At Risk of Ruining The Magic … The TRUE Story Behind the Header Photo

•February 9, 2012 • Leave a Comment
Camp Misty

Camp Misty — the original, unaltered image

By Jeffrey Bishop

I am especially enamored of the picture used as the header of this site. To me, it suggests a sun setting on another world — a world of mystery and magic, shrouded in mist. The tent village looks at peace … except for that one tent which the viewer may or may not have yet noticed has been knocked awry. The color and mood of the image fits well with that of the site.

In this post, I want to share with readers the unaltered version of the original photo, along with background information about it: I took the picture October 2011 at the Boy Scouts Lewis and Clark Council Aviation Camporee at St. Louis Downtown Airport in Cahokia, IL. It was the last day of the event, and this scene is what greeted me as I emerged from my tent. The mist and sunrise obscured — no, removed — the modern, industrial setting that surrounded us when we’d bedded down the night before (we camped on an airfield bracketed to the West by heavily used train tracks and to the East by Interstate 255).

The impression that the beauty of the day was immediate, and was strong. Bleary-eyed, I nonetheless was able to find my camera in time to capture the image with more permanence and for sharing than my memory alone could allow.

It was only after I’d captured the still image that I noticed the tipped tent; no, it wasn’t a mystical happening in our midst (mist?), nor was it a Scout practical joke; it was merely an early rising camper trying to dry the bottom of his tent before packing out. I was at first annoyed that this “ruined” the shot, but again, I think it’s subtle, and when viewed with no prior knowledge of the context and as part of a website that features spooky campfire stories, it is absolutely fitting.

So for photophiles among the readership, camera information follows: taken at daybreak Oct. 9, 2011, on a five-year-old Kodak point-and-shoot 3.something-megapixel digital camera, on auto-everything.  I did use a tad bit of technique beyond point-and-shoot on my point-and-shoot; I autofocused on the sky to ensure the ground was underexposed for that mystical look.  As for that date stamp, I blame the photographer (me) for not correctly setting this when he (I) changed the camera batteries.

For use here, I rotated the image 1 degree to the left and cropped it.  That’s it.   As for the black bar that makes it a diptych?  Courtesy the WordPress theme (ChaoticSoul).  Don’t necessarily like it the bar, don’t necessarily dislike it.

I hope you enjoy both images — the original and the site header — along with its TRUE back story!

THE END

Copyright 2012

The Werewolf’s Talisman

•February 5, 2012 • Leave a Comment

By Jeffrey Bishop

Noting that this was posted prior to the current full moon, and that in English tradition, February’s full moon is the Wolf Moon.

Tell Time:  6 minutes 15 seconds
Scare Rating:  2/5 Ghost

Trevor no longer wanted to go to summer camp.

All spring, he and his friends had talked about how much fun they were going to have that year — especially now that they were 13 and could finally go to the high adventure program. But Trevor’s interest had changed completely as the school year drew to a close and the start of camp approached, and despite the questions and pleadings of his closest buddies, he couldn’t provide them with a good reason why.

After school one afternoon, Aaron and Chris were at Trevor’s house playing his new Wheels of Fire video game.

“What’s the deal, Trev?” asked Chris as the two looped around the virtual racetrack. “Why don’t you want to go to camp with us this year?”

“I think I know why,” said Aaron, who sat at Trevor’s desk waiting to play the winner of the current race. He had been checking out the documents on his friend’s desk: a couple of library books on werewolves, and a calendar of lunar phases for the year.

“There’s a full moon that week.” Aaron held up the calendar and books for Chris to see. “I think Trevor’s afraid there’s gonna be a werewolf out there!”

Trevor jumped up and grabbed the books from Aaron’s hands and swept them into his top desk drawer.

“Not!” said Trevor, flustered. “So what if I’m reading about werewolves? That doesn’t mean I’m afraid of them. I don’t even think they exist,” he added nervously.

~

Like his friends, Trevor’s mom had also wondered about his change of heart, but she didn’t press him; she knew he’d bring it up in his own time. As summer camp approached, Trevor indeed decided to share with her his concerns and fears about camp – and about werewolves.

“I can relate to what you’re feeling, hon,” said his mom. “Believe it or not, I’ve been where you are. And I think I can give you something to help you at summer camp this year.”

His mother dragged a chair into the kitchen and climbed to the cupboard over the fridge. From it she pulled out a plain white plastic bottle with a blue cap. As she returned to the table where they were talking, Trevor saw that bottle had a small label with what looked to be hand-written script on it.

“This lotion will protect you. It can be your protective talisman,” she told him. “Put this on every night when there’s a full moon, and I guarantee you’ll have werewolf protection.”

Mom was very convincing in her pitch, but she had a natural advantage, in that anyone concerned about the real threat of a werewolf could also be expected to be predisposed to believe in the superstitious protective power of a home-made lotion.  So after they’d talked, Trevor felt a good deal better about full moons, werewolves and summer camp, and agreed to join his friends at camp again.

~

Summer camp finally arrived. The boys set up their shared tent and then ran off to begin the first day of what was to be a week of fun: climbing net walls, rappelling cliff sides and flying through the woods on zip lines. By mid-week, Trevor was glad he’d come – he was having a blast.

As tired as he was at the end of each day, Trevor remembered to thoroughly coat himself head to toe in his special lotion. His friends traded funny looks with one another over the ritual, but neither said anything. After all, it was only a couple of summers before when the counselors had to spray down every inch of the inside of their tent with bug repellent because Aaron thought a spider had sneaked in. All boys understand irrational fears of things in the woods; in the same respect, they also understand the magic of the power of suggestion.

It was late at night in the middle of the week that Trevor awoke with a start.  Standing over him were two large figures, barely visible in the dark.

~

“Let’s go!” said one of the two. Trevor recognized Aaron’s voice. “Get your trunks on. We’re going for a midnight swim in the lake!”

Trevor hesitated – not solely because it was probably against the rules, but also due to his fear of werewolves.  But it did sound like fun, and he quickly remembered that he’d applied protective lotion before bedding down.

“I’m in, too!” He pulled on his suit, and the three friends quietly slipped out of the campsite and down to the lake.

The boys had a great time, horse playing and splashing around in the starlit night before settling into Marco Polo. Trevor, as Marco, turned slowly in the water listening for his friends. As he turned around, a bright glow penetrated his eyelids. Cracking his eyes, he could see a glow rising behind the hills around the lake. The moon was rising.

As the glow spread over the sky, the top edge of the moon crept over the rim of the hills. Trevor’s skin started to tingle instinctively. His protective lotion must have worn off in the lake!

“Polo! Polo!” called Chris, goading his friend to come after him, and oblivious to Trevor’s growing panic.

“I’ve gotta get out of here!” Trevor yelled to Chris and Aaron. His voice had dropped to a raspy growl. “I’ve got to go in. Stay here! Don’t follow me!”

Trevor climbed out of the water and scurried across the dock and into the woods before his friends knew what was happening. Chris looked all around, trying to figure out what got into his friend when he noticed the bright sky.

“It’s the moon!” said Chris, fully understanding Trevor’s behavior.

“Look!” said Aaron, pointing to the woods.  In the moonlight, they could see the shape of a wolf-like creature creeping through the woods. On four legs, the monster raised its head and let out a blood-curdling howl at the moon, then rose up on its back legs and crept into the woods — toward the campsite.

“That thing … it’s after Trevor!” said Chris. ”We’ve got to help him!”

The friends swam to the dock and raced into the dark woods to find their friend – hopefully in time. They slowed as they approached the campsite. The moon was already above the trees and lit up the clearing like a searchlight. Quietly, the pair crept forward, looking and listening for any sign of struggle. But incredibly, there was none.

Chris and Aaron stayed in the tree line, feeling safer out of the moonlight’s beam, and moved around the perimeter of the campsite toward their own tent.

“Nothing,” said Aaron in a whisper. “There’s nothing here, and nothing’s happening. But where’s Trevor?” Chris had no answer, so he remained silent.

Finally, the two arrived at their own tent.  Still sensing no trouble in the camp, they moved into the clearing toward the tent’s entrance, which faced the lake and the risen moon. Aaron let out a yelp when he saw the tent – its front was shredded into ribbons of nylon, as though it had been violently slashed open.

Chris was more fearful for his friend than for himself at this point.  He snapped on his flashlight and stepped toward the tent. Aaron reluctantly followed. There, sprawled facedown across the tent floor and blanketed in the light of the moon, was Trevor. He wasn’t moving, and his skin shone wet and shiny in the blue-hued night.

The boys passed through the curtain that was the tent face to check Trevor’s condition render aid.  Chris knelt and turned over the limp, oily body. To his relief, they found that Trevor was ok.  He seemed to be in a deep slumber, but was otherwise unhurt.

Besides the rent nylon of the tent, there’s was nothing suspicious – or scary – about the scene.  Until Chris saw what Trevor had clutched in his hand. He grabbed the nondescript white plastic bottle, and saw that it was shredded and clawed through just like the tent was. In the moonlight, the boys could clearly read the hand-written product label:

Moonscreen

A bottle of MPF 50-rated moonscreeen

THE END

Copyright 2012

‘How-to’ 13 Tips for Telling Spooky Stories

•February 3, 2012 • Leave a Comment
Boy holds flashlight up to his face in the dark

Flashlight Face!

By Jeffrey Bishop

Campfire stories can be read by one’s self; shared between close friends (it’s safer that way!); or performed for a small group.  The following list aggregates and paraphrases some of the best tips for enjoying spooky campfire stories, with particular attention given to the storytelling (and story hearing) experience.  Many tips are common to a number of sources; credit/references are given as applicable.  Feel free to comment with any suggestions.

1.    Scary stories are equally enjoyable whether read by you or shared with others1.

2.    Pick stories that suit your audience1, 2 – the lowest common denominator of age, attention span and temperate amongst them4.

3.    Scary stories benefit from atmosphere1, 2, 3 around a campfire, in a candlelit room, during a thunderstorm, in a basement fort or by flashlight under the covers or in a closet4.

4.    Storytelling can be successful whether read from a book1, memorized for extemporaneous retelling1, 2 or made up on the spot by the teller4.

Whichever you choose, go with your strengths / know your weaknesses: if you can’t remember or tell a story well, read one with conviction; if you have bad eyes or are not a good reader, remember the story and tell it from memory4.

5.    Stories can be customized for the audience – tailor tone, scare rating, location and characters to suit your audience1, 2.

6.    Appropriate story content to avoid at all costs in real life:  Witches, ghosts, zombies, monsters, vampires, devils, spiders, etc.3 

Inappropriate story content to avoid at all costs in your stories2 (and in real life):  adult words or themes or hate content.  Keep it fun, keep it clean.

7.    Shorter is better1, 2.  Five minutes is ideal; 10 minutes max4.  You hold your audience’s attention better; you can fit more stories in; and more storytellers have a chance to share4.

8.    Pass the book.  Pass the mic4.  It’s fun to share and it’s fun to watch others – especially younger ones – tell stories.  And writers (like this one) in the audience might find inspiration in what they hear4.

9.    Don’t cast your pearls before swine; don’t waste your gift on an inattentive or otherwise disrespectful audience1, 2.

10.  Your audience will get into the story as you get into the story – by varying character voices and by changing story pacing and the volume of your voice, along with gestures and other dramatic flairs1, 2.

11.  Gore and horror are like hot red pepper on you pizza – a little goes a long way, and too much can ruin it1.

12.  Humor can be a great leavening agent for horror4.

13.  At the end of the story, stop1.

Sources:
1.    Campfire Ghost Stories (2002) by Jo-Anne Christensen.
Ghost House Books / Lone Pine Publishing, Edmonton, AB, Canada.
2.    Stories for Around the Campfire (1986) by Ray Harriot.
Campfire Publishing Company, Laurel, MD.
3.    Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark (1981) by Alvin Schwartz.
HarperCollins Publishers, New York, NY.
4.    The authors of this blog.

THE END

Copyright 2012

Uncle Roy Gets a Head of Himself

•January 30, 2012 • 1 Comment
Image of Grant Wood's American Gothic painting, edited to be truly gothic in subject (the man is headless).

Spoiler alert!  Grant Wood’s American Gothic painting, interpreted to be truly gothic (with apologies to the original).

By Jeffrey Bishop

Uncle Roy sure seems anxious to head to his brother’s for a visit!

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

Uncle Roy was coming for a visit. The war was over, and though he’d been injured pretty badly in a fierce battle, he’d written to tell his closest relations – his brother and nephew – how anxious he was to head back south to pay them a visit. He was expected to arrive sometime the next day.

It was a night not unlike tonight. The boy and his father had turned in for the night, and were just settling into a deep sleep when they were awakened by a loud rap rap rap at the front door. The boy jumped out of bed and ran to his father’s room, and the two moved toward the window at the front of the house to see if it was Uncle Roy, paying them a visit early.

Peering between the curtains at the moon-lit stoop of their home, each was startled to see a head – and nothing else – rolling around on the small porch. It rolled backwards fast and made a hard stop before slamming itself forward against the door again.

Rap, rap, rap!

“How awful!” yelped the father to his son. “Help me batten us down against that … that Thing!” Quickly, the two placed the inside hurricane shutters over the windows and barred the front and back doors. Finished, they settled down at the kitchen table to rest, and in the quiet night, could hear nothing but their own shallow breathing.

“Maybe it’s gone away?” suggested the boy about the silence. But he barely finished his question before, Rap, rap, rap! came the sound again, this time from the back door.

“Oh no!” wailed the father. “It’s back!”

Peering through the shutters over the kitchen window, the two saw the head on the back porch. Again, it rolled around as if to work up a head of steam for another run at knocking on the door.

Rap, rap, rap!

“Upstairs, now!” ordered father as he grabbed his shotgun from its locker. “If it gets in here, we can stand it off at the stairs!”

The two settled in at the top of the stairs and waited, but all fell quiet again. Almost holding their breath to listen, each nearly jumped when they heard a voice call out to them.

“Hey you all! Let me in! It’s late and it’s cold out here!” came the voice.

“That’s Uncle Roy!” said the boy, running to the stairs. “We’ve got to let him in before that thing gets him!”

Before his father could stop him, the boy ran down the stairs, lifted off the batten, turned the dead bolt, and swung open the heavy door. The father arrived at the door at that moment and urgently summoned him in.

“Get in here, brother!” said father. “There’s a foul head out there, rolling around and trying to get in here!”

Uncle Roy stepped across the threshold and father reinforced the door. “Heh, heh,” chuckled Uncle Roy. “Hope you wasn’t too skerred,” he said. “I think that was me that was skerrin ya’ll. I was so anxious to see ya’ll … ” As he talked, he reached up and pulled his head off his shoulders and rested it in the crook of his arm.

“ … I guess I just got a head of myself!”

THE END

Copyright 2012

Calling in Dead

•January 23, 2012 • Leave a Comment
Bumper sticker on dirty car that reads "I used up all my sick days so I called in dead."

The bumper sticker-inspiration for this story. The scariest thing about it is the filthy car it’s stuck to!

By Jeffrey Bishop

We’ve all had a bad boss – someone who just doesn’t understand phases that we sometimes go through in life.  What can you do?  Well, read on …

Tell Time: 4 minutes 15 seconds
Scare Rating: 3/5 Ghosts

Bob wasn’t feeling his best.  Again.  He’d have to call in sick, and he dreaded the thought of calling Alan, his boss, to excuse himself.  Alan, for some reason, didn’t care much for Bob.

It’d been a long winter, and Bob had suffered a number of debilitating illnesses back to back.  It all started around Halloween, and the illnesses might have been connected to the squirrel bite he’d received while out walking his dog near the cemetery.  Not many people have ever been bitten by a squirrel, and this was a mangy, foul-looking squirrel, too.

The doctors couldn’t figure it out – it wasn’t rabies – and what confounded their ability to make a diagnosis was that Bob’s symptoms and ailments changed almost every week.  One week it felt like flu, the next week it felt like appendicitis, and the week after that it felt like he’d broken his legs.  So as the weeks dragged on, Bob – and his employer – suffered.

With a heavy sigh, followed by a deep cough, Bob picked up the handset to make the dreaded phone call. It rang on the other end just once.

“Piece Parts Industries, this is Alan,” came the greeting.

“Hi Alan; Bob calling.  Look, I’m not feeling so hot again.  It’s in my stomach this time.  This is about the worst I’ve ever felt.  I need to call in sick.”

“Bob, Bob, Bob,” Alan replied, with apparent satisfaction in his voice.  “I had a feeling you might call this morning.  I just pulled your record from HR, and it looks like you’ve used up all your sick time.  You can’t call in sick.  In fact, you have no leave left at all – no vacation time, no personal leave, no bereavement leave, nothing!  You’ll have to come in no matter how you feel.

“And for the record, I’ve all along thought you were malingering — pretending to be sick to avoid work,” Alan continued.  “So now we get to find out.  Drag your body in here so we can see how sick you are, and then let’s get over this silliness and have you do some work for me for once!”

As Alan continued to berate his employee, a peculiar feeling passed over Bob.  It started as a worsening sense of queasiness, followed by intense pain in his core that peaked with a bright vision of white light that filled his consciousness.  The pain approached the unbearable, but just as quickly passed, to be followed by no feeling at all.  Bob returned his attention from his physical state to the phone in his hand.

“Alan, it’s ok that I don’t have any sick days left,” Bob said, “because I’m pretty sure I’m dead.  I guess I need to call in dead, instead!”

“Nonsense!”  Alan burst through the phone, making no attempt at all to conceal his contempt at what sounded like a smart-alecky response.  “You get yourself in here, and when you do, we’ll talk about your attendance record and about your future!”

With a degree of detachment not in keeping with the tone of the conversation, Bob hung up the phone and got ready to go into work.  Looking in the mirror as he shaved, he saw that his face was pale and sallow – almost as pale as the shaving cream.  He couldn’t feel his face much, but as he rinsed, he noticed he’d shaved a bit close – pieces of skin had been shaved off with his hair, leaving raw flesh exposed.  “Weird.  Didn’t hurt,” Bob thought.  All of a sudden he felt quite hungry.

By the time Bob reported in to Alan’s office, it was late morning.  He sat in a chair on the other side of Alan’s desk while his boss ripped into him.

“You’re a good employee, and you do good work – when you’re here,” Alan sneered.  “But you’ve gotta get your skin here every day, or else!  And when you’re here, you really have to be here.” The conversation seemed to last for more than a half hour as Alan worked out all of his resentment and frustration on his worker.

“Now that you’ve wasted your morning and mine, I want you to grab your lunch and get to work,” Alan said in closing.  “To make up for lost time, you can work at your desk while you eat your lunch.”

At hearing the word “lunch,” Bob seemed to rejoin Alan from a far-away place.  A toothy smile crossed Bob’s face.

“Did you hear me?”Alan barked, clearly annoyed by the mask.

“Oh, I heard you Alan,” Bob replied grimly.  “But I plan to eat at your desk instead!”

As he spoke, Bob the zombie climbed over Alan’s desk and took his first bite out of his boss’ face.

THE END

Copyright 2012

‘We’re Coming to Get You!’ – Short Cut

•January 19, 2012 • Leave a Comment
'We're Coming to Get You'

‘We’re Coming to Get You’

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.

Tom’s no-good, very bad day looks to take a turn for the worse when strange visitors try to take him bodily from his home! 

Tell Time: 9 minutes
Scare Rating: 3/5 Ghosts

The Walsh family was a farm family, so their lifestyle differed greatly from what you and I are used to.  They lived in the country, and had long days filled with work and school and chores.  So the entire family looked forward to getting away from the farm once or twice a month when they had to go into town for business – to get supplies for the farm and to shop for groceries, clothes and other needed sundries – and to have some fun, too.

The crops were in, but it had been a wet October, with heavy rains almost every day for the last two weeks of the month.  By early November, when it was time for another trip to town, the family was ready, if only for a break from the rhythm of the rain on the farm.

But this time, there was a problem.  Tom, the older child, had really been rotten over the prior weeks, incessantly teasing and harassing his little sister Sally.  His imagination was always keen, and he’d lately turned this on his sister, who, if only because of her young age, was particularly sensitive to the spooky stories he’d started telling her.  When some of these actions started bordering on bullying, dad decided to put a stop to it.

“Son, as you know, we’re heading to town now,” dad said.  “But with the way you’ve been treating your sister, there’s no way I’m taking you along.  So I want you to stay here and think about your behaviors.  We love you and we know you can do better than that.  Do your chores, and there are some extra things on this list that’ll keep you busy and out of trouble while we’re gone.”  Dad tapped his finger on a piece of paper on the table.  The list had a lot of writing on it.

With that, Tom’s family departed, and the young man was alone on the farm – with a heavy heart and a long list of chores.

Getting the chores done early – especially the outdoors ones – was a good thing, because the rains – which had ceased just the night before – started up again that afternoon, and came down in torrents.

By the end of the day he was feeling better.  Despite the storms – in the home and in the skies – he felt some pride in what he’d accomplished and had an improved outlook on his situation with his family.  He was just ready for Sally and his parents to get home, so they could reconcile with one another.

Tom looked out the window at the road to their home, to watch for the family truck.  As he stared out the window, the moments turned into minutes, and the daylight dripped away with the rains.  But in the waning daylight, he saw something that instantly chilled his blood.  Impossibly, he saw a huge wave of water roll across their fields.  As Tom looked on in awe, he saw the water, as high as the trees in the orchards of the neighboring farm, roll toward – and then over – the roadbed that his parents were supposed to come down.  The Big Creek dam, about two miles upstream, must have failed!

The waters were still coming, and quickly wrapped themselves around the Walsh farmhouse as they kept rolling across their family farm and the surrounding countryside.  A loud but muted pop – like a firecracker set off under a plastic trash barrel – sounded, and with it, all the lights went out.  The power was lost, and Tom found himself alone and in the dark.

Still rising, the waters had soon seeped in to the ground floor of the home, finding their way into the canvas sides of Tom’s sneakers the same way they’d found their way into the sturdy home.  He ran upstairs and grabbed the phone in his parent’s room, but found that it was dead.  He felt even more alone.  In less than five minutes, Tom’s hopes of being reunited with his family were dashed.  But that was much less a concern to him now – now he had to be in survival mode.

Sitting at the top of the stairs to think, Tom watched as the water slowly climbed the stairs. The water stopped rising when it reached almost to the 8th step – there were only 14 steps in the staircase.  Tom looked at his wristwatch.  It was 8:30.  His parents and Sally would have been home by now if not for the flood.  He had no idea where the were at this moment, and he prayed that they were as safe as he was.  He decided to try to sleep – there was nothing else he could do.  He’d have to figure out a way off his island home in the morning light.

Exhausted, Tom fell into sleep quickly, but it was a fitful rest.  At some point, he imagined a bright light hovering over the countryside before rapidly approaching the house with a throbbing “whoomp, whoomp, whoomp” sound.  In this dream-vision, the light belonged to a flying saucer.  As the craft got closer to the homestead, the glare changed from a bright ball in the sky to a sharp beam – a beam that searched from window to window in the farmhouse, looking for human victims to draw up into the alien craft.

Tom tossed and turned. “No, no!” he murmured in his sleep as he ran to avoid the suction light beam.  His protests got louder and more frantic, until he finally managed to wake himself up.  He looked around the room and saw that all was as it had been before – quiet and peaceful.  He remembered the rains and the flood, but as bad as that was to recall, he was relieved that his dream of aliens was only that – a dream.

Mildly embarrassed to have been so scared by such a silly dream, he smiled to himself in the dark as he lay back down to try to sleep again.  As he settled in, he thought that he could hear a faint “whoomp, whoomp, whoomp” sound in the distance – the same sort of sound he’d heard in his dreams.  He sat up straight, as a chill covered his body. Listening more intently, he heard it again, and it was growing louder – and closer: “whoomp, whoomp, whoomp, whoomp, whoomp …

Tom slinked out of bed and crawled to his window.  He couldn’t locate the source of the sound – it sounded like it came from everywhere all at once.   Then, from his right, he saw the pinpoint of light.  It was quickly moving toward the home, and just like in his dream, the glowing ball of light sharpened into a beam.  Tom was scared – just as scared as he’d been during the dream. But not as scared as he became seconds later, as a crackly, electronic voice sounded out over the din of the craft:

We’re … coming … to get you!

The light was pointing in Tom’s window now, and he was certain he’d been seen!

We’re coming … to get you!” the eerie voice repeated, laid over the incessant “whoomp, whoomp, whoomp” of the craft’s propulsion system.

Tom’s mind raced.  Maybe they’d blasted the dam – of course they had – they’d trapped all the farm families in their homes and now could come and harvest them more easily!  The craft was almost upon the house.  He had to do something.  Tom had read enough comic books and seen enough science fiction movies to know what these alien creepers might do to him if they abducted him.  He wasn’t going to be a live autopsy subject or part of an alien buffet dinner if he could help it.

Sitting under the window with his back to the exterior wall, he could see from the fading glow in the sky that the light had passed over the front of the house.  He had to make his move now, while the beam was pointed away from him.  He had to make a run for the stairs and the wet main floor – away from where the aliens might look for him!

As he dashed for the hallway, he heard a heavy thump on the roof of the house, quickly followed by a crashing sound.  Tom froze with fear, as the crashing and crunching sounds continued.  It sounded as if a monster was taking big bites out of the roof!  Then he heard the voice again.

We’re … coming … to … get … you!” it intoned, more urgently than ever.

There were scurrying sounds in the attic space now, like giant rats shuffling around.  Tom made a dash for it – it was now or never!  He reached the hallway and headed for the stairs when there was a final crash, and he saw the ceiling over the stairs fall in.  Looking up, he could see the ship’s broad white beam trained on the attic space, along with a number of smaller red beams flashing around, like evil eyes searching in the dark.

He made a run for the steps, only to be caught up in the grasp of a large, dark arm that had swung in his path.  The arm grabbed Tom, and with raw strength, lifted the young man into the attic.  It was all over, Tom thought.  With one eye squeezed shut and the other squinting against the light and against fear, he braved to look into the face of his abductor, to see …

Before his gaze, Tom saw a camouflage-covered helmet.  Affixed to it was a tactical headlamp, glowing red in the dark night.  And under the helmet was the warm, smiling face of a soldier.

We came to get you,” said the man’s voice, which he could also hear echoing electronically from a speaker on the bottom of the craft above.  “You’re OK now, Tom, and so is your family.  Your parents told us where to find you.  We came to get you!  It’s all over!”

Tom was hoisted into the “alien spacecraft” – a National Guard helicopter – and was ferried to drier land in town, where he was reunited with his family at a makeshift shelter.  Tom told them all about the adventure of his rescue.  But it was quite a while before he told them about the alien abduction!

THE END

Copyright 2012

Click the following links to read more stories of threatening visits from Xenon:

Only the Good Die Young

Black Friday

The Zentai Phenomenon: A Serial Killer Digest

‘We’re Coming to Get You!’ – Extended Cut

•January 16, 2012 • Leave a Comment

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.

Tom’s no-good, very bad day looks to take a turn for the worse when strange visitors try to take him bodily from his home! 

Tell Time: 11 minutes 30 seconds
Scare Rating: 3/5 Ghosts

The Walsh family was a farm family, so their lifestyle differed greatly from what you and I are used to.  They lived in the country, and had long days filled with work and school and chores.  So the entire family looked forward to getting away from the farm once or twice a month when they had to go into town for business – to get supplies for the farm and to shop for groceries, clothes and other needed sundries.

But they always made sure to have a good time, too, by allowing the kids to spend their allowance money, or taking in a matinée at the movie theater.  They also usually gave their mom a day off from the kitchen by having dinner at a casual restaurant on the square.

The crops were in, but it had been a wet October, with heavy rains almost every day for the last two weeks of the month.  By early November, when it was time for another trip to town, the family was ready, if only for a break from the rhythm of the rain on the farm.

But this time, there was a problem.  Tom, the older child, had really been rotten over the prior weeks, incessantly teasing and harassing his little sister Sally.  Some of this was normal sibling rivalry – the stuff that toughens one up for the “real world.”  But of late, Tom’s intentions had turned rather sour.  His imagination was always keen, and he’d lately turned this on his sister, who, if only because of her young age, was particularly sensitive to the spooky stories he’d started telling her.  When some of these actions started bordering on bullying, dad decided to put a stop to it.

“Sal and Ma, go on and load up into the truck,” dad instructed his daughter and wife.  “Thomas, come see me.”  Knowing what was coming, mom hustled Sally out to the vehicle, while a surly Tom shuffled into the kitchen where his dad sat at the table.

“Yeah dad?” Tom asked, with a degree of attitude that indicated that he didn’t know what was coming.

“Son, as you know, we’re heading to town now,” dad said.  “But with the way you’ve been behaving all last month – especially how you’ve treated your sister – there’s no way I’m taking you along.  Frankly, I don’t want you to ruin the peace and joy of our trip by the way you’d bug your sister today.  But all the more, I want you to stop treating her like that … so I want you to stay here and think about your behaviors.”

“But dad, that’s not fair!” Tom protested.

“It’s fair, and it’s happening, son,” said dad, cutting him off.  “We love you and we know you can do better than that.  Do your chores, and there are some extra things on this list that’ll keep you busy and out of trouble while we’re gone, to give you more time to think.”  Dad tapped his finger on a piece of paper on the table.  The list had a lot of writing on it.

“But dad!” Tom tried again.  It was no use.  Dad had already turned and headed for the door.

“We’ll see you by 8 or so, son.  Good bye.”  With that, Tom’s family was gone, and the young man was left alone on the farm.  With a heavy heart and a long list of chores.

Tom set into his chores right away.  He was no slouch to begin with, but he was also anxious to get the part of his punishment that he could control behind him.  There was no controlling the fact that he was missing out on the trip into town.  But the chores didn’t have to devour his entire day.  Besides that, he was fueled by his anger – at his punishment, but also at himself as he reflected on how he’d treated his sister.  So he dug hard into the list, and by early afternoon, he’d made a big dent in it.

Getting the chores done early – especially the outdoors ones – was a good thing, because the rains – which had ceased just the night before – started up again that afternoon.  When they returned, they came down in torrents.  Tom was a little spooked by the dark skies, the low visibility across the fields, and the lightning and thunder cracking the big skies over the farm.  He stayed busy through the afternoon to not worry as much.

By the end of the day he was feeling better – he felt some pride in what he’d accomplished and had an improved outlook on his situation with his family.  And the weather wasn’t worrying him as much anymore.  He’d gotten used to the sounds around the house.  He was just ready for his family to get home so they could reconcile with one another.

Tom looked out the window at the road to their home, to watch for the family truck.  As he stared out the window, the moments turned into minutes, and the daylight dripped away with the rains.  But in the waning daylight, he saw something that instantly chilled his blood.  Impossibly, he saw a huge wave of water roll across their fields.  As Tom looked on in awe, he saw the water, as high as the trees in the orchards of the neighboring farm, roll toward – and then over – the roadbed that his parents were supposed to come down.  The Big Creek dam, about two miles upstream, must have failed!

The waters were still coming, and quickly wrapped themselves around the Walsh farmhouse as they kept rolling across their family farm and the surrounding countryside.  A loud but muted pop – like a firecracker set off under a plastic trash barrel – sounded, and with it, all the lights went out.  The power was lost, and Tom found himself alone and in the dark.

Still rising, the waters had soon seeped in to the ground floor of the home, finding their way into the canvas sides of Tom’s sneakers the same way they’d found their way into the sturdy home.  The boy thought quickly, and grabbed a flashlight from the kitchen junk drawer.  He needed to seek higher ground.  Sloshing through the ankle-deep waters that had already covered the main floor of the home, Tom made his way to the stairs to the upstairs part of the home.

He grabbed the phone in his parent’s room, but found that it was dead.  He felt even more alone.  In less than five minutes, Tom’s hopes of being reunited with his family were dashed.  But that was much less a concern to him now – now he had to be in survival mode.  He looked out the upstairs window and saw his entire world covered with water … the fields, the roads, the sheds and all but the tallest trees.

Turning from the window, Tom sat at the top of the stairs to think, and watched as the water slowly climbed the stairs. The water stopped rising when it reached almost to the 8th step – there were only 14 steps in the staircase.  Tom looked at his wristwatch.  It was 8:30.  His parents and Sally would have been home by now if not for the flood.  The rains had stopped, and he was scared and alone – but at least he was safe.  He had no idea where his family was at this moment, and he prayed that they were safe, too. He decided to try to sleep – there was nothing else he could do.  He’d have to figure out a way off his island home in the morning light.

Exhausted, Tom fell into sleep quickly, but it was a fitful rest.  At some point, he imagined a bright light hovering over the countryside before rapidly approaching the house with a throbbing “whoomp, whoomp, whoomp” sound.  In this dream-vision, the light belonged to a flying saucer.  As the craft got closer to the homestead, the glare changed from a bright ball in the sky to a sharp beam – a beam that searched from window to window in the farmhouse, looking for human victims to draw up into the alien craft.

Tom tossed and turned. “No, no!” he murmured in his sleep as he ran to avoid the suction light beam.  His protests got louder and more frantic, until he finally managed to wake himself up.  He looked around the room and saw that all was as it had been before – quiet and peaceful.  He remembered the rains and the flood, but as bad as that was to recall, he was relieved that his dream of aliens was only that – a dream.

Mildly embarrassed to have been so scared by such a silly dream, he smiled to himself in the dark as he lay back down to try to sleep again.  As he settled in, he thought that he could hear a faint “whoomp, whoomp, whoomp” sound in the distance – the same sort of sound he’d heard in his dreams.  He sat up straight, as a chill covered his body. Listening more intently, he heard it again, and it was growing louder – and closer: “whoomp, whoomp, whoomp, whoomp, whoomp …

Tom slinked out of bed and crawled to his window.  He couldn’t locate the source of the sound – it sounded like it came from everywhere all at once.   Then, from his right, he saw the pinpoint of light.  It was quickly moving toward the home, and just like in his dream, the glowing ball of light sharpened into a beam.  Tom was scared – just as scared as he’d been during the dream. But not as scared as he became seconds later, as a crackly, electronic voice sounded out over the din of the craft:

We’re … coming … to get you!

The light was pointing in Tom’s window now, and he was certain he’d been seen!

We’re coming … to get you!” the eerie voice repeated, laid over the incessant “whoomp, whoomp, whoomp” of the craft’s propulsion system.

Tom’s mind raced.  Maybe they’d blasted the dam – of course they had – they’d trapped all the farm families in their homes and now could come and harvest them more easily!  The craft was almost upon the house.  He had to do something.  Tom had read enough comic books and seen enough science fiction movies to know what these alien creepers might do to him if they abducted him.  He wasn’t going to be a live autopsy subject or part of an alien buffet dinner if he could help it.

Sitting under the window with his back to the exterior wall, he could see from the fading glow in the sky that the light had passed over the front of the house.  He had to make his move now, while the beam was pointed away from him.  He had to make a run for the stairs and the wet main floor – away from where the aliens might look for him!

As he dashed for the hallway, he heard a heavy thump on the roof of the house, quickly followed by a crashing sound.  Tom froze with fear, as the crashing and crunching sounds continued.  It sounded as if a monster was taking big bites out of the roof!  Then he heard the voice again.

We’re … coming … to … get … you!” it intoned, more urgently than ever.

There were scurrying sounds in the attic space now, like giant rats shuffling around.  Tom made a dash for it – it was now or never!  He reached the hallway and headed for the stairs when there was a final crash, and he saw the ceiling over the stairs fall in.  Looking up, he could see the ship’s broad white beam trained on the attic space, along with a number of smaller red beams flashing around, like evil eyes searching in the dark.

He made a run for the steps, only to be caught up in the grasp of a large, dark arm that had swung in his path.  The arm grabbed Tom, and with raw strength, lifted the young man into the attic.  It was all over, Tom thought.  With one eye squeezed shut and the other squinting against the light and against fear, he braved to look into the face of his abductor, to see …

Before his gaze, Tom saw a camouflage-covered helmet.  Affixed to it was a tactical headlamp, glowing red in the dark night.  And under the helmet was the warm, smiling face of a soldier.

We came to get you,” said the man’s voice, which he could also hear echoing electronically from a speaker on the bottom of the craft above.  “You’re OK now, Tom, and so is your family.  Your parents told us where to find you.  We came to get you!  It’s all over!”

Tom was hoisted into the “alien spacecraft” – a National Guard helicopter – and was ferried to drier land in town, where he was reunited with his family at a makeshift shelter.  Tom told them all about the adventure of his rescue.  But it was quite a while before he told them about the alien abduction!

THE END

Copyright 2012

Click the following links to read more stories of threatening visits from Xenon:

Only the Good Die Young

Black Friday

The Zentai Phenomenon: A Serial Killer Digest

The Visit From a Blue-Eyed Cat

•January 9, 2012 • 1 Comment

Sabra, 1994 – 2011. R.I.P.

By Jeffrey Bishop

True events behind this story — particularly a blue-eyed, white cat roaming near our campsite at Camp Vandeventer in Southern Illinois — inspired this, our first campfire story ever.

Tell Time: 6 minutes
Scare Rating: 2/5 Ghosts

The tale that I’m about to tell happened not too long ago, in our fair town. In fact, it was last year – 1912 – when the last mysterious event occurred.  The story involves a blue-eyed cat – specifically, a white cat with blue eyes.  Some believe it was a ghost, and all others aren’t too sure it wasn’t.

As you know, most cats have either green eyes or yellow eyes. So the appearance of a cat with blue eyes – which seemed to glow brightly in the night – would seem kind of eery to most people in its own right.  That these eyes belonged to a feline peculiarus – that was only seen at night, with a white body that also seemed to glow softly, and that was allegedly involved in a number of mischievous events – certainly added evidence to the idea that we were indeed dealing with a ghost cat.

One of the first such queer events involved Mrs. Puckett.  It was on an early spring night, and she had baked a cherry pie and set it to cool next to an open window, on the sill over her kitchen sink. She had no sooner settled into her easy chair in the next room to listen to a record program and sip her chamomile tea when she heard a terrible commotion in the kitchen.

Rushing out of her chair just as fast as her spry 81-year-old legs could carry her, Mrs. Puckett reported that she got to the kitchen just in time to see a bluish-white flash go out the window and into the night.  Turning on the kitchen light, poor Mrs. Puckett found her beautiful cherry pie tipped over and on to the floor. Surrounding it were little red paw prints. The paw prints led back up to the counter and to the window where they disappeared. Realizing very quickly that the screen was shut on the window and that there was no way anything could have passed in or out of window, Mrs. Puckett fainted, and didn’t revive until her rooster crowed the next morning.

The next mysterious incident involved Mr. Rodgers’ dog, Milo. It was the middle of the night, and Milo really wanted to go out. Most nights, Milo made it through the night just fine, but there was something out there that night that the bulldog was very interested in, and his excitement grew as Mr. Rodgers led him to the back door. If it was daytime, Mr. Rodgers would have hooked Milo up to his chain, for everyone’s protection.  But being late, Mr. Rodgers decided to let Milo run free a bit.  Besides, he had remembered the pot roast that Mrs. Rodgers had cooked that night, and he was anxious to get into the icebox to tear off a slab for a midnight snack.

With a fork in one hand and the lid of the crock in the other, he was just about to strike when a great commotion erupted from the back yard,  There was barking and growling, followed soon afterwards by whimpering and whining. Mr. Rodgers dropped the fork and lid and ran to the back yard. Flipping on the back porch light, he found his Milo wrapped up in his chain, struggling to get free but seeming to instead draw the chain like a noose, tighter and tighter with each move. Sitting over him, on the roof of Milo’s dog house, was a white cat, licking its front paw in silent judgment. As Mr. Rodgers ran to free his pet, the cat gingerly hopped off the roof of the house and disappeared into the night.

There were stories of dozens of other mischievous events involving the mysterious white cat that were shared around the town that summer. There was the famous cat-tastrophe at the post office overnight; then there was also the cat-aclysmic event on the night shift at the shoe factory, which resulted in an avalanche of workboots burying three line workers, where they remained shouting for help until the day shift showed up and found them.

Perhaps others have shared their tales with you already, but there’s one more instance involving the white cat that I want to tell, because it was the last time the white cat was seen in our town, and it was I who happened to see it for the last time.  It was late in the summer, and I was out for an evening walk with my lovely bride. The town was settling in for the night as we strolled down the lane in the quaint older neighborhood just outside of the center square. As we headed down Maple Street, I saw the small, white, glowing body moving slowly before me at the other end of the block – and I knew right away that I was having my own encounter with the ghostly cat.

The phantom shape seemed to emerge from the old Sous Manse, the large, stately old home on the corner of the street, long ago abandoned after Matron Sous passed away. As we got closer, we could clearly see that it was indeed a cat, and as it set down near the curb and turned its eerie blue eyes toward us, we knew it was the white cat that everyone else in the town had been talking about.

We were stunned.  Looking at my wife, and she at me, neither one of us really wanted to go any closer . But it was just a cat, right?  It would be silly to stop because of a cat – and after all, it was black cats crossing your path, not white ones, that were supposed to bring bad luck.  However, as spooked as we were, neither one of us wanted to be the one to suggest we turn around and go another way, either. So she clutched my arm tighter, and I steadied my walk, as we slowly moved closer to the apparition.

But with our very next step, something even more strange happened. Near the cat, but deeper in the darkness, away from the lights of the street, a new phantom appeared. Standing in the night some yards from the cat was the figure of an old lady, hunched over and frail. Though we were still a ways away, we could clearly make her out, as she, too, was gently glowing with a whitish-blue aura. The lady seemed to be calling to the cat, and the cat ran up to her as though they’d been separated for many months.

I could feel my wife’s fingernails dig into the flesh of my arm as we took another step toward the ghostly pair.  As we did, I could see both the old lady and the cat nod to us curtly, as if in greeting and in farewell at the same time.  They then turned and walked away from us, with an unnatural — or rather, supernatural — haste. As they moved into the glowing light of the street corner lamp, both the old lady and the cat disappeared into the night.

After that night, neither the mischievous blue-eyed cat nor its ghostly owner was ever seen in our town again.

THE END

Copyright 2012

Scurry Tails

•January 5, 2012 • Leave a Comment
Scurry Tails

As we imagined the critters!

By Jeffrey Bishop

Although this is not our first story written, that it’s eponymous with the blog, and that it’s relatively accessible (length, subject, low Scare Rating, etc.), compelled us to publish it first.  We hope you enjoy it — but let us know your thoughts!

Tell Time: 5 minutes 40 seconds
Scare Rating: 1/5 Ghosts

Jenny was off to summer camp, for her first time.  She was looking forward to a week of fun and activities with her fellow Sunshine Girl Scouts, and a week away from her older brother, Ben, who always seemed to work hard to tease and annoy her.  But her excitement was tempered a bit by worry, because of what Ben had warned her about from his recent summer camp experience with the Wilderness Boy Scouts.

“Have fun, sis.  Just watch out for the scurry tails,” he warned ominously, in the southern drawl that everyone in those parts was known for.

“‘Scary tales?'” she asked, repeating what she thought she heard him say.  “What scary tales?”

“You’ll find out!” he replied, with a mischievous grin on his face.  And with that, their mom whisked her into the car and off to the campsite, a couple of hours away from the city.

When she arrived, Jenny quickly forgot about her worries as she met up with the other girls from her den and they got into their activities.  That afternoon, she and her friend Brandi took a swim in the lake before the group hike and tour through the camp grounds.

“Are you scared?” Brandi asked Jenny as they walked along a path winding uphill through the woods.  “Are you scared to sleep out in the woods?  Are you scared … of the scurry tails?”

Jenny hadn’t thought about being afraid — and hadn’t thought about the scary tales — all afternoon.  But all at once, her anxiety crept up on her again.  “I guess a little,” she replied, trying to keep a brave front up.  “My brother warned me about them, but I’m pretty sure he was just teasing me.”

“I don’t known” Brandi replied.  “My big sister warned me about them too!  I’m not looking forward to the campfire.  Or lights out!”

Neither was Jenny, but she kept that to herself.  As the afternoon gave way to evening, and the dinner dishes were all washed up and set out to dry, the sense of dread among the girls kept growing and growing.

“Time for campfire stories!” called out Becky, their youth leader.  At that, all the girls gathered around the campfire, sitting on logs spaced out in a ring around the central fire pit.  Jenny dragged herself there slowly, fearing the stories she’d hear — fearing the tales she thought her brother had warned her about.

But the stories that the leaders and some of the other girls told ended up being just fine — even wonderful!  Some were funny, others had a bit of mystery to them.  A couple of them were mildly scary, but nothing at all like what Jenny had worked up in her mind to be afraid of!

After a while, as a full moon topped the tree line behind them and the camp fire died down to a low pile of red embers, story time ended.  In good cheer again and tired from their full day of fun, the two girls headed to their tent to turn in.

But no sooner had they settled into their sleeping bags, when a wind seemed to rush up on their campsite, whooshing loudly among the tents.  The tents themselves started to shake violently, and both girls sat up and looked at each other in the dark, scared all over again.

Then there came a scream from another tent nearby. With that, Jenny grabbed her flashlight and turned it on.  As the light hit the wall of the tent, she could see the silhouette of some small creature hanging on the outside wall.  Both she and Brandi screamed, and soon the entire campsite was awake and screaming along with them, as dozens of little creatures ran from tent to tent, banging on the nylon walls, running up one side and down the other, snapping the guy lines, and otherwise finding ways to be obnoxious.

Jenny waved her flashlight around, trying to get a glimpse of the creatures that had invaded their pop-up neighborhood.  Seeing a shadow at the nylon screen door, she shined her flashlight straight ahead and saw the critter.

She got a good look at the thing that was clinging to the door and shaking it back and forth.  Jenny’s scream, high in her throat, melted into nervous laughter as she fully realized the situation.  Before her was a furry animal about the size of a young cat, with a flat, comical face that held a toothsome smile.  It’s tail was long like a monkey’s, but thicker, with a big furry bulb on the end of it.  It used the tail to beat on the tent wall like a drum.

She didn’t recognize the creature, but upon seeing such an amusing looking animal, Jenny — and Brandi too — couldn’t be scared anymore.  The critter’s comedic antics were rather cute.  Cuter still was the quizzical look on its face, as the girls reacted with amusement instead of fear.  Perplexed — but still smiling mischievously with the toothy look pasted to its face, the creature redoubled its efforts, banging the tent even harder and faster than before and scurrying back and forth across the mesh window.  The girls doubled over, laughing and giggling at the silly sight before them.

Now angry — but still smiling — the creature hopped off the girls tent.  Looking back, it stuck a long pink tongue out in their direction and gave a loud razzie, then bounded away, chattering loudly to its fellow monsters as it slinked away into the night.

The girls looked at each other again, still giggling at what they’d just seen.  All around them, they could hear wild laughter erupting from other tents, as the girls around them also discovered the humor in the antics of the creatures that had invaded their tent city.

“Alright girls, you can go back to sleep now,” came the voice of their leader, out of her tent and patrolling the area now.  “They’re all gone now.  And I don’t expect they’ll be back again tonight!”

“What were those things?” asked Jenny when Becky came by to check on their tent.

“Why, those were just scurry tails!” she replied.  “Ornery little devils, aren’t they?”

A wide smile of understanding spread across Jenny’s face as her brother’s warning finally clicked.  “Scurry tails, huh?”  Not scary tales, she thought.  “Why, they’re nothing to be afraid of at all!”

With that, she once again snuggled down into her sleeping bag and fell fast asleep.

THE END

Copyright 2012