Bump in the Night: Part 2

      

The second story in the Bump in the Night series.

     Headaches

      Thom's head was aching, again. He wasn't quite sure if it was the cold or perhaps his fellow co-workers. All he knew for sure was that the pounding above his temple was getting worse by the day. He hadn't had headaches like these since he was a child and was told that he needed glasses. He didn't want glasses though, he still wanted a reason for failing his pre-calculus class(he claimed it was because he couldn't properly read the chalkboard).

     But as an adult he could not have any excuses. Headache or no headache, work was always lurking overhead. How he hated his job. Thom had spent the majority of his early twenties attending a very prestigious university in Cambridge. He never liked to tell people where exactly he had studied, he was a very modest man. He attended the university in hopes that it would someday help his works of fiction become published. It didn't.

     He spent the first year after graduating top of his class sitting in a cubicle at the New York Times. He was a fact checker and, as the title might suggest it was a rather boring job. Every single article was passed through his or one of seven other fact checker's hands. Hundreds of articles every week, most mind numbingly boring.

     To lighten the mood he and his fellow checkers devised games. There was a different game for each day of the week. Today was Friday, which meant that today's game had drinks on the line. On Fridays they would work a regular day trying to find all and any mistakes. At the end of the day they would collect all of the notes that they had gathered and vote. The person lucky enough to find the dumbest or funniest mistake would be awarded with free drinks for the evening. It wasn't much, but it helped keep them sane. The evening following this week's game was a night to remember, although chances were that none of them would remember a thing.

     Thom awoke the following morning with yet another headache. He felt a little better being able to explain this one. He spent his Saturday keeping to himself, reading, writing and attempting to cook himself a sustainable meal. His only social interaction for the day consisted of a rather boring trip to an empty mailbox.

     The sun had come and gone and Thom found himself lighting a fire in his office's hearth. His eyes were still much to sore for the hash light produced by his lamps. He wrote late into the night, and when he could no longer keep his eyelids from clamping down he fell with a hard thump onto his desk. He slept.

     Sunday was spent in much the same way. Reading a bit more, writing where ever he left off the previous evening. It was a perfectly pleasant Sunday, except for one thing. The headache. Still sitting stubbornly above his eyes. It grew less evident by the hour however and by the time sleep called it was all but gone. Tonight he made it a point to enter the bedroom long before he felt the drooping of his eyelids. The bedroom was always the warmest part of the house. Even on the coldest winter nights. The old heat vent was built right into the wall. It sat at the perfect height to wash his bed over with a warming breeze the whole night through. He had a habit of sleeping with his head as close to the vents as he could. Allowing the heat and gentle hum to sing him to sleep.

     That night he dreamt. He was wondering the dark halls again. There was never an end, no way out. Hour after hour, hall after hall. Then he awoke. It was quite a simple awakening for such a terrible dream. He lied still, entranced by the even rising and falling of his chest. He had lost his bedsheets somewhere amongst the endless halls, but it did not matter, the vents were doing their job. The heat slowly caressed him back to sleep. Then the itch. A most persistent itch deep from the inner workings of his right ear. He did his best to stifle the itch with his little finger. He dug deep looking for the satisfaction to follow. It never did. Instead he was greeted by the tiniest of pricks at the end of his finger.

     He retrieved his pinky as quickly as he could and, panic stricken searched for the light switch. Once the illumination began he wished that he could un-see it. There, attached at the end of his little finger wiggled a sight not fit for eyes. The fleshy worm was small, perhaps half an inch or so. But it's bite was disproportionately powerful.

     He tried to give a scream but was only muffled by the sound of the heat kicking on after a momentary absence. He rose his eyes to the vents above his bed. This time he could not scream. How many were there? Surely it was impossible to count. There, coming from the slits were hundreds, no... thousands of worms. All identical to the one still sinking it's teeth into his now bleeding finger. The sensation in his ear began to grow as he felt the other worms burrowing deeper. The headache was back.

Bump in the Night: Part 1

     Once in a while while we are drifting off to sleep it will happen. A loud bang of sorts, or what we swear was a scream or some other form of agony. The things that go bump in the night. That is what people call them. But it is not the things that go bump in the night that we should fear. We should fear what does not want to make itself known. We should fear what wants to remain unseen until it has decided otherwise. Bump in the Night will be a series of several short stories based around this idea.

Hands

      He loved his wife, he would never say otherwise. But she did have her ways about her that could be quite irritating. She had a habit of leaving the dishes on a daily basis; and he believed that if she were to ever take out the trash that the dead would wake from surprise. But he loved her none the less.

He remembered when they were young how badly he wanted to share a bed with her. Not in a perverse way, he simply wanted to lie beside her every night. Now each night this wish came true, his new wish for a lager bed on the other hand did not.

     It was the previous winter that the latest habit formed. Each night she would craw into bed beside him after he had slipped into sleep for an hour or so. She would proceed to place her hands onto his fleshy sides. Cold could not describe the feeling. It was almost as if he could feel it in his ribs. Other worldly. He could not prove it but he was certain that she was plunging her hands into an ice bath each night before entering the bedroom.

     Like every other quirk she denied it. She denied this one with a little extra effort than the rest for reasons unknown. Night after night the cold would awaken him. In anger he would say nothing, show no sign of love; he would just simply roll over and continue where he had left off. Night after night the cold, and, morning after morning the denials. She would get more and more irritated with each accusation.

     Matters presented themselves to her that needed tending to, she would be away for the next few days. He would miss her dearly but looked forward to the thought of a night of peaceful rest. He accompanied her to the airport and saw her off with a hug and kiss.

     That night he entered the bed with a warm body and an empty heart. He felt the familiar burn of the icy hands again this night. Knowing that it could not be so he simply attributed it to his mind and the absence of his wife. The cold continued however, penetrating deeper and deeper into his body; his denial lessening with each dropping degree. That was the first night he heard the voice.

     He wish he hadn’t.

Edgar Allan Poe's Hometown/ A Feline's Dream

     My home town of Auburn, New York is often called History's hometown. It's a heavy title to carry but it does it very well. It is home to one of the most interesting prisons in the nation(it held the first electric chair and some speculate it has tunnels running beneath it to other parts of the city). It is also where William H. Seward(24th secretary of state) and his family called home. His home in Auburn also played a large part in the Lincoln assassination scheme. Seward was often visited by many notable people back in the day, including the one and only Charles Dickens. And if that is not enough it is also where Harriet Tubman lived out the latter part of her life.
     So when I moved to Boston I was already bred to be a history buff and could not wait to explore. Boston has had countless interesting things to offer thus far and has not disappointed yet. Until today that is. Many are unaware of the fact that Boston, not Baltimore is the birthplace of one of the best writers there has ever been( or ever will be). Edgar Allan Poe. As a "writer" myself he has been one of my largest if not the largest inspiration. He was the first author whose work I really fell in love with, even predating Kurt Vonnegut for me. So with Poe's birthday this coming Sunday I decided to track down his original dwellings and this is what I found.

The lack of history

     This is the view from street behind 62 Charles St. South(formerly Carver St.), just off of the Boylston T Stop. This would technically be the view of the back of Poe's house if it were still there. But it's not. Edgar Allan Poe's birthplace was torn down to the ground in 1959. When I rounded to corner to get the view from the front I saw this.

What should be an historic site

     I'm still not really sure what that thing is that has been placed there in place of the original house. I should also say that there are absolutely no markings anywhere near the area claiming that this was where one of the worlds greatest authors/poets was born. Nothing. I spent a few sad minutes taking pictures of the area and decided to move onto Poe's Square. I had read about this on google, which also tells you that Poe's birthplace is two blocks north of its actual location. I was very excited to find an article saying that there was a new statue installed in the square called "Poe returning to Boston". I wandered about until I found it. Here it is.

"Poe Square"

     Once again, nothing. Well almost nothing. There was a weird metal thing that had a portrait of Poe painted on it and something that looked liked a few lines as well. It was nice, but to any passerby it honestly just looks like graffiti(very good graffiti). When I found what google told be was his birthplace I found this little plaque attached to the side of a Mexican restaurant stating a few facts(interestingly enough not his actual birthplace.)

The weird metal thingy

The misleading plaque

     The first thing I noticed was the lack of the awesome statue that was supposed to be there. I was lucky enough to happen upon a shop that had some information in its window pertaining to the statute. This Sunday they will have a meeting to look further into installing the statue. They are even going to serve a Raven cake in Poe's honor. Hopefully this will happen soon and Boston will again represent one of its own. For more information please check out the facebook link below for the Poe Statue Project.

The Poe Statue Project

 I understand that Poe did not speak highly of Boston and left it for Baltimore(mainly due to the ridicule the press at the time gave him) but that was literally over a hundred years ago. It's time for Boston to do right.

So this weeks story is for the man that most of Boston has forgotten. Thank you for everything.

A Feline's Dream

     “Come on sweetie, time for dinner!” Frederick called up the stairs. Shortly after he called he heard the pitter patter of the four paws clambering down. Her name was Heidi. Her fur was a lovely perfect fluff of white, the collar around her neck was a beautiful shade of pink and was adorned with clear sparkling diamonds. They were not fake diamonds either, Fred had paid a hefty price for it as a Christmas gift for his favorite girl. Five grand to be exact. They were nice, very nice.

     She had been a stray. He found her one thunder filled night cowering in fear on the back porch. She looked beaten and battered, so he took her in and cared for her. He nursed her back to health.

Fred's love for Heidi was all consuming, he had never loved anyone or anything in quite the same was that he loved her. He was constantly surrounded by cats when he was young and he supposed it had left quite a soft spot in his heart for the felines.

     “Ah, there you are,” He smiled a wide toothy smile when he saw her, he looked like a fool. He could not think of anything better in life than the joy that Heidi brought him. She occupied his heart to the fullest measure, leaving room for little else. He would often find himself up late at night crying at those godawful save the animals commercials. The slow saddening shots always led to him picking up the phone to donate, it was the least he could do. Who could ever harm those beautiful beasts, who?

And then just when he was at his happiest it would happen, just as it did every night. The sleeping, or more specific the sharing of the sleeping area. How he loathed it. He would mutter it louder and louder each night.

     “Stupid bitch! What kind of woman doesn't even leave her husband a meal to come home to? Fucker. I'll show her tomorrow what happens to bitches who can't cook their man a meal.” He shut out the light.

     He woke before Elizabeth. She always tried to stay in bed as long as she could. It was nearly ten before she decided she could no longer fake her sleep. She dressed slowly, biding her time. Today was Sunday, he would be home. She arrived home late last night, she was out visiting her mother and had fallen asleep upon arriving home.when she finally awoke he was already asleep beside her; she knew that today would be a bad day. She found the shirt with the longest sleeves, it was easier to sweat in the sweltering heat than it was to explain away the bruises. She descended the stairs one by one.

     “Good morning dear,” she said timidly.

     “I'm hungry. I had no dinner.” He said the latter with anger in his voice.

     “I'm so sorry dear. I was just... just visiting my mother and...”

     She felt it. She heard it. It wasn't her first cracked rib and she knew that it would not be her last. He never went for her face. She couldn't cover that, or rather it would look very strange if she did. It would draw attention and no one wanted that. In the seconds following the blow she found herself glancing helplessly towards the floor; anywhere but his face. Her eyes never met his but did however met those of the cat's. Heidi had made her way into the kitchen in the silent manor that only her kind can. And for that fleeting second when their eyes locked onto each others everything went away; all the pain, all the grief.

     She wanted to hate that cat. Hate it with everything that her body could manage to hate with. She wanted to punish it for taking the place in his heart that she should occupy. But she couldn't. How could she blame such a harmless creature?

     The days and weeks passed and things remained as they always had. The pain was still in her rib; renewed with a new impact. Nothing changed, well almost nothing. Heidi was beginning to grow apart from her current master and instead began to favor the battered woman. Elizabeth took to the cat as well, but in all honesty she wished that Heidi had not grown fond of her in the first place. Frederick did not approve of the new friendship. If Heidi was not to be his then she would be nobodies; and as for Elizabeth; he would take care of that as well.

     His plan was simple, he had done it so many times before. Elizabeth was not his first. He did it in the same manner each time. He would call them into the garage; all surfaces covered ahead of time with plastic sheets. When they entered the room it would only take one shot, or one slash to the throat if he was feeling adventurous. Then the whole lot, weapons, sheets, and woman would be placed in a large blue plastic barrel. He would then proceed to fill the barrel with cement and roll it onto his boat. The next morning, before dawn, he would drive out to the sea and head out. He would go straight out, as far as one tank of fuel would allow him to. The barrels just needed a small push. The blue black waters of the oceans would consume it, finish the job he had started. He would refill the tank with the red plastic gas can he brought along and head back for the shore. If he was lucky he would find himself with enough extra time to try and lure in a pesky smallmouth bass or two.

     He would do it tomorrow night, after the rest of the city was asleep. He would use the blade this time; she truly deserved it. The garage had been set for the next evenings performance. He was growing tired. Up the stairs he carried himself. He found no hate in his heart that night, he would save it all for the following day. That night he slept with an easy mind.

     He dreamt. In his dreams he was free, he could do anything. Inside of his dreams he ran into what he loved most. It was Heidi but not in the way he was used to seeing her. She was much larger, closer to a woolly mammoth than a cat. She played gently with him however, her huge rough tongue laced his face with her cat breath. He loved every moment of it, and then, she spoke.

     “Frederick, you have saved me from the cold and damp. You have given me a place to sleep and feed, a place to be safe from the harm that others could bring me.”

     Frederick blushed a deep shade of crimson. A large toothy grin again stretched across his face, onc e again he looked like an idiot.

“But there is one you never care for, or should I say cared for?”

His smile was gone, confusion and anger had taken its place, “you mean that sorry excuse for a wife? She is lucky that she gets treated the way that she does, she is deserving of so much less.”

Heidi gave a threatening quiet hiss, her yellow eyes growing larger. “It is true you have been unfair to the girl. She took you on as a husband and how have you repaid her? Even a blind man could see it Frederick, she loves you. Even after all you have done to her she still loved you. An honest man can go a lifetime without ever finding a love like that. And yet here you sit, or rather lie beside her and plan her death.”

     She paused, gave her paw a lick, raised it to her ear and gently brushed back her fur.

     “You don't understand! You don't know what it's like-”

     Heidi interrupted with a loud feline shriek, like an alley cat competing for prey. “I do not need you to tell me what I do an do not understand. All these years I have sat upon your lap while you stroke my fur. All those years you have gazed into my eyes and whispered into my ears, yet still you haven't the faintest idea Frederick. You claim you love me? So why is it that when you shut out the lights and pat my head that you enter sleep with a heavy heart and a busy mind? You believe to be because of your wife? No. The woman has done no wrong to you. It is because of me Frederick."

     “When you wake up in the wee hours of the night and spot me silently watching in the corner you can feel it. In the pit of your stomach, in the marrow of your bones, you feel it. But you choose night after night to push those feelings down. You shan’t allow those feelings to ones you truly love, your precious Heidi.

     She stopped talking and gave her paw another lick. This time she wiped it about her neck. Her beautiful white fur turned an awful blackish red. Blood. She tilted her head back and revealed the wound. Across her neck stretched a long deep gash, the blood began to pour out covering her fur and the surrounding floor.

     “Don't you remember?,” she asked. “I was your first. Well your first with the blade anyway, a bit sloppy wouldn't you say?”

     He leapt from where he was sitting and ran. Where he was running he was not quite sure, for the surrounding space was only occupied by a white nothingness. He had gotten maybe three steps before the paw came down. He was trapped beneath it, blood raining down on his face.

     “It can't be...”

     “Oh, but it is sweetie. How your precious little Heidi; excuse me; I mean your precious little Stephanie has missed you.”

Frederick began to struggle beneath her weight, trying to escape, “it's just a dream, it's just a dream!”

     “No,” said Stephanie, “it is not.”

     He could feeling it happening. Little by little. The claws of the massive being were slowly penetrating his chest. The only blood to be seen now was his own.

     “But how?”

     “You were always so naïve,” she laughed, “you always told me that my friends were strange, weirdos. Well you were right. Actually maybe not strange per se but unique. We had grown up with the same group of us since we were all little girls. I can still remember Marcy's grandmother. So skinny and pale, her fingernails almost as long as her hair. She used to babysit us, we hated it. She would tell us these stories of witches and monsters. They got more and more elaborate the older we grew. Then one day she told us, told us the truth. They weren’t stories at all, they were all true. We were maybe eighteen when we joined her coven. We were all so horrible at it, I was the worst of the lot. I could just never get a hang of it.”

     Shortly after you killed me however she found me. She had long since passed herself but still she pulled me back from the black. She is the one who truly saved me. I told her what had happened and she took me with her to another realm. There she taught me all that I would need to know.”

The claws sunk deeper and deeper. He could feel his heart trying to fend them off, his lungs trying to seal the punctures. He could not speak. He could only gasp and wipe away the tears. Stephanie leaned in with more weight.

     “You will never harm her again. Not her or anyone else.”
     This time it was his rib cracking. Stephanie noticing his proximity to death removed her claws. She gave them a final lick and raised them one final time.

     “Let me show you how it is done.”

     She gave one clean slash to the neck and Frederick fell limp. He did not wake up, he never would.

     Elizabeth woke the following morning alone, there was no one at her side. There was no one downstairs. The was simply no one. This did not startle her however, for in her mind this was how it had always been. Just her and the cat growing old together. She had never married, she never found the right man. She was completely content with that fact though. She was happy, she had no problems, no worries. The only thing she ever found to complain about was a slight pain in her rib when she would cough too strongly.

     She stared at the cat, listened to it purr and watched as it slowly gave into sleep. She smiled, gave it a pet, and wondered to herself what that crazy feline could be dreaming of.

The Passengers

 This was the first story that I wrote with the new pen I got for Christmas. It's a bit shorter than the other stories are but I think it says what needed to be said. Hope someone enjoys.     

The Passengers

She had retired several years ago. Her back was healing and the doctors told her that her lungs were beginning to clear out. She was glad that she was doing well but she was fully convinced that it did not matter. She was so much older now. She would often look down at her wrinkled leather like hands and wonder where the time had gone. She enjoyed every moment she had left, or at least she tried to. When she was not at church she could be found at the local soup kitchen or at home knitting for the shelter. She had very little herself but always gave what she could. She always recognized that no matter how little she had there were so many more with so much less. She never complained;neither did the people she helped.

     Today was a soup kitchen day. She awoke early and got ready for the busy day. She arrived at the kitchen shortly before noon and the large lunch rush. The people were lined out the door and around the corner anxiously awaiting in their torn and tattered garments. They were always busier in the colder months, and today was the coldest day that she could remember since he was a small girl. She threw on an apron and marched through the double doors ladle in hand.

     By the end of the day nearly five hundred had been fed. It was a small percentage of the cities homeless but she knew that she could not force them all to come; some just couldn't deal with the embarrassment. She had grown tired from the days work and opted out of the walk home and decided instead to take the bus. She did not particularly fancy growing old but what she did fancy was the reduced fair that the bus offered her. The bus was quite quiet that night most of the city had decided to  stash themselves inside away from the frigged cold.

     On the slower nights the bus was much quicker. As they barreled past the empty stops she felt her eyelids grow heavy. In the moment that she felt herself drifting into another world she felt the bus jolt to an abrupt stop. It was not her stop though. She heard the front doors open and watched as a young woman climbed aboard. The young lady fumbled through her purse for a moment or two before victoriously discovering her bus pass buried deep within; she gave it a quick swipe and headed for the back of the bus.

     The old woman found herself jumping awake at the sound of the voice, “excuse me miss would it be alright if I sat here?” She must have dozed off in the several seconds it took the woman to walk back to her. She remembered dreaming something, a micro-dream, but it was lost now, never to be thought of again. She opened her eyes and looked up at the young lady standing beside her.

“ Oh I'm so sorry,” Started the younger woman, she was a pretty girl, some might even say beautiful, her hair was light and golden and her skin was like that of porcelain, “ I didn't mean to wake you, I just though that it was a nice evening for a chat, wouldn't you agree? It's just that nobody ever talks to each other anymore. They all run around from place to place on their phones or with their headphones in,” she stopped momentarily then, “I'm sorry I'm rambling aren’t I?

     A smile had found it's way onto the old woman's face, “it's quite alright dear,” she said giving the seat beside her a friendly pat, “have a seat.” She sat beside the old woman, both pausing trying to think of what to say next. Youth and beauty and age and wisdom side by side.

     “My name is Rose by the way,” said the younger woman to the elder.

     “Why Hello Rose, my name is Helen, very nice to meet you. Heading home are we?” She ended this sentence as she did with all she ever spoke, with a gentle hum mixed with a slight cough.

     “No Ma'am just going out with a few drinks with a small group of friends.”

Helen sat back in her seat and looked out the window beside her , out into the dark and cold, “I often forget what it was like, to be so young,” her glance shifted back towards Rose, “and you can call me Helen dear, no Ma'am stuff here!” she said diligently.

     “Of course, sorry Ma'... er Helen.”

     “So headed for a night out on the town are ya dear? Might I be so bold as to ask,” she added with a smile, “might there be a man in the crowd?”

     “I'm afraid not,” replied Rose, “I don't really have time for that sort of thing.”

Helen gave a stern glare from beneath her coke bottle glasses, “nonsense dearie, you're young and beautiful. Take advantage of that while you still can, before it passes you by.”

     “Truth be told,” began Rose, “I never was much of the social type. I mostly spend my time working. Even now the friends I'm going to meet are all work buddies. We make it a point to go out as a group once a week. It helps relieve the stress of work.”

     “Well that's a start,” chuckled Helen, “what is it exactly that you do?” There was a momentary pause, just short enough not to be awkward before Rose answered.

     “I suppose you could say I work in a retirement home.”

     “An old folks home,” corrected Helen, “never saw the use in those,” she wheezed.

     Rose gave a laugh and carried on, “I help with incoming residents, help then get settled in and make sure that everything is in order. My other friends, they all do the same.”

“Why that's an awfully kind thing of you to do. The people who need help the most are the most unlikely to ask, they are too afraid to ask for help, too ashamed. It's nice to meet someone who cares so much for others.”

     “It's not much, I do what I can,” said Rose shyly, “how about you, what does Helen do?”

'I'm afraid Helen doesn't do much of anything. I make a weekly trip to over to the soup kitchen to help out, and I make it a point to stop at the library every Wednesday but other than that I fill my time with waiting.”

     “Waiting?” inquired Rose.

     “Yes dear waiting. Waiting to rejoin my blessed husband.”

     “I'm sorry?”

     “Oh nothing dear, forget I said a word,” Helen turned back towards the window and away from the young pretty girl beside her. One way or another she always managed to close herself in from others, she thought it was for the best, at least that what she told herself.

     “Helen it's quite alright, you can tell me whatever is on your mind. Granted I'm a complete stranger but that only makes it all the better. You can tell me whatever you wish and chances are once I step off this bus I will never see you again.” Rose's voice was soft and gentle. She always had a gift for making people open up to her, to trusting her. She was not nosey though, she just cared, with all of her beating heart she cared.

     Helen's eyes shifted from the window to the floor, then in a low nervous whisper, “I'm old, all of a sudden I'm so old. I don't know where it all went, my life. It just went away day by day. If I could I would go back in a second, trade it all for the past. You hit a certain age, a certain point and you just know it, you are dying, actually dying. You just need to learn to accept it I suppose.” She never lifted her eyes, afraid the tear contained in the corner of her eye would fall before the young woman and upset her. Her words had left Rose colder than any of the winter winds had managed.

     “Everyone is dying Helen, even me. It's up to us to make the most of the life we are given. It is up to us to lead the life we wish to lead.”

     “I suppose you are right dear. Some days it's just so hard to smile, to go on.”

Rose took her hand and placed it gently over Helen's, “but you must. You have so much to give. You help so many and ask for nothing in return, you have made a difference for so many. I would say that that is a life well spent.”

     “They are they ones who have helped me Rose. After my husband died I though I had lost everything but those people that I serve have showed me what it truly means to lose everything.” Helen gave a faint smile and moved her hand to search for the button to request her stop.

“Thank you dear. It's so nice to speak with someone. I always feel as if I'm burdening someone with my problems but with you its different.

     Rose stood from her seat to let Helen pass out and into the aisle. The bus came to it's usual jumpy stop and the doors gave way to the awaiting cold. Helen was about to get off when she heard, “Just remember Helen, the people who need help the most are the most unlikely to ask for it. Don't be afraid to ask.”

     Helen's weak bones made getting off the bus a painful task but she managed all the same. She turned to give her new found friend a wave but when she turned she saw only an empty seat,“Don't be afraid to ask,” she repeated to herself. Her old and tired body carried her home and into her bed, there she laid and there she remembered what she had dreamed.