by Todd Russell
She tested the hole with a toe first and it tickled. She called for her mother to come see but her mother replied with, "Don't go out any deeper, darling."
Elaina stuck her right foot in the hole and felt a warm, pleasant sensation. She couldn't feel any bottom. She stuck her foot in deeper, up to her knee. As the warmth coursed through her, she decided to put her other leg in and keep herself above the hole by putting her arms out to each side of the hole. She went in up to her chest.
Warm and inviting. She let go and fell deeper into the hole. The warmth rushed through her nose and into her brain.
I am your remedy gate, it said. The voice was a young girl her age. She swam around inside the hole, feeling as if she'd sprouted wings. Opening her mouth she realized she could breathe inside the hole.
She emerged a few minutes later to find her mother panicked.
"Momma, why are you crying?"
"I couldn't see you, darling."
"Momma, I was playing down there," Elaina pointed, "in the remdee gate. What's a remdee?"
"You mean remedy?"
"Yeah, rem-ee-dee."
"A remedy is medicine or fix for something."
Elaina touched one of momma's tears. "Like when you are sad, Momma, the rem-ee-dee gate fixes you?"
"Yes."
Elaina saw her sand castle had been rebuilt. She smiled. Thirty minutes later, authorities started searching the beach for a missing boy.
October 31
Halloween
Halloween was first celebrated by the Celts who lived just before the beginning of A.D calendar in the area today known as United Kingdom, Ireland and Northern France. The Celts feared Autumn, believing evil spirits wanted to push the sun away. They pleased their god of death, Samhain, through sacrifice of humans and animals.
In the mid 1800s immigrants brought Halloween traditions into the United States and by the mid twentieth century, Halloween turned into a secular holiday. There are many Halloween traditions including trick-or-treating, carving and illuminating jack-o-lanterns with candles, costumes, bonfires and the telling of ghost stories.
The church replaced Samhain with All Saints Day and All Souls Day, but on Halloween the dead are still celebrated.
It's time to learn about a beautiful, young woman named Rachel . . .
Rachel's Number
I first saw her on a dirt path off the mountain trail in 1998 and should have asked for her number. Instead, I asked for her name.
"Rachel," she replied, flashing a kind smile to match her warm brown eyes. She had long brownish-blond hair, parted at the middle and a cute, petite nose.
"Like that character from Friends?"
She giggled as I noticed Mount Rainier perfectly framed over her shoulder in the distance. Wish I'd brought my camera.
And then she jogged away. I stood there with buckled knees. I'd pulled a Ross from Friends, getting tongue-tied. Missed opportunity.
I jogged the mountain trail every day hoping to see Rachel again. One morning three months later I saw her and she looked a little different. She'd lost some weight and I complimented her. Women liked it when you told them they looked thinner. Some kind of eternal quest, like warriors trying to slay the fat beast.
"Twenty pounds," she said, smiling again and then jogged away. I thought about jogging after her but didn't want to seem creepy. Blown opportunity number two.
Three months later I saw Rachel again and this time it was her hair. She'd gone Carrot Top, switching to an unattractive orange. She struck a conversation with me and I noticed small beads of sweat on her forehead. We exchanged pleasantries and jogged away. I didn't want to ask for Rachel's phone number this time.
I saw Rachel one last time two years later. Her nose had become hooked like an eagle's beak and when she smiled her teeth were decayed and yellow. I saw tears in her eyes and bones in her gaunt face. It didn't look like my Rachel, so I asked for her name again.
"Crystal," she replied, finally giving her number, "meth."
Flash O'Lantern Author's Notes
Happy Halloween!
This is the moment after trick-or-treating when we dump out the candy bags and talk about the treats. What's in your bag? Mine are the 13 dark chocolate kisses you just read.
Some reading might have checked out my other short story collection: Mental Shrillness which focuses on stories written and posted to AOL in the mid to late 1990s. All of the stories in Flash O'Lantern were written in 2011 during The Story Streak.
The Story Streak is my ongoing attempt to write a short story (minimum 250 words) every day. I've submitted an application to the Guinness Book World Records and hope they'll officially authenticate my record attempt and, as of this writing, have received no answer yet. Readers are encouraged to follow along with my daily stories on my fan page here: http://toddrwrite.com/fans/
The Story Streak stories are posted for a short time so that anybody can read them for free and then are taken offline. What happens next? Some will make it into collections like this and/or submitted to magazines and ezines, some will be taken out to the virtual woodshed and flogged, and some might appear in expanded tales and worlds. Some are being kept available online for a longer time and some spotlighted during #SampleSunday on Twitter (a weekly sample of various writers' work being shared). As of this writing, I've made it 62 days in a row.
All of the stories in this collection have been a first place or honorable mention contest winner at writing.com. There is a secret code (hint, hint) nearby that will lead you to a page to read a couple more stories.
My son, Joel, picked out the stories for Flash O'Lantern and I picked out and wrote the October historical dates and tie-ins to the stories as well as set the order. Here are a few notes on the stories for those interested, as well as what date and number as appeared in The Story Streak.
"Brush" (#50, October 10, 2011) - For awhile I had been thinking about this guy who finds a disturbing use for his toothbrush. The morning of October 10, 2011 it was time to rock and roll. It's the newest written story in the collection.
"Graveyard Crazies" (#46, October 6, 2011) - I've only worked the graveyard shift a few times in my other-than-writing employment. To say that there is strange activity around the time the bars close is an understatement.
"A Non-Boring Costume" (#45, October 5, 2011) - What would Halloween be without trying to figure out what costume to wear? Poor Muhammad. He should try a better matchmaking service next time.
"Website Scares" (#47, October 7, 2011) - While doing some research on Halloween I came across information about the house where the original Halloween movie was shot in 1978 and had to write a story about this house. As indicated in the story, it is a chiropractor's office today. It was fixed up and moved across the street.
"The Spider Cometh" (#44, October 4, 2011) - Had to have a spider story in this Halloween collection. One of the scariest spider movies I've ever seen is Kingdom of Spiders staring William Shatner. It's not a great movie but I saw it in a theater with my dad when I was younger and spiders have creeped me out ever since.
"Yep, Error" (#38, September 28, 2011) - I can only think of one other short story I've written with a dog as one of the primary characters. I do like the name Yep for a dog. Our dogs have had names like: Ralph and Lucky.
"Payday Assistance" (#28, September 18, 2011) - What is worse than a stingy boss who doesn't pay his employees on payday. If I owned a cemetery you can bet my employees would be paid early, especially the caretaker.
"Almost Human" (#33, September 23, 2011) - This one has a Twilight Zone vibe to it and might be worth expanding someday. What do you think?
"Count Wadsworth" (#30, September 20, 2011) - vampires!
"Bobbing" (#43, October 3, 2011) - Am I the only one that freaks out when bobbing for apples? What happens if I stick my head in there and I can't get it out? Like that guy in the Darwin awards who stuck his head in the sewer grate and drowned when he couldn't pry his head back out.
"Can'
t Bear To Finish The Job" (#17, September 7, 2011) - A lot of people, primarily girls, put stuffed animals on their beds. Why? What is the stuffed animal with the creepy, frozen stare doing? What is it thinking?
"The Remdee Gate" (#35, September 25, 2011) - The ocean is one of my favorite places to write about. Considering the vast majority of earth is covered by ocean what don't we know about that lives in the ocean? What do we wish we didn't know about? This is another story that several readers gave feedback that it should be expanded. Hmm . . .
"Rachel's Number" (#36, September 26, 2011) - No addiction should ever be worth turning your physical beauty into a monster. I'm getting chills knowing that for too many addicted people this is a true human horror story.
Oh no, it's that time again.
I hope you enjoyed Flash O'Lantern and will join me for more stories in the future. If you would please leave a review at Amazon, Goodreads and any other review sites you like, I'd sure be grateful. Reader word of mouth is how many find new writers to read and I'd love if more readers would join us on our grand adventure together. Thank you so much for reading and if I haven't angered Samhain I'll be back to do this again someday soon.
Horrifically Yours,
Todd Russell
October 22, 2011
They Call It Home
The slithering sound in the wall awoke Horace first. His thick pajamas made his body slick with sweat. Marcia woke beside him.
"You hear it too?" Horace asked.
Marcia nodded as she turned over and flipped on the light. She screamed as a black-green garter snake slithered below across the wooden floor.
"We c—can't stay in this house any longer," She said. "I'm scared to get out of my own bed."
The Mannings had bought this cozy rambler on Swan Lane on the cheap. The previous owners had disclosed there "might" be a snake problem. Turns out the small print giveth the snakes while the big print taketh their money.
The day they moved in they found three snakes inside the house.
Snake traps caught dozens of snakes every day.
The one place the snakes wouldn't go was their closet. Strange considering snakes liked enclosed, dark spaces.
"They aren't poisonous, dear. Just garter snakes. More annoying than presenting any real danger."
"You want to live with all these snakes? Go ahead. I'm leaving for mom's tomorrow." Marcia shuddered. "And while you're being so brave, please get my slippers from the closet."
He turned to step on the floor and saw three snakes intertwined and wriggling. He reached down and snatched his slippers from the floor. He half-expected snakes to be inside one of the slippers but there were none. He put them on and stepped across the floor, finding more writhing snakes.
Horace reached the closet door and slid it open. The sounds in the wall and the snake smell worsened.
Shoes, everywhere shoes. He grabbed and flung aside a set of pink loafers.
"Hey, careful with my shoes."
SSSSSSSSSSSSsssssss.
Horace turned and looked in the direction of the snakes. They didn't like Marcia's shoes any more than him. This gave him an idea. He started grabbing handfuls of shoes and placing them around the room. Everywhere he put shoes, the snakes slithered the opposite direction.
"Horace." Marcia's shoes were her children. Horace handed the slippers she asked for to her.
"As odd as it sounds, the snakes seem to dislike your shoes more than me."
"That's crazy."
Horace tapped on the wall with a pair of Marcia's black dress shoes. He could hear the snakes moving from the sound. He balled a fist and pounded through the drywall, touching a dry, scaley ball of snakes. He recoiled and shoved a high-heeled black shoe in the hole.
SSSSsssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss. The snakes scattered.
"Instead of going to your mom's tomorrow, go shopping." As Horace shoved more shoes in the wall the sound went away. The snakes had left their bedroom. Horace reached into his wallet and handed Marcia his AMEX card. "I mean it, shop away."
The next day Marcia returned with a trunk full of shoes. Everywhere they placed Marcia's shoes, the snakes scattered. Horace went into the crawlspace beneath the house with a backpack full of shoes. He placed the shoes everywhere and the snakes slithered away.
It took a few days for the snakes to abandon their den beneath the house.
"You see, Marcia, this is our dream home after all."
They hugged each other.
"I'm still going to mom's, Horace. This house is weird. I don't like it."
"What?"
"You heard me."
Horace didn't argue. He didn't want to lose his wife. They'd only been married seven years and the last three had been rocky at best. He thought their first house would bring them closer together.
* * *
Later that night at the house alone, Horace awoke to a new sound in the wall. Instinctively he turned to the empty spot beside him.
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.
What is that? Horace thought. It came from the wall behind him. He snapped on the light.
He peeked over the bed and saw his shoe-traps were still placed around the bedroom, only in different positions than he'd left them. He turned and examined the hole in the wall he'd made a few days ago, the pieces of white drywall crumbling around the edges.
There it moved up and down to an eerie rhythm. THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.
The black high-heeled shoe moved on its own.
Horace backpedaled, tripping over the shoe-traps. A tennis shoe moved, lifted itself up and slammed on his cheek. The slapping pain stung.
This can't be happening! He climbed to his feet. He knew all these shoes, familiar to him as the day Marcia had brought them home, but strangers now. Many never worn but organized in Marcia's closet and moving to attack.
A pair of Marcia's clogs hammered swung on Horace's ankles and he felt something snap. More pain. More shoes came at him.
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.
By the time he reached the front door he'd been reduced to crawling, an army of THUMP-THUMP-THUMP shoes behind and upon him. Hammering his flesh like tenderizing meat. He climbed and reached, reached, reached—finding the doorknob and turning. He tumbled out the front door with the shoes falling off him.
Looking back he saw the army of shoes in the front doorway. THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.
He made it into his car and sped away. The Mannings never returned to the house on Swan Lane. They sent a moving crew to get their belongings, sans the shoes. Marcia bought new shoes. From then on, Horace would always go shoe shopping with her. Their marriage improved.
* * *
The real estate agent showed the Bakers the house on Swan Lane in Rexburg, Idaho. They were impressed with how spacious the house seemed despite the exterior appearance. Over 2,000 square feet was a lot for a one story rambler.
"Anything wrong?" Mrs. Baker asked.
The agent looked at his notes and said with a smirk, "The former owners claim the house is haunted."
The Bakers looked at each other, smiling. They both thought the same thing: Crazy people.
"We'll take it."
The Bakers didn't see the termites teeming in the eaves—yet.
An excerpt from "The Illusion"
One of ten short stories in Mental Shrillness
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004U7FI6A/
-1-
It was his quest for the suspension of reality that held Damon Brooks captive.
He pressed another key on his laptop and wished that he could POOF! Disappear like the magician he'd always wanted to be. Life had become hideously normal. He was happily married, gainfully employed, overstocked with worldly belongings. He had everything but the daughter Linda's doctor said they'd never have without the aid of adoption.
A sound stirred his daze.
"Linda, you hear that?"
Linda snored softly, rhythmically, her half-finished romance novel guarding her breasts. Damon peeled back the blinds and saw the
bushes rustling. He heard the guttural sound again.
His breath caught upon seeing its depthless green-orange eyes. Damon edged his nose closer to the glass. He put a hand against the cool pane.
"What the hell are you?" he whispered.
It crept slowly from the bush, half-crawling, half-walking away. The streetlight's faint beam grazed its face and Damon gasped, pulling instinctively away. His nose and breath left a pregnant fog.
Whatever creature it was its gestures were universally familiar.
It was wounded.
Damon turned to Linda who remained shackled by her dream. He pushed past his unfinished paperwork and unclosed briefcase, entering the hallway. Moving quicker, he slipped on his black loafers and moved into the kitchen. He grabbed a flashlight and his gun from the compartment beneath the sink.
He checked to see that it was still loaded. Linda was forever the spooked one when it came to prowlers and insisted upon it. Flicking on the flashlight, Damon stepped into the night and turned toward the bush.
"Nrrro liiight," the voice grated across Damon's brain. He quickly snapped the light off, but kept the queer target centered.
He started to ask what it was again and it rose what faintly resembled a paw. The paw-thing was wet and gleamed in the faint light. Bloody.
"Are you a dream?"
"I am an Illusion."
"Illusion?" Damon said, stepping closer. The gun wavered in his hand. "You are neither man nor animal, what are you?"
"No time for further explanation, Damon."
It knows my name, Damon mouthed but made no sound. His finger twitched on the trigger.
"Y-you a-are a d-dream."
"I am dying."
"What happened?"
The bloody paw rose again and the Illusion made a loud, strangled throaty sound.
"I'll call 911," Damon started away.