at a time, their creature would come to exist in reality, and would assail the camp site.  Mustering themselves in the face of something far more fearsome in totality than any boy alone could have imagined, the braves together would battle the monster.” 

“Only the wisest, most creative and courageous boys survived. Only those who bested their beast in battle returned to their homes and to their families.  When they returned, they were revered; respected as wise men and no longer just brave boys.” 

Ben paused for dramatic effect, and looked around the campfire.  All eyes were on him as he added, “Tonight, I propose that we brave boys do as our forebears did, and create a creature that we can defeat to earn our own honors.”

Immediately there were murmurs and nervous tittering around the campfire, as the boys thought about the proposition.  But very quickly, some of the younger boys, not wanting to seem to be afraid compared to the older boys, piped up and said that it sounded like a great idea.  Like chattering squirrels, they all started clamoring to go first in describing the creature.

Ben looked on with some satisfaction, and was about to pick a boy to go first, when Dan, the Senior Patrol Leader and the oldest boy at camp, cleared his throat to gain their attention. “I’m not so sure this is a good idea,” he said to the boys, “but, we’ll do this, if you all want to.  However, as your Senior Patrol Leader and the oldest among us, I reserve the honor of going last.”  Eager to get started, the boys readily agreed, and Ben volunteered to go first, to set the tone and show the way:

“This creature of ours has ten sharp horns ringing his head, and he thrusts his head violently in all directions when he attacks!” said Ben.

Trying to best the storyteller, Joe who was sitting to Ben’s right, described “long, sharp claws on his hands and feet, claws like a badger that can tear through trees, flesh and bone.”

Johnny, who happened to be somewhat short for his age, said that their monster was “as tall as the pine trees surrounding the clearing,” which was easily 100 feet.

Each boy took his turn, adding great, thick armor plating across his underbelly, an insatiable hunger for human flesh, a long whip-like tail, carrying the stench of death and rot from the pit of hell and opening his attacks with a howl of increasing pitch and loudness.  Others added more features, including a giant Venus Fly Trap growing from the crown of his head, long canine teeth dripping acidic saliva and spitting sticky balls of fire.

Finally, it was Dan’s turn.  Quietly, almost so quietly that no one could hear him, he added his description to the beast:   “As immense and ferocious as he is, he cannot help but be overcome by showing mercy and kindness to those that he preys upon.”

The boys sneered at Dan’s contribution, yelling “Lame-O!” and shouting rants like “C’mon!  Is that all you’ve got?” and other put downs.  With all the commotion, and the late hour, the dads came over to the ruckus at the campfire, settling the boys down by sending them to their tents for lights out.

Exhausted by the day’s events, the boys – and dads – were very soon asleep.  But no sooner had the last boy passed out asleep in his tent than did a great wind roar through the campsite, followed immediately by a howl – an ear-splitting howl that woke the boys from their deep slumber, but which froze most of them in shock – and locked all the dads in their slumber — as its pitch climbed higher and higher.

A couple of the boys – Marcus and Brent – gritted their teeth against the howl, and scampered out of their tents to see the storm that was surely causing the noise.  Looking up at the sky, they saw that it was clear and illuminated brightly by a round white moon.  As the first two scanned the skies, more boys emerged from their tents and looked up.

Soon, however, a shadow obscured the moon, as something large crashed through the woods toward their clearing.  Over the treeline emerged that something, and very soon the shape of ten sharp horns around a large domed scalp, with a single leafy plant in the middle, could be seen clearly against the night sky.  Coming toward them was a monster … their monster!

With genuine bravado, some of the boys took up arms against the beast.  The boys were ready to make a stand against the fiend, even if it was their last stand.  The young braves were indeed brave.

Seeing the small army before him should have amused the beast, but instead it enraged him.  He spat three fire-loogies toward the campers, and would have taken out as many scouts had his aim had any accuracy to it. In the orange light, they could see the beast’s tail mow down a grove of trees, like a weed trimmer in the woods.  With a sudden thrust of his mighty clawed hand, the monster reached forward and grabbed three campers.  Holding them in his meaty fist before him, he let out another awful yell, this one triumphant.

The beast opened his fist to shove the morsels into his gaping maw, when he saw – as if for the first time – what he was about to do.  Looking into his palm, he saw the boys – Joe, Johnny and Dan – staring up at him, bracing for what was about to occur.

But at that moment, they saw his face change.  Gone was the anger and raw hatred that had been there only moments before.  The shape of the eyes softened, and the gaze became almost humanlike in its compassion.  The monster looked remorseful, and it scanned the boys, the ruined campsite and the wrecked forest around it.

Filled with grace and mercy, the beast, suddenly kind, cupped the boys gently so they wouldn’t fall from the sky where he held them.  He bent over and gently lowered them to the ground, where they sprang from his open hand.  All of the boys were awe-struck as they watched with wonder the shadow of the beast lumber away, down the path of destruction it had hewn through the middle of the forest that night.  Back to its hellish home.

Not with weapons nor with bravery, but with the creativity and shrewdness to think to add benevolence to the monster’s character, had Dan led them to win the night – to win their lives back and at the same time, to win their transition to manhood.  The boys spent the rest of the night putting the campsite back together.  As they worked, they said little to one another, but each realized that he had proved himself to be perhaps a little brave, but a lot wise, through their collective rite of passage.

And of course, they were all very amused the next day when the dads couldn’t figure out how they could have slept through the storm that apparently took out a wide band of trees in the forest around them.

THE END

Copyright 2012

Posted in 1. Scary Stories
Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

How the Braves Became Wise – Extended Cut

•February 19, 2012 • Leave a Comment

Illustration Coming Soon!

By Jeffrey Bishop

This is the ‘Extended Cut’ version of the story, ideal for reading.  Look for the ‘Short Cut’ version for a more tell-able edit of this story.

Sometimes a campfire story is just a campfire story.  And sometimes it’s a rite of passage.

Tell Time: 10 minutes
Scare Rating: 3/5 Ghosts

It was evening at summer camp.  The boys of Troop 502 had finished cooking their dinner, had eaten heartily and had washed and put away their mess kits.  With the dads milling about the camp kitchen, the boys – twelve of them – gathered around the camp fire to tell jokes and stories, as they always did on camp outs.

As night fell deep and dark around them, Ben, an older boy in the troop and a patrol leader, stepped forward to tell a story that he’d seemingly been holding on to all evening.  Here’s how it started:

“This ground we’re gathering on – this entire camp site in fact – is hallowed ground,” he said, quickly gathering the attention of the boys around the fireside.  “This camp site once belonged to our forefathers, the Native Americans who used to live and hunt in this area. 

“This is the place where, every year, a new group of young braves – always only the oldest twelve boy-leaders of the tribe – ventured into the woods alone.  They traveled here together to test their courage, their creativity, their resolve and their wisdom, against the elements and against the spirits.

“The rite of passage always occurred in the middle of the summer.  On a night like tonight that starts dark, but which is soon pierced by a high, bright moon that tears through the darkness.” 

As he talked, the moon, previously invisible, seemed to rise above the tall trees surrounding their campsite clearing, almost as if on the command of the storyteller.  Ben continued.

“After a full day of tests of skill and bravery – at hunting and capturing game and at races and at climbing cliff sides – the boys would gather around a fire just like ours for their culminating ceremony.  Each boy would describe a single, different feature of an incredible creature; a feature of their imagination and creation. 

“The eldest brave would begin, suggesting physical aspects, monstrous desires or the ferocious character of this creature.  And each boy, in turn, would try to best the others at describing something monstrous – at describing something worthy of conquering in battle.  In conquering it in a battle to the death.

“Because once they all had finished describing a part of it, one at a time and twelve in total, their creature would come to exist in reality, and would assail the campsite.  Mustering themselves in the face of something far more fearsome in totality than any boy alone could have imagined, the braves together would battle the monster.” 

“Only the wisest, most creative and courageous boys survived.  In some years, no boys survived, so terrible was their creation.  Only those who bested their beast in battle returned to their homes and to their families.  When they returned, they were revered; respected as wise men and no longer just brave boys.” 

Ben paused for dramatic effect, and looked around the campfire.  All eyes were on him as he added, “Tonight, I propose that we brave boys do as our forebears did, and create a creature that we can defeat to earn our own honors.”

Immediately there were murmurs and nervous titters around the campfire, as the boys thought about the proposition.  Most of them thought that Ben was joking, but the story had been so compelling that the idea, even if a joke, was more than a little nerve-wracking.  But very quickly, some of the younger boys, not wanting to seem to be afraid compared to the older boys, piped up and said that it sounded like a great idea.  Like chattering squirrels, they all started clamoring to go first in describing the creature.

Ben looked on with some satisfaction, and was about to pick a boy to go first, when Dan, the Senior Patrol Leader and the oldest boy at camp, cleared his throat to gain their attention. “I’m not so sure this is a good idea,” he said to the boys, “but, we’ll do this, if you all want to.  However, as your Senior Patrol Leader and the oldest among us, I reserve the honor of going last.”  Eager to get started, the boys readily agreed, and Ben volunteered to go first, to set the tone and show the way:

“This creature of ours has ten sharp horns ringing his head, and he thrusts his head violently in all directions when he attacks!” said Ben.

Trying to best the storyteller, Joe who was sitting to Ben’s right, described “long, sharp claws on his hands and feet, claws like a badger that can tear through trees, flesh and bone.”

Johnny, who happened to be somewhat short for his age, said that their monster was “as tall as the pine trees surrounding the clearing,” which was easily 100 feet high.

Going next in turn was Brent, who decided that “great, thick armor plating across his underbelly,” would be suitable defenses against the lads and their weapons.

David, normally quiet and reserved, surprised everyone a bit when he suggested an insatiable, “hunger for young human flesh, with a special taste for the human delicacies of ears and toes.”

“A long tail, like a whip, but covered with razor-like bone shards, to keep anyone from assaulting his back side,” added Ron when it was his turn.

“He opens his attack with a single, loud howl, coming on as if a strong wind, but raising in pitch, volume and intensity, to drive his prey crazy with fear!” said Marcus.

With each boy in turn, the creativity and ferocity of the monster increased.  Next up was Andy.  “He’s coming for us from the pit of hell, so he comes with a stench of death and of rot, with flesh falling off his body,” he said.  “He’s coming to take us back with him!”

Zach piled on, describing “a giant leaf growing from the crown of his head,” and as the other boys started to laugh, he quickly finished, adding, “a leaf from a giant Venus Fly Trap, reaching down and grabbing up the braves before him!”

Matt described the terrible mouth, “with long canine teeth dripping acidic saliva that could melt flesh.”

Having had some time to think of something terrible, Robert described an ability to spit balls of fire.  “They’re like giant loogies, but they are on fire and they completely stick to and cover with fire whatever he spits them at!”

Finally, it was Dan’s turn.  Quietly, almost so quietly that no one could hear him, he added his description to the beast:   “As immense and ferocious as he is, he cannot help but be overcome by showing mercy and kindness to those that he preys upon.”

The boys sneered at Dan’s contribution, yelling “Lame-O!” and shouting rants like “C’mon!  Is that all you’ve got?” and other put downs.  Some of them were even angry that he’d spoiled their fun.  “Man, you had the last turn, the chance to seal this bad boy up, and you bring that?”

With all the commotion, and the late hour, the dads came over to the ruckus at the campfire, settling the boys down by sending them to their tents for lights out.

Exhausted by the day’s events, the boys – and dads – were very soon asleep.  But no sooner had the last boy passed out asleep in his tent than did a great wind roar through the camp site, followed by a howl – an ear-splitting howl that woke the boys from their deep slumber, but which froze most of them in shock – and mysteriously locked all the dads in their slumber — as its pitch climbed higher and higher.

A couple of the boys – Marcus and Brent – gritted their teeth against the howl, and scampered out of their tents to see the storm that was surely causing the noise.  Looking up at the sky, they saw that it was clear and illuminated brightly by a round, white moon.  As the first two scanned the skies, more boys emerged from their tents and looked up.

Soon, however, a shadow obscured the moon, as something large crashed through the woods toward their clearing.  Over the treeline emerged that something, and very soon the shape of ten sharp horns around a large domed scalp, with a single leafy plant in the middle, could be seen clearly against the night sky.  Coming toward them was a monster … their monster!

With genuine bravado, some of the boys took up arms against the beast.  Andy grabbed his pocket knife, as did Zach.  Matt, Ben and Ron found their walking sticks and readied them in a defensive stance.  Even David was plucky, and grabbed a sharp, burnt stick from the ashes of their camp fire.  The boys were ready to make a stand against the fiend, even if it was their last stand.  The young Braves were indeed brave.

Seeing the small army before him should have amused the beast, but instead it enraged him.  He spat three fire-loogies toward the campers, and would have taken out as many scouts had his aim had any accuracy to it.

The fires helped the boys see what they were up against, but that wasn’t a good thing!  In the orange light, they could see the beast’s tail mow down a grove of trees, like a weed trimmer in the woods.  With a sudden thrust of his mighty clawed hand, the monster reached forward and grabbed three campers.  Holding them in his meaty fist before him, he let out another awful yell, this one triumphant.

The beast opened his fist to shove the morsels into his gaping maw, when he realized – as if for the first time – what he was about to do.  Looking into his palm, he saw the boys – Joe, Johnny and Dan – staring up at him, bracing for what was about to occur to them.

But at that moment, they saw his face change.  Gone was the anger and raw hatred that had been there only moments before.  The shape of the eyes softened, and the gaze became almost humanlike in its compassion.  The monster looked remorseful, and it scanned the boys, the ruined campsite and the wrecked forest around it.

Filled with grace and mercy, the beast, suddenly kind, cupped the boys gently so they wouldn’t fall from the sky where he held them.  He bent over and lowered them to the ground, where they sprang from his open hand and ran away to the far side of the clearing, in case he should change his mind.  Pressing his large thumb into the fires he’d made, the monster put each one out before turning and walking away into the night.  All of the boys were awe-struck as they watched with wonder the shadow of the beast lumber down the path of destruction it had hewn through the middle of the forest that night, back to its hellish home.

It remains unknown if some or all the braves would have defeated the beast in a battle of physical might.  But it was not with weapons nor with bravery, but with the creativity and shrewdness to think to add benevolence to the monster’s character, that Dan used to lead them to win the night – to win their lives back and at the same time, to win their transition to manhood.  The boys spent the rest of the night putting the campsite back together.  As they worked, they said little to one another, but each realized that he had proved himself to be perhaps a little brave, but a lot wise, through their collective rite of passage.

And of course, they were all very amused the next day when the dads couldn’t figure out how they could have slept through the storm that apparently took out a wide band of trees in the forest around them.

THE END

Copyright 2012

Posted in 1. Scary Stories
Tags: , , , , , ,

To Helen Bach

•February 12, 2012 • Leave a Comment
Letter on desk addressed to Helen Bach

A letter sent … to Helen Bach

By Jeffrey Bishop

For this Valentine’s Day, a reminder that true love endures.  Even to hell … and back.

Tell Time: 8 minutes
Scare Rating: 2/5 Ghosts

War had been declared, and most of Johnny Bach’s friends had enlisted or been called up.  Johnny wanted to go and do his part, too, but there was something he had to do first.  He had to marry Helen, the girl who had been his sweetheart almost from the day they met in home room in the ninth grade.

The wedding was set for a warm day in the spring, and family and friends came from all over the state to help the couple celebrate.  With festive flowers festooning the church highlighting the fresh ardour of the newly married couple, it was the most wonderful wedding anyone could recall, and everyone could see that Johnny and Helen had a love that was made to last.

After a quick honeymoon at a cottage at the beach, Johnny settled his wife in a small house on a country road outside of town, then boarded a train headed south — headed for basic training and then the front lines as an infantryman.  The Bach’s idyllic married life seemed to end just as it was beginning, but Johnny promised Helen he’d write as often as he could, and return to her as soon as the war allowed.

In his notes home, Johnny always addressed his bride by her full name; he had not yet been married long enough for the thrill to have passed of seeing his sweetheart’s name paired with his own.  And although basic training and life in the war were difficult experiences to bear alone, he left out all the hard and painful parts out of his notes home and played up the positive aspects:

To Helen Bach,

Basic training is fine!  It is very much like summer camp, although we hike a good deal more here than we did back home.  Here we call hikes “marching,” and I’m afraid the scenery here isn’t nearly as pretty here as it is in the dells of our lands. 

I’ve made two great friends — Ralph Johnson and Joe Murphy — and I hope you get to meet them one day.  I have been named Dorm Chief, which gives me some extra privileges, in exchange for extra responsibilities.  We ship out for the war in a week; I will write again when I can.

With you in love, forever.

Your Johnny

Time seemed to pass as an eternity for the young lovers, as each endured the separation alone from the other.  However, the pace of Johnny’s new life, apart from his bride now, was like a blur to him — almost like the way that they say a man’s entire life flashes before his eyes as he dies.  Perhaps the bizarre sensation of time’s passing in this way was just Johnny’s perspective.

it wasn’t long — real or perceived — before Johny found himself at his new home, amidst the hellish landscape of war.  The conditions were horrible.  Johnny had arrived as summer was winding down, and every rain that the troops endured seemed colder and wetter than the one before.  It rained a lot that fall, and it seemed as though the air was never still.  Through it fell down the raindrops, criss-crossed and interwoven by bullets and shells whizzing side-long as dirt, shrapnel and flak exploded around them during the almost daily battles the men endured.

To Helen Bach,

We are having a grand time here.  Ralph and Joe are with me in the same Company.  There’s always a lot going on here.  We have full days, which means we sleep fairly soundly, despite the conditions.  We are doing well in the war and advancing on the enemy day by day.

With you in love, forever.

Your Johnny

While Johnny’s notes were filled with cheer and optimism, his friends saw how the experiences of war — and perhaps also of distance from his beloved — were taking their toll on the young man.  Though duty to country compelled him to enlist, and he knew he needed to be there to protect freedoms, Johnny never developed a taste for war, as so many of the other men seemed to have done, if only as a coping mechanism.  Indeed, the longer he was there, the more it seemed to Ralph and to Joe that he was slipping away; as if he were going to another, more pleasant place, to escape the hellish horrors of the war.  Defying description, they ascribed to him the attribute of appearing “thinner,” “translucent” or “hollow.”

The smells of war were the worst part to Johnny.  There were always open slit latrines nearby — a convenience, but a distasteful one.  Gunpowder, diesel exhaust and oil and other elements of modern warfare choked them.  Even the food — wormy tins of ham and rancid beef — had little appeal to the nose.  And then, of course, there was the smell of death.

Corpses of fallen comrades — many of them fast but dear friends — lay in puddles of blood and mud at the bottom of trenches.  The bodies swelled with putrid gases that seeped out of the carcasses to hang low in the air with the living, as if to remind them of how close they were to death and to hell.  There they lay, sometimes for more than a day, until there was a sufficient lull in the battle that they could be pulled out and taken to the field morgue.

To Helen Bach,

A rare treat today … liberty passes while we stop over in a Bavarian hamlet.  Rations are lean for all, but the treats I indulged in today were both free and priceless:  I found a small bakery and stood outside of it for at least half the day, breathing in the warm, yeasty, fresh aromas of the baking breads.  I feel a little more alive for it.  Soon, it will be your breads that I smell, baking in our kitchen!

With you in love, forever.

Your Johnny

It was late winter, and ice fell heavily on the dirty, slushy snow that covered the ground.  Company C returned to the work of war, and the men were digging a new foxhole.  Taking a breather, Ralph leaned on his shovel and surveyed the scene before him.  He got a good look at Johnny, then called Joe over and gestured toward their friend.

“Look at him, Joe,” said Ralph.  “He’s a wreck.  He’s here, digging like everyone else.  But it’s like he’s not here at all.  Look how pale he is!  You can almost see through him.  He hardly talks anymore.  In fact, if not for all those letters he sends home to his bride, I’d have thought that shell shock had struck him dumb.”

Joe agreed — he’d noticed the same things.  “When we finish here, let’s get him to the infirmary and get him some help,” said Joe.

But they wouldn’t get that chance.  As the men picked up their shovels to get back to work, bullets and shells from across enemy lines started flying through the air.  Ralph and Joe dived into their trench head-first.  They scrambled to their feet with weapons ready, but each first looked over to their friend, only to witness multiple rounds pass through Johnny’s chest.  He fell forward, almost with a roll, and landed with a thud at the bottom of his foxhole.

Ralph and Joe rushed to their friend’s side.  Clutching his chest, they found Johnny was yet alive.  ” … to hell and back,” they heard him say, with gasping breaths and a beatific look on his face.  “I’m going home,”  he added as he breathed his last breath.

~

Ralph and Joe were attired in their Class A dress uniforms.  They exited the dark green staff car and slowly walked up the gravel drive to the house, dreading the chore:  telling Johnny’s bride of his death.

As they mounted the first step, the door opened, and a tall, attractive young lady with wavy brown hair stepped onto the porch to meet them. She seemed filled with life; when Ralph and Joe noticed this, it deepened the dread that the two felt from their task.

“Mrs. Bach, we regret to inform …” Ralph started to say.  But the rest of his words were caught in his throat.  Because as he’d started speaking, another figure came out of the house to stand beside Mrs. Bach.  The figure — a tall, handsome young man — wore casual clothes befitting a rural Saturday morning.  Incredibly, both soldiers clearly recognized the man.  They recognized, standing before them, their friend Johnny Bach, reunited with his bride and standing before them.

“It’s so good to see you two again, Ralph and Joe!  So good to see you back from the war and safe!” said Johnny to the men.  “We’d been to Hell, hadn’t we boys?  But now we’re all back again — safe and well!”

“To Hell and back … ” muttered Ralph to himself, with a dawning realization. ” … To Helen Bach.”

“These are your friends from the war, Johnny?  So nice to meet you both!” said Helen.  “Won’t you set down on the porch with us and have some lemonade?” she asked them, looking up at her husband with love and pride.

Dazed beyond their own comprehension, the two soldiers simply turned and walked back to their staff car.  They quickly got in the vehicle and drove away from their lost — now found — friend.

“Helen Bach, my love,” said Johnny to his wife, with a peck on her forehead.

As the car went over the hill and away,  the reunited couple went back inside their quaint country home, where they enjoyed the rest of their day, and their lives, together.

THE END

Copyright 2012

Posted in 1. Scary Stories
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