Alone with the Unknown - A WEP Flash

Youthful Frights vs Adult Fears - Halloween Nights when the veil thins between this world and that other one. . .

Don't listen, don't look, don't turn around. . .

Paris - An Old Cemetery, by DG Hudson

A child sleepwalks, unbeknownst to the rest of the family. Out the door, and into a nearby cemetery, stepping gingerly, not feeling the cold night air.  She halts amid the dark stone tombs of yesteryear, eye closed and hands sensing her path and her active mind guiding her tiny feet.

A cat growls and hisses in the shadows of a nearby tomb and the child awakens. There is fear in her eyes yet she knows not what caused her to awaken. She looks around, feeling an aura of restlessness in the spirits biding in the place. All the things around her are dark and foreboding. . .she screams, breaking the stillness of the night. . .

Back in her own home, a few houses away, a mother hears the scream through her sleep and awakens panicked.  She knows her child walks at night. What calls her? She is up in a minute knowing where to find the little one. The child is always drawn to the cemetery, as if for a purpose. A shiver runs down the mother's spine.

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I woke up sweating, looking about me and trying to determine where I was. In the dark, my sleepy eyes could still make out some things by the light of the moon shining outside, its light beaming in the window. I tried to calm myself, this was familiar, not like the dream from which I had woken. A dream where I was alone in the dark, in the middle of a cemetery hundreds of years old, with no idea why I was there nor how I had gotten there. I drifted back into sleep and the dream continued. . .

I didn't recognize the place at all, and there was a feeling of very old things lurking. Why was I standing still, why did I feel like something was getting closer, something I didn't want to see. Why wasn't I running or at least moving away? 

I turned, hearing something behind me. There was nothing there. I looked for my house, but I couldn't see anything, the fog has rolled in, damp, cloying and thick enough to smell. An earthy smell, like earth freshly turned.  Or, musty like a grave. What am I doing here? How did I get here?

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The doorbell rang, and I nearly fell off the couch. I had fallen asleep again, Was that really a bell I heard or did I dream that too?  There was no way I was answering a door after midnight.. .especially on Samhain, All Hallows Eve, when the spirits can cross over.  No way.

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WEP

Minor feedback acceptable Or MPA
WC=449


That's my entry for this October Challenge of WEP, Write...Edit...Publish, hosted by Denise and Yolanda at the WEP site. This is Flash Fiction using your creative turn of mind in the form of prose, poetry, non-fiction, art, or photos. 

Check the WEP site for details

The prompt: Tell us about the horror that stalked you in the night. Write about it for this challenge and turn those childhood fears into a scare-fest like no other. . .but then leave your night light on when you go to bed.  It's supposed to prevent the spirits coming in under cover of darkness, or so my friend's Italian grandmother told her.  . .

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Do you dislike being in dark dank places, especially cemeteries? Do you feel an affinity to the spirit world, walking dead or otherwise?

Please leave a comment to let me know you stopped by and I'll respond.  Don't forget to check the list for DL (Direct Link) at the WEP site to read more Halloween tales. It's your treat for Samhain.

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WEP - Haunted Memories, A Ghost Story

I didn't hear that noise. It's my imagination. . .

Hosted by Denise Covey

A moonless night with a storm approaching, and I'm all alone in this house.  I checked all the doors and windows on the lower level when I arrived, except one, but that one is hardly ever opened and always locked. I don't have the TV on since the radio weather advisory warned of nearby tornadoes. The howling winds of the storms are something I'll never get used to. It always sounds like the roof will blow away. Maybe I've watched the Wizard of Oz too many times.

The house was as silent as death before the sounds started. Great. First, I heard what sounded like a footstep. Then another. Quiet footsteps. A door creaked, but old doors do that when they settle. A house like this, which has seen many people come and go, must sigh every now and then. Can a house sigh? It seems like it. 

So much misery has been bottled up here. Why did I say I would watch the place while my family went for a short visit? I remember the stories about this house. We kids used to relate them to each other when we had sleepovers. There it is again, almost like a door closing gently.

Perhaps the ghosts in this house aren't angry ghosts, just sad ones. I'll get the flashlight in case the storm blows the fuses and the lights go out. I can hear the rain starting to fall harder now. If any of the large windows are open on the second level, I have to shut them.

As I ascend the stairs, I try not to look at the landing after the 13th stair where the staircase turns right to go to the second level.  My bedroom was on that level when I was younger. That landing features in a family story about a man who hung himself. Bereft and depressed after the death of his brother by a lightning strike, he committed suicide.

I arrive at the top step and the same window is open at the end of the hall. The window where the first brother was killed, burned by the ferocity of the lightning as he left the bathroom beside the window. The wind is blowing through the hallway, bringing in the rain. I shut the window quickly, careful not to look at any relfection that may be there, and listen for thunder announcing a coming strike. As kids, we learned to count the seconds between the thunder and the strike to gauge how close the lightning was. 

I need a cup of tea or something stronger. My nerves are on high alert. As I turn, I notice the suite across from the one we used to occupy. It's used for storage now. The house was built raised above the ground in 1875. It's easy for rats to get in the storage areas, even though the fireplaces in each room were sealed long ago. 




Not the same house but similar vintage - WC-PD*

 

As I descend the stairs, the house sinks back into silence and I think of grandmother and the man who gave her this house for a pittance. He was in love with her, but married her sister as she was already married to Grandfather, a man twenty years her senior, when she met the younger man.  He was a doctor and lived in another town. His daughter was our erstwhile aunt. Only one photo we have shows them talking in front of the house. How sad that they never got together. Both Grandmother and Grandfather died in this house, as did others before them. That used to be the way of families, the elderly died at home. I make my tea and reminisce. The spirits settle now, my fear is gone, but I still feel uneasy. I don't know if I can sleep here tonight.

Maybe I'll just sleep on the couch over there in this one room next to the lower kitchen where it seems peaceful.  Then again, maybe not. I wonder if I can stay awake all night?

I might need a lot of tea.

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(For more details on this same house see DG's 21st Century Journal Blog), A Gothic South Tale

For a peek at Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris: 2013's post at Halloween
http://dghudson.blogspot.ca/2013_10_01_archive.html 

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Have you ever felt the chill of 'otherness' in a house, room or even in an area outside? Are you fond of ghost stories, and the unknown? OR are you a fan of Halloween?

Please leave a comment to let me know you were here, and I'll respond. Thanks for dropping by and hope you can check the other WEP stories sometime before Halloween!

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*WC-PD NOTE:
http://abnf.co/Ohio.htm Photo credit, free use image, used to set the mood. Not the actual house, as the real place on which this story is based has been renovated extensively and has a new owner.
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WEP

Would you like to challenge yourself? Try Write...Edit...Publish! aka WEP

Join us for a monthly signup and some very interesting reading. It's flexible. I joined the once-a-month bloghop to write a few short stories or write in installments like the old-time serials. I've also met fellow writer-bloggers with the same penchant for responding to Denise's challenges. WEP can help you practice short writing and the prompts will invigorate your creative thinking.

Write…Edit…Publish! welcomes you to submit any of the following – flash fiction, poetry, non-fiction or playscripts to a word count of 1,000 words – artwork and photographs accompanied by your written inspiration in creating your work/s.

Next Challenge: November - Affluenza

Denise Covey - WEP in detail, the list of participants and prompts

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A Coyote Cal Weird Western - Milo James Fowler

El Diablo de Paseo Grande

Sometimes, you don't want to know. . .

El Diablo, cover prop. of Milo James Fowler

At the beginning of the story, Coyote Cal is on the road with his sidekick Yap, a psychic, Donna, and a guide, Manuel.  Coyote has been hired to track down something that's killing the livestock.  It's killing them for a purpose.  A trap is set.

What would you do if you heard strange noises just over the hill, late at night in the middle of an unfamiliar rural place?  Walk towards the noise, or run the other way?


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To celebrate Milo's two hundredth blog post AND a month chock-full of Creepy Freebies, Milo is offering "El Diablo" for free on Amazon from Sunday the 21st of October through the 25th.  Don't miss it!  Be sure to check out Milo's Blog for other special treats this Halloween.  There's still time before the 31st.

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Do you know Milo J. Fowler and his blog, In Media Res?  If not, you need to visit his blog and see some of his work.  It's a showcase of the weird stories that seem perfectly appropriate this time of year. 

Please share in the comments if you know Milo or if you've read this weird tale.  Thanks for stopping by.

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