Author bio: Essel Pratt has spent his life exploring his imagination and dreams. As a Husband and a Father, he doesn't always have as much time to write as he would like. However, his mind is always plotting out his next story and manipulating the plot. Someday he hopes to quit the 9-5 grind and focus on writing full time. Essel has been published in Multiple anthologies, including Blood Type: An anthology of Vampire SF on the Cutting Edge (Night Scape Press) and other publications by JWK Fiction, Rainstorm Press, Dark Moon Digest, and Cruentus Libri Press. A complete listing of Essel's works can be found at http://www.amazon.com/Essel-Pratt/e/B00A9VA7XU
Essel focuses his writings on mostly Horror/Sci-Fi, however is known to add a bit of other genres into his writings as well. He is currently studying toward his degree in psychology. He also reviews books, video games, and movies on his blog. You can follow Essel at: www.facebook.com/esselprattwriting and Esselpratt.blogspot.com and on twitter @EsselPratt
The Devil’s Irony
By Lori R. Lopez
Case #BF6036724423
Journal transcribed from a video.
My name is Brian Shore, although people misspell it as Brain a lot, and finally that’s what they started calling me. I suppose it helps I wear glasses and look like, well, a brain. I look intelligent. I won’t tell you my I.Q. Suffice it to say, the name fits. I’m recording this video as a record of my journey into these tunnels. Alone. Which might not seem like a very smart thing to do. As you can see, it’s dark in there. And the floor slopes drastically just beyond the opening. I don’t know what lies ahead, what I’ll encounter. But I feel it’s important to know what’s down there. I should do this with a friend. Yeah, that would be the wise plan. Trouble is, I don’t know anybody who’s stupid enough to accompany me.
So that’s basically it. Now you understand why I’m willing to take the risk. Call it courage or recklessness. Foolhardy, perhaps. When did that ever stop me?
All right, I’m going in. Wish me luck. If this is found, and I didn’t make it out . . . at least you’ll know what happened.
These tunnels have been here since before the town of Gangly Mills existed. There are legends about young lovers, kids, explorers and pets disappearing through the decades. Search parties would eventually head down this path, venturing into the steep entrance, but they wouldn’t get far. It’s a maze of passageways, and nobody really knows much about them. Searches had to be abandoned.
Whoa! Loose pebbles and debris. Makes the trail slippery. It’s all stone, the floor and walls, the ceiling. Not like a mineshaft. Did humans carve this, or is it natural, a cave system? Parts are roughcut . . . parts are smooth as if from water.
The stories say The Catacombs were everything from a pagan labyrinth, where you’d wander in circles forever or hit a series of dead-ends, to the secret route of smugglers, or pirates hiding gold and treasure. Of course, that led to some bounty-hunting expeditions that never returned. A few boozehounds vanished. But these days we have all kinds of instruments, and you’d think they would fund an investigation to finally solve the cold cases. I tried to convince local law enforcers, the mayor. No interest. Leave well enough alone, that’s what they told me. I can’t do that. I can’t. You see, my grandfather disappeared six years ago. They think he was looking for his dog. Mister Barkster never came home one night. My gramps was heartbroken. He lived outside of town, a mile or so from the entrance. I was a kid, twelve years old. I wanted to go with him when he confided that he intended to check the tunnels. We were gonna start having adventures anyway, instead of him just telling me about them. His leg was doing better.
He went without me. I feel I should have been there. Maybe he’d still be here.
Sorry. Sorry. I still get tears in my eyes. I’ll show you . . .
I need to stay focused, keep it together. But, I miss him. We were close. He listened to all my little-kid questions . . . all of my adolescent stuff. He was always there for me, and I feel that I failed him. I have to do this. I have to. I know, I’ve accepted there’s no chance he’s alive. I gave up hoping for that a long time ago.
So here I am, the only one in town who’s determined to solve its mysteries. I can’t afford any fancy equipment, just this Go-Pro camera mounted on my cap, a light, and an extra L.E.D. flashlight. I have rope, some batteries, peanut-butter sandwiches, and water bottles in my backpack. With rationing, it should last a few days. Heavy-duty trashbags. For the . . . remains. A compass, wristwatch, knife. A small climbing axe. A bee-bee gun my dad gave me to shoot birds. Haven’t fired it. I’d have nightmares of their dead bodies lying on the ground. I’m more of a photographer. Whatever’s going on underneath Gangly Mills, I aim to record it. Expose the truth.
Mom and Dad . . . I’m sorry I couldn’t say anything. You wanted me to forget this and go on, move forward. Put it behind me. That isn’t possible. Not until I do this. Loyal Baxter Howe was a great man, and I plan to find him, one way or another. I’m going to bring him back. Barkster too.
It’s cold as you can see from my breath. Might wish I had a warmer jacket. Oh, I brought gloves in the pockets. We’d better continue.
The path extends a long way down, and there’s a whole network of shafts. That’s what halted searches in the past. The sheer enormity and frustration. Which tunnel do you choose? I feel I have an advantage, though. I knew my grandfather. I think I can predict fairly accurate what he would do. And my mom says we were alike, which makes me proud. I know he was as stubborn as I am.
I didn’t train for this. Wish I had done some hiking or running. I was never very athletic. I ride a bike, if that counts. The kind you pedal. My feet are already sore. Could be the new boots. Figured I’d need good soles for traction. Hope I don’t get blisters. Maybe that’s the answer. Blisters popped and got infected, and that’s why nobody ever returned.
It’s a joke. Trying to lighten the mood. Guess it wasn’t so funny.
One more thing about my gramps, he was real smart. He grew up hearing the stories and knew the odds. He would blaze his trail. I’m positive of that, and I’ll recognize the marks.
Here we are. This is where it gets interesting, where it splits into the first branches of tunnels. Let’s see if I’m right. Come on, Loyal, what did you use? Chalk? Spray paint? I see an X with faded red paint. A second one in white. No, this is him. He used a rock or blade to scratch letters. Looks like an L, B, and H. His initials. That was easy. Told ya he was smart.
Sorry. Tears again. It’s a connection. I felt a chill. He was here. He carved this.
Okay. I’m ready. Let’s go. Let’s find him.
Oh yeah. Almost forgot. I’m smart too. They don’t call me Brain for nothing. I’ll use my knife and etch my initials. B . . . L for Loyal . . . and S. Right below his. There.
It’s much narrower. I wonder why he picked this shaft. There had to be a reason. Did he spot a sign Barkster went this way? If so, it’s gone now.
What was that? Sounded like a howl. That’s crazy. A coincidence. Has to be my imagination. Or a lost dog, but not Barkster. It’s been six years. He couldn’t survive. What would he eat, rats? If there are any. And why wouldn’t he come out? Maybe there’s a vent. Could be the wind or something. Is this what caused my grandfather to choose Tunnel Number Three out of five?
It’s dividing. Now there are . . . eight tunnels. Three heading left, two in the middle, and three slanted right. There’s the white X. Red. Here we go, L.B.H. I’ll add mine. He’s still going straight down.
That was definitely a howl! I don’t know what else is in here, but it sounded big! Dang, what if it’s a bear???
Things are getting serious, I won’t lie. Can’t let that discourage me. I knew there would be dangers. I waited six years to do this, till I was eighteen and could make my own decisions. I’m not turning back.
This is my Saint Christopher Medal. Gramps gave it to me before he left. Had it since he was a kid. He said it would protect me, like it protected him. He gave this . . . to me . . . when he need
ed it the most. I owe him!
Sorry. It’s an emotional journey. Kind of a rite of manhood. I’m going in a boy. If I come out . . .
Forgot my initials. Can’t be careless.
I’m getting nearer to the howls. Or they’re getting nearer to me. Either this is the right direction or it’s the wrong direction. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I’m about to find out. Might be a good time for some protection. This knife’s too small. Axe or bee-bee pistol? If it’s an animal, the gun could scare it. I’d prefer that. Something else, something big, mean, I don’t know if any of these will help. Gramps always told me to expect the best and prepare for the worst. The axe it is.
Pretty cold as you can tell. I need my gloves . . .
Onward.
It’s so dark the lights barely penetrate. The blackness is kind of like fog. You can see it, feel it on your skin. I have to be extremely cautious where I step since I can’t make out the floor too well. There could be a hole, a rock, anything.
Aaahhh!
Did you see that? A bluish gleam. It was right there! Spooked me. I dropped the axe. Oh man, I don’t see it. Where could it be? It isn’t as if it rolled. It should be here. This is insane! Where the heck is it?!
Don’t freak, Brian. You were a Boy Scout six months. You can handle this.
I couldn’t find the axe. It’s just gone. So I’m getting out the pistol. I’m a bit shaken, but I’m fine. The quest resumes. It’s more of a fact-finding mission. We’ll get to the bottom of this. Literally. I just hope it doesn’t go all the way to Hell.
Another joke. I’m no comedian, what can I say?
I feel calmer. The axe must be in a crevice I didn’t notice, or a shadow. I have to keep moving or I’ll begin to get paranoid, have a panic attack. People often defeat themselves when facing a challenge. That’s a quote. L.B.H. Loyal Baxter Howe. I sense that he’s here with me. I haven’t felt this close to him in years. Otherwise, I’d be overwhelmed by the solitude.
The lights are choppy . . . don’t know what’s causing . . . air is ice-cold . . . some kind of interference . . . kinetic energy down here . . . not an expert at . . . seems . . . phenomenon . . .
The lights went dead. I think the camera too. Then everything came on again. Hey, there’s the axe! Lying in front of me, like it was there all along. The blade caught the flashlight beam, I guess. I probably would’ve kicked it with my next step, that’s how obvious it is. And yet, it’s weird. I was talking about my grandfather and this happened. Maybe it wasn’t a coincidence. Maybe it was him.
It’s the kind of thing that makes you wonder.
Cue the eerie music. Whatever you think, that was strange.
I can put the gun away.
Okay, this is different. The shaft curves here. It’s been more or less straight up to now. Angling down. Well, it’s still doing that.
I just realized — the howling ended. Now the silence is disturbing. It might be a little too quiet.
What was that?! I saw something. The lights are going nuts again. If you can . . . whitish form . . . a surly face . . . black eyes . . . really . . . and dismal . . . negative vibes . . . think it’s a ghost . . . tunnels . . . definitely haunted . . . chilling sight . . .
Mom and Dad, God . . . anybody . . . if you’re listening, I’ve never been so scared in my life. That thing was gruesome. And it wasn’t Gramps. Whoever he used to be, the guy didn’t look happy. There was a red gash carved in his face and body. I think he wants me to leave. That’s the impression I got. A sick dread filled me. It was like a warning. I don’t know how else to describe it. But I can’t quit. I won’t give up. I’ve come this far. I waited too long to do this.
I’m ready.
Wait, one more thing. It isn’t bogus, okay? Look at my eyes! I’m not on drugs. I saw what I saw. It was real!
That howling is back. I don’t know what I expected. Not this. But I’m following my grandfather’s footsteps. He walked here. It makes me feel stronger. He had a way of doing that. I could talk to him. About anything. Trouble at school, he’d listen then give me options. And make me feel I was figuring it out myself. I’d try to thank him, and he’d say for what? I don’t know if I said this already, I can’t remember. Man it’s cold. Those howls, they sound like something’s dying. Or hungry. I can’t tell.
That reminds me . . . my stomach’s eating me from the inside. I need a sandwich. Some water.
Better change the camera battery. And the lights.
My feet are brittle, frozen solid. If I jump, I’ll have those shooting pains you can get. They might crackle, then crumble apart. Hope I don’t have to jump.
I’ve never felt alone before. That suddenly hit me. I thought I did. It was nothing like this. Up there, how can anyone feel alone? Surrounded by neighbors, traffic, noise, even the plants and animals. They’re everywhere. These tunnels are like another world. Stripped of life. I haven’t seen a single living thing. It’s been hours. This must be how it is in Outer Space. I doubt I’ll be joining the astronaut program.
Heh, I’m not always this chatty. I’m trying to fill the emptiness. Trying to feel less isolated, cut off from the world. Besides, these could be my last words. I’d like to go out saying . . . something meaningful.
The cold air is making my nose run. Glad I brought tissues. Just your average nerd.
That wasn’t my testament.
Moving right along . . .
Forgot my axe. Have to get it on the way back.
Ugh!
Tripped over a bag. Couldn’t see it so I had to grope around. The blackness is thicker at the bottom, as if it settles with the cold air. I recognize the knapsack. Yeah, here are his initials on the front, under all the dust. Not much inside. An engraved compass. Piece of rope. A dog leash and collar. Dented canteen, empty. Petrified candybars. A Bible. A pen and . . . a notebook.
It’s . . . Loyal’s handwriting. His latest journal. He left a bunch of them in his den. All of his travels before the leg got busted falling from the roof of his house. The devil’s irony, he called the accident.
I read them all, cover to cover. So many times. I can’t believe there’s another. It’s like finding a lost manuscript from your favorite deceased author.
I’ll read his most recent entry . . .
The warnings about The Catacombs had been ingrained. They gave me nightmares as a boy. Yet I believe they also inspired me to search for answers in the world. They ignited a passion for exploration. I always knew that I would end up here. It would be my ultimate quest.
I have to do this alone. I’m sorry, Brian. This was my challenge. My rite of passage. It had haunted me, beckoned me, most of my life. I didn’t want you to be involved because . . . it scares me more than anything I have ever faced. I couldn’t put you in such danger.
I was waiting until I had enough experience. Training myself, I thought. It was like climbing the highest peak, one of those things you might not come back from. I knew this day would arrive, but I never felt prepared. I kept waiting, kept stalling. There was always a reason. The usual excuses. Too young, too busy, too injured, too old. I was frightened. Then my dog disappeared. You don’t mess with a man’s dog. This place finally convinced me . . . it’s time.
I’ll keep my notes brief. It could be a long and harrowing journey. I’m more concerned with finding Barkster than solving any mysteries. Perhaps when we’re reunited, we’ll have one last great jaunt. I only hope my leg holds up.
Now I understand why these tunnels gave me the creeps. They emit a sense of doom that seeps into your chest and before you realize, you’re breathing it, polluting your lungs with the darkness and stench of terror. I feel as if there’s an icy fist around my heart, slowly applying pressure.
I heard some kind of howls in the distance. I can’t be certain it’s a dog. I have to investigate. I’m using them for direction. My compass is going haywire. It’s useless. I’m marking my trail, both as a record and to help find my way out. If a search party locates t
his, well, that means I didn’t make it. Follow your dreams, Brian. That’s the best advice I can give. Don’t follow me.
The howls are increasing in volume. I still can’t be sure, but they don’t sound canine. Something else might be confined here. I’m a coward. I’m afraid to call Barkster. I’d rather sneak up on the noises before announcing my presence.
I’m starting to see things. Glimpses of faces and forms. I don’t know if they’re spirits or merely the stark desolation of these shafts crushing my nerve. And the cries. Sometimes the wails are almost human. Other times they seem demonic and I feel as if I’m descending into Hell. I’ve read theories that more gates keep opening as the world sinks toward the dark side. If that’s the case, if this is a mouth to Perdition, you won’t get my soul the way you bit my leg! I haven’t sinned nearly as much as I’ve been good. That would be ironic, a decent man going to Hell. You’d have to spit me out.
Conversing with Satan. I should be praying. What’s wrong with me? There’s no doubt these tombs, where so many have perished, are playing with my marbles.
I continue to see manifestations, features with holes for eyes leering. The wraiths are eager to dissuade me. I’m clasping a Rosary, murmuring The Twenty-Third Psalm. It fits the occasion. Ghouls appear in throngs, wandering with me like the words and beads appeal to them. Is this level Purgatory? Or are these ghastly revenants the victims of The Catacombs? Maybe they’re Hell’s rejects, lured by curiosity into the abyss, too good to cross the threshold. Maybe they’re trapped outside the gate by this foul atmosphere in a state of disgrace, their minor transgressions unblessed.
Maybe I’m hallucinating. I didn’t come here for answers. I came for my dog.
The leg’s throbbing. I have to take periodic breaks. I’m sorry we never went on those adventures, Brian. Very sorry I’ve let you down.
Journals of Horror: Found Fiction Page 18