Playing with Fire (Anthology of Horror)

by Chryse; Coral Russell; Brian Fatah Steele; CAV Laster; Nomar Knight; Robynn Gabel; Susan Evelyn Wymer

  The beam of light from Marcos' flashlight illuminated a white metal cradle surrounded by a white metal picket fence. Other gravestones around the cradle were marked by baby angels sitting with their chubby legs crossed or laying on their stomachs, chin in their hand. Hector overheard people make small sounds of sympathy. "This is the infant area," Marcos said. "We often get pictures of orbs, mists, and shapes. If you brought a flash camera, go ahead and take some pictures."

  The cemetery lit up with flashes of light. "When you look back through your pictures," Marcos continued, "if you find something unusual, please let us know or post it on our Facebook page."

  When the camera flashes died down, Marcos said, "Segregation and racism continued even after death. You'll notice as we travel through the cemetery certain sections are walled off."

  Hector turned to keep pace with the group when he thought he saw a black shadow swipe past on his right. His boots crunched as he swiveled to try to follow it, but the shadow, if that's what it had been, was already gone. Something was playing with him.

  Marcos' voice reminded him the group had moved on. "If you have recorders, go ahead and get them ready. We're coming to the first walled off section. This area is for the Chinese immigrants who entered El Paso in the 1880s to work on the railway. We've gotten angry shouts and, I guess, Chinese words, when people whistle. If some of you want to whistle a little bit, you can tell us later if you recorded anything."

  Hector hung back as the group wandered around the small enclosed area, filling the night with soft 'cat calls' and 'wolf whistles.' Marcos flicked on his light near a large tombstone inside the Chinese section. "We're going to do an EVP session where we record our questions and play it back later to see if anyone has answered. Just stay as quiet as possible. We've caught things here before."

  A petite shadow made it's way towards Hector. Even in the darkness, he could see the faint glow of her blond hair.

  "Hector, you doing OK?" Bev said.

  "Yea, but I think I've seen a shadow."

  "Awesome. Just once?"

  "No, twice so far. No one else has seen it though."

  "How are you feeling?"

  "Jumpy as hell."

  Marcos' voice rang out over the scattered group. "OK, folks, be sure to check your digital recorders later to see if you caught anything. Now, let's head over to the Caples mausoleum."

  "I'll keep my eyes open and let me know if you see anything," Bev said and then returned to her position on the other side of the group.

  Once outside of the Chinese section, Marcos led the group to the left and up a sandy trail to a large block building with the word Caples chiseled into the cement above an iron door. Hector watched Marcos climb three stone steps to the door and face the group. "Now this is the same man who built the Caples building downtown. The mausoleum is popular with psychics who take this tour as well as black magic practitioners. We've found cat and dog sacrifices, and once, a cow's head that looked like it was used for some ceremony. Pretty creepy stuff."

  Some of the crowd recoiled in disgust while others kept snapping pictures or panning their devices around the area. "The green area on the right side of the cemetery is the Jewish section. They keep that section locked up so it's off-limits to us. Let me step down so you can take some pictures." Marcos said.

  A rock wall that bordered the cemetery was about thirty feet from the Caples mausoleum. Various businesses stood on the other side of the wall with bright halogen lights that lit up the parking lot and small sections of the wall. Hector shifted his feet, an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He glanced over the group. A shadow passed by one of the lighted sections of the wall about thirty feet away.

  Hector took off at a run toward the next section of lighted wall. After ten feet the sandy trail ended and Hector slowed to pick his way past head stones while trying to keep his eyes glued to the next lighted section. He was halfway there when he saw the shadow start to enter the lighted area. Convinced he'd just caught someone using tonight's tour to break in and sneak around the cemetery, Hector brought up his flashlight and shouted, "Hey!"

  The shadow disappeared. Hector figured it must have ducked down when his light reached that section of the wall not more than ten feet away. Nothing. Hector stumbled over a broken headstone and went down on one knee. He brought his flashlight up and panned it back and forth against the wall. There was no one there.

  "Hector!" Tony's booming voice carried across the cemetery. He was a big man, standing six feet three inches tall and weighing close to three hundred pounds. The rest of the group teased him about being the 'muscle' behind the Paranormal Posse. "Hector, wait up. What's wrong?"

  Keeping his eyes and flashlight on the wall, he called over his shoulder. "Did you see that?"

  "See what?" Tony said.

  Hector could hear heavy breathing. Running was not something Tony did very often. "There was a shadow that blacked out a section of the wall. I could see the head above the wall. I thought someone had snuck into the cemetery. I was going to cut them off here, but... ."

  Both beams traveled the length of the wall. Headstones and crosses cast long shadows along the ground. A hand clamped around Hector's arm and hauled him upright.

  "I don't see anything, Hector. You probably scared them off and they jumped the fence."

  "Yea, I guess so." Hector took off his black cowboy hat and slapped at the sand on his knee. They trotted up the trail to rejoin the tour. Hector could hear Marcos naming more famous grave sites - Florida "Lady Flo" J. Wolfe, Reverend Joseph Tays, Frank Hanna and Jake Erlich.

  When Hector and Tony returned to their places alongside the group, Marcos had his flashlight trained on a white concrete slab, surrounded by another rock wall. Inside, neat rows of gray tombstones shone faintly. "This is the Buffalo Soldiers Memorial and on the left, is the Mason section." Marcos pointed with his light to a towering, white obelisk. "Go ahead and take a couple of minutes for pictures."

  Most of the group spread out, but several paused. As they approached Marcos, Hector felt eyes following him and heard whispers of, "What happened?" as he passed by.

  "What the hell was that all about?" Marcos said in a low voice.

  "I thought I saw something." Hector said

  "Bev told me you were feeling jumpy tonight."

  "I could have sworn I saw a shadow earlier and I know I saw someone walk along the wall on the other side of the Caples mausoleum."

  "Did you find anyone?"

  "No."

  "All right, well, let's regroup and finish up the tour then."

  The shrine to John Wesley Hardin was the last stop of the tour. The large stone and steel structure resembled an old-time jail cell. Hector listened to Marcos' explanation, while scanning the area on either side of the group. "The building you see here was erected partly to show off this famous resident and partly to protect his remains. Hardin's relatives filed a suit with the courts to exhume John Wesley's body and bury it in Nixon, Texas. They lost that suit. The Mexican government, however, won theirs and moved President Victoriano Huerta and General Orozoco Pascual Jr. back across the border."

  A woman leaned toward Hector and whispered, "What happened?"

  "Nothing, ma'am. Thought I saw something, but, turned out it was nothing."

  Hector could hear the smile in her voice. "Thought you saw a ghost, huh?"

  "Yea, wouldn't be the first time."

  Marcos started the speech they all used to close the tour. "This officially ends our tour tonight. I encourage all of you to get involved with the Concordia Heritage Association. They have living history tours here every spring where Six Guns and the Shady Ladies perform reenactments. All funds go towards the upkeep and restoration of the Concordia Cemetery." He shone a light down the wide sand trail towards the exit. "Please follow this trail out. Tell your friends about us. Drive safely and have a good night!"

  The Paranormal Posse fell into step behind the tour group. Hector imagined what people would think
when they saw the Posse together. Except for their matching t-shirts, they couldn't be more different physically - Tony resembled a bear walking upright, Bev looked like a strong breeze would knock her over, and Marcos was the average looking one of the four. Hector rubbed a hand across his stomach. His thirties had seen him put on some weight and he was shorter than Marcos. An insatiable curiosity about the paranormal is what had brought them together and kept them working together for almost five years.

  "So what happened?" Bev asked Hector as he clicked the lock shut on the gate.

  "I saw a shadow along that back wall. Took off after it. I got about ten feet from the wall and whatever was there disappeared."

  "That's more excitement than we've had out here in a long time."

  "I was thinking the same thing," Tony said.

  "Get out! Get out! Get out!" Everyone, but Hector, jumped at the sound of a growling man's voice.

  "Dang it, Hector. I hate that ring tone," Bev said.

  "Hey, I got it from an EVP session we did in the Franciscan Hotel. It's cool." Hector pulled out his phone, glanced at the number and paused. The number belonged to his ex-wife, Lydia. Since they tried to talk to each other as little as possible, this couldn't be good.

  ***

  The last thing I remember is seeing the bracelet. I was so happy. Then a shadow passed over me and I was sucked away. I had the feeling I was traveling. Then that feeling stopped. I'm in a different place now that is darker than night. I know there are others here with me, but they are silent.

  Why won't you talk to me?

  I don't like it here.

  I saw the man return the bracelet and I would have been happy to stay there and just look at it from time to time. I wouldn't have bothered them anymore.

  There it is again. I thought I heard something. I think it's a voice chanting. I can't make out the words. I follow the sound, but then it stops, so I wait.

  It's getting louder, which means I'm getting closer.

  Table of Contents

  Flawed

  by

  Brian Fatah Steele

  October, 1998

  If you are reading this, the first question you may ask yourself is: "Why is this written on various sheets of colored construction paper?" I apologize, but it was the only thing I had available. Fortunately it has always been a habit of mine to carry about my person an ink pen of some sort, or you may have found this note scribbled in crayon.

  At the moment I am barricaded inside my niece's bedroom while my eldest brother prowls the outside corridor like a modern-day "Cain," ready to strike me down. I do not know how many of my other family members are still alive. It really doesn't matter, I suppose. None of us are fit to return to the outer world now.

  I leave this as a warning to others who may take up residence in this house, for I do believe in was the house that drove us to this state. Perhaps someone will find this letter early enough and see the signs. I can only hope that they will not only remove themselves and their loved ones from this infernal structure, but burn it down as they flee.

  It started not long ago...

  My father, Roger Gastlin, had finally retired as principal from West Essex High School after quite a number of years. He had been an English teacher before his promotion, a job role I myself had followed him into at a neighboring school. Once he had left the school, he and my mother Margaret sought to find a smaller house, perhaps one along the lake. After searching for a few months they came across a beautiful estate for a ridiculously low price. Although there were some slight repairs that needed done, my father always considered himself a bit of a handyman and they were ecstatic about the new home.

  My three brothers and I didn't hear much from our parents after they moved in and we assumed they were busy adjusting to their new life as senior citizens. A few weeks went by before I received a call from my youngest sibling, Jonathan. It would seem that our parents were suppose to have come to retrieve him for the weekend from his college and had not done so. Worried, I phoned them, only to have my mother answer the phone gruffly. The conversation did not go well and she hung up on me. My eldest brother Bryce fetched Jonathan and took him back to his home for that weekend.

  I had lunch with my other brother, Neil, a few days later and he confided in me that he had tried to ring up our parents multiple times. Each time he had been met with either scorn by my mother or by indifference by my father. He was concerned, as he knew Jonathan was. I have to admit: it was my own idea that we sons should all make a trek out to see them the following weekend. I did not expect Bryce to bring his wife and daughter, nor Neil to bring his fiancée. It was I who damned my entire family....

  We all met at Bryce's and drove out in two cars. Our parents lived only about forty-five minutes away from West Essex, near Constantine Lake. I was delighted at first to spend time with my beautiful niece, Emily. At five years old, she was as precocious as any of the Gastlin boys had been at her age. I had often teased my older brother that he was being rewarded for years of tormenting our poor parents with such a wonderfully mischievous child. He rarely argued. Bryce's wife Amanda and I were friendly enough, but I felt that she had often made things overly difficult for him. Their relationship had been rocky and most of the siblings had been quietly surprised the marriage had lasted this long.

  Neil and his fiancée Rachel came in their car with Jonathan. Unlike Amanda, I considered Rachel like a sister. She and Neil had been together since early in their college careers and both had taken positions as Undergrad faculty at Franklin State University. Sadly, Jonathan had had a brief affair with Rachel's little sister that ended badly, leaving a gap between the two.

  Slightly less than an hour later we pulled through the small gates that lead up to my parent's new home. I couldn't believe the size and magnificence of the home they had managed to purchase for so small a figure. A three-story building, it jutted out with two immense wings from a rounded center structure. This was not a summer cottage; this was a mansion. It appeared my father had achieved little in the way of repairs so far, but that did not dissuade my marvel at the home.

  The cars pulled around the driveway and came to a stop directly before the front porch. Wrought-iron pillars held up a solid balcony to the second floor, vines of an unnamed kind wrapped all throughout the flaking black metal. Patches of moss grew up haphazardly all along the first floor exterior wall of the graying brick and one of the white wooden shutters hung loosely from its post.

  As we all climbed out of our vehicles, still in awe, the double front doors slammed opened and my mother stormed out. She was dressed in blue slacks and a flower print blouse, both hung somewhat awkwardly on her frame. It was obvious she had lost a good deal of weight in the last month and her hair had been pulled back severely in a tight bun. She tilted her head back and looked down at all of us. We were quite stunned for the moment, but just as Jonathan was about to say something, she spun on her heels and returned inside, leaving the front door open.

  Looking at one another with many a raised eyebrow, we gathered our minor things and headed inside. The foyer was gigantic, with stairs leading off on both sides and wide duel corridors in front of us. The effect was somewhat dampened by the boxes of my parent's things still cluttering up the room, however. Why, after all this time, they still hadn't got to unpacking everything weighed heavily on me as Jonathan called out into the house.

  My mother appeared out of one of the corridors and promptly admonished Jonathan in a loud voice that there would be no screaming within her house. As Neil began to come to his little brother's defense she shot a finger up and told him, in a voice dripping with venom, that her rules still applied no matter what the roof, no matter what our ages.

  Needless to say, we were shocked. My mother had been a bit overbearing in our early days, before she had grown at ease with her age and started taking medication for various aches and pains. Regardless, we had never seen her act like this. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Bryce, the most ar
gumentative of the four boys, getting ready to lash out verbally at her. Stepping forward, I asked as politely as I could to the whereabouts of our father. Our mother sneered and flipped her hand dismissively towards the left corridor as she stomped to the stairs.

  Glancing at Bryce, he nodded in agreement and we all proceeded down the hall to find him.

  The corridor itself had beautiful natural wood paneling, and I knew that Bryce was itching to examine it. His time as a contract woodworker may not have brought him in riches, but it made him happy. He was lagging behind as the rest of us moved into a library. The dismay we had felt upon seeing our mother did not prepare us for our father.

  When we had last seen him, he had been a strong and fit man of sixty-six. He now appeared feeble and withered, what little hair he had left had turned white. Sitting back in a beaten up recliner with a blanket over his legs, he smiled at us. Rachel couldn't hold back a sob and Amanda clutched for Bryce. Poor Emily didn't even recognize her grandfather. Jonathan and I scrambled to his side, asking about him. He had a far away look in his eyes, but managed to concentrate enough to look at me and say "Aaron," while patting Jonathan's hand tenderly. He said he was very tired and needed to rest. We backed slowly out of the library and returned to the wide hallway.