The Willow

I've been doing short horror genre stories around Halloween for the past couple of years. This was the most recent

Chapter One

     Dammerung. A small, weepy town in the Midwest, settled by German immigrants in the early 1800’s. No major highways run through Dammerung. No tourist traps. It’s modern enough that it has two movie theaters and a Starbucks, but anything besides groceries are still provided by single location, family owned businesses. In fact, the Albertsons supermarket is the biggest building in Dammerung. By all outside viewpoints, it’s a pretty typical slice of small town Americana.

     Most of the denizens of Dammerung are pretty friendly and laid back. It’s the kind of place where crime is virtually non-existant and everybody leaves their doors unlocked. Nobody seems to get particularly angry, but when tempers flare, they usually burn out very quickly.

     There’s an odd patch of land near the center of the town called, “The Lost Triangle.” Nothing seems to grow, except at the tip. There are several residences scattered along the edges of the triangle. But at the far tip, where the greenery is lush and vibrant, lives Edward Codger.

     Now, most people who know Edward, have suggested that he change his last name. For in a town of pleasant folk, Edward still stands out as one of the most engaging.

     “Tempting! But you never know what my boys’ll grow up to be like!” Edward would playfully retort to such suggestions.

     In the very center of Edward’s verdant yard stood a very singular tree. Resembling a classic weeping willow but a fraction of the size. Edward kept this miniature willow immaculately manicured. The tree itself isn’t more than 8 feet tall, but Edward always makes sure the overhang never grows lower than 24 inches above the ground.

     Other people have commented on how cute the willow is, but how much nicer it would look if Edward landscaped his yard and added more shrubbery and other complimentary annuals.

     Edward was having none of it.

     Edward has been a resident of Dammerung for as long as anybody could remember. He was energetic, like his body stopped aging in its 20’s, but his face and skin kept going, tripped along the way and skidded into its 60’s. But he was always insistent on keeping that willow all by its lonesome. And as anal as he was about keeping the tree trimmed, nobody could recall ever seeing him mow the grass. But it always seemed as well kept as the willow tree. People just assumed he mowed at night with a relatively quiet push mower.

 

Chapter Two

     Jack Silbert was new in town. A rare occurrence to be sure. A slight man in his mid-thirties. He was there for work. Not to find work (there were almost no new job openings in Dammerung, and even fewer business opportunities). His job was two towns over in Evansville. Only about half an hour’s travel, and about three times the prices, making Dammerung an ideal place to hunker down for awhile. Jack didn’t have a family, since his job had him moving every couple of years. He didn’t mind this, though. He was still young and making enough money to retire early, plus all the travel allowed him to scratch an itch most people never get to act upon.

     Most of the houses in Dammerung are family hand-me-downs. The ones that are vacant are serious fixer uppers (at least, the few that aren’t overgrown with insatiable greenery).

     Jack was used to home improvement projects. He’d usually find the cheapest houses and fix them up in his down time, flipping them for a profit when his job required him to move again.

     But Jack wasn’t much for lawn maintenance. So finding a lawn-less fixer-upper on Boden Des Loches Lane was a Godsend. The realtor (who didn’t even live in Dammerung) explained how mysteriously the Triangle is mostly devoid of plant life. It was all the same to Jack. No grass meant not having to pay someone to mow it.

     Jack wasn’t one to keep a lot of junk. Mostly, just his wardrobe, a few personal belongings and some mementos from places he had lived.

     The moving truck wasn’t even big, and while its arrival wasn’t a huge event (despite its rarity) the folk who witnessed it were more than happy to welcome a new comer. That’s just the kind of place Dammerung was.

    

Chapter Three

     Edward was out on his back porch, enjoying a glass of water (fresh from the hose, of course). He had just finished trimming a few centimeters off the overhang of his anomalous willow tree.

     He watched the moving truck pull into the driveway of the formerly-vacant house next door. “Next door,” was a relative term, as the houses were still a couple of hundred feet apart. He got up from his seat and leaned over the porch railing, squinting to extend his view.

     Two moving men exited the truck. The taller, burly man turned to look at the house, then fell back against the truck. After a few minutes, a two door silver sports car pulled up in front of the house. A nicely dressed man got out, and the movers clamored up the front steps to meet the man at the door. About that time, Edward heaved himself off of the railing, determined to meet the new neighbor.

     Edward strode down the path, shoulders back, head up. He always presented himself prim and proper �" even when he was just wearing a tee-shirt and plaid shorts.

     Reaching the house, the movers were already doing their jobs. Edward couldn’t see anymore boxes in the truck. Turning his attention up the stairs, he realized the target of his attention was inside the house. Peeking around the molding, Edward knocked on the frame.

     “Hello?” He shouted into the house, bobbing his head in-and-between the movers lugging boxes back and forth.

     “Hello! Just a minute, I’ll be right down!” A voice from upstairs bellowed.

     Jack bounced down the stairs, taking off his sunglasses as he lithely swung around one of the movers.

     “Come in!” He motioned to Edward. “Jack Silbert, what can I do for you?”

     Meeting Jack’s grip with a firm handshake of his own, “Edward Codger, your new neighbor. And I came over to see if t here was something I could do for you.”

     “Wow, thank you, Edward. That’s very nice of you! I get a good feeling from this place. I’m sure I’ll have some DIY projects on the old gal,” Jack patted the door frame almost wistfully. “So I’m sure I’ll need some advice on where to get supplies.”

     “I’ve definitely got the low down on all of that, “ Edward grinned, “and I’d be more than happy to help on those projects.”

     “You’re a good guy, Ed.”

     The movers were trudging in the last of Jack’s affects.

     “Well, I’ll bet you got a bit of unpacking to do. I’m right down the road at the point of the triangle. The only house with grass. Stop on by sometime and we’ll have a beer.” Edward backed away waving. He turned down the stairs and made his way back home.

     Jack finished paying the movers, picking his head up to catch Edward walking back to his house. That same hopeful feeling flooded through Jack again. He smiled as he shut the door.

    

Chapter Four

     Several weeks had passed. Jack was growing familiar with his new surroundings. The house wasn’t in the worst shake, but Jack still had enough experience to know what he could improve upon to ensure maximum returns. Still, he wasn’t sure if he should invest too heavily the house, beyond the basic creature comforts. This wasn’t exactly a bustling town, so turning over the house in a few years might not be worth the hassle.

     True to his word, Edward guided Jack to the best supply outlets for his home improvement endeavors. Truer still, Edward had cold beer on hand when Jack came over to talk about his new home and the town where  his mail would be coming to for the next few years.

     “This really is a beautiful town. Even this dry area,” Jack stated matter-of-factly as he waved his arm over the gap between his and Edwards’ homes’.

     “How long have you lived here?”

     “All of my life,” Edward sighed as he handed Jack a beer.

     “And how long is that, if I’m not getting too personal?”

     “67 years, give or take a few months.”

     “Wow! And you never got up the gumption to leave? I mean, it’s a nice town to live in, but I wouldn’t wanna live here.” Jack nudged Edward twice with his elbow, to emphasize his joke.

     “I wanted to leave once upon a time, but…” Edward trailed off. “But I had some familial obligations that kept me here.” He continued.

     “Must have been some serious obligations.” Jack turned to look off into the distance, unsure if he had just stepped over the line with his new friend.”

     Edward sensed Jack’s uneasiness. He turned towards Jack and held out his bottle of beer. “Here’s to new beginnings and ancient commitments.”

     “I’ll drink to that!”

     The bottles clinked and the two men each took a big swig of their brews.

     The new friends continued to chatter on for a couple of hours until the sun dipped low in the sky. Jack got up, thanked Edward for the drink and the company then made his way back home.

     As he climbed the stairs of his porch, a cold breeze blew across Jack’s shoulder. He shivered as he stepped inside the house, locking the door behind him.

     Jack and Edward had only made small talk for most of the evening, but for the first time since moving to Dammerung, Jack felt uneasy.

     The feeling itself was almost overshadowed by the realization that this was also the first time he hadn’t felt that overwhelming positive vibe.

     “I guess it can’t always be a good time,” Jack thought to himself as he finished his pre-bed routine.

     Jack climbed into bed, covering himself with only a sheet. Even though it was still summer, and Jack had no air conditioning, the room still felt too chilly to turn on a fan. The night was unusually cold for summer, but too warm for any heavy covers.

     Sleep came quickly for Jack, but restfulness eluded him. He flopped back and forth. Comfort was an unreachable island surrounded by an ocean of sweat.

Terrible visions tromped through Jack’s head. In various shades of crimson ichor and deathly violet. He flung his head so violent, it might as well have been a kite in a hurricane. None of the images were clear, but the emotions were razor sharp. Hatred. Anger. Rage. Death. Greed. Jealousy. The evil that dwells in the hearts of men.

All on parade that night in the subconscious mind of Jack Silbert �" and Edward Codger.

 

Chapter Five

     Jack woke up early. As early as the terror that had enthralled him would allow. Jack was always a practical man. His first thought was to launder the drenched sheets from his nocturnal torment. Not all of the residue was sweat.

     “I know it was intense, but damn was it really that bad?” Jack pondered as he sniffed at the discolored stains. He turned his head sharply, as the stench in one spot bit harshly, singeing the hairs in his nostrils.

     “What the hell?!” Jack was now shouting out loud.

     “That’s not sweat or urine!”

     Jack quickly ran the sheets to the washing machine, keeping them at arms length with his head turned away. He could barely stand it enough to stuff them into the washer. Setting it to “hot” while dumping what seemed like half the bottle of detergent in, Jack quickly slammed the lid and started the wash cycle.

     Sliding to the floor, his back against the appliance, Jack took a deep breath. Although he could still slightly smell the sheets, the air was much clearer that he could catch his breath. He hastily lifted each arm in turn, then lowered his head, inhaling deeply with each movement.

     “Did that horrible smell come from me?” Jack was back to internalizing his monologue. But his olfactory senses gave no indication that it had. He continued to sit on the floor where he had sunk to, trying to distract himself from the thoughts racing through his mind. Going over some of his planned home improvement projects in his head, step by step. When Jack snapped back to reality, he had realized the washing machine had finished its cleaning cycle. He jumped to his feet, turning around to open the machine. He pulled out the sheet, which seemed to be cleaned, and then draped it over a rope running across the tiny basement to air dry. When he turned back to retrieve the rest of his laundry, that same stench slapped him in the face.

     None of the rest of his bedding or clothes seemed to carry it. It was emanating from the washing machine.

     “Great. How do I get that out of there?” Jack grabbed for the bleach and emptied the entire bottle into the washing machine, then put it on the harshest settings he could think of to scrub the inside of the machine.

     Forty minutes later it was done, but a quick peek under the lid revealed that it had made no difference in the smell.

     “Damn,” Jack muttered to himself as he turned off the water valves going to the machine. He pulled out the hoses and started to drag it towards the ramp leading outside, when he realized he had a hand truck for heavy lifting. He quickly retrieved it, carefully setting the washer upon it and hauling it backwards up the ramp, he opened the outside basement door.

     As Jack swung the machine around onto the curb, Edward’s voice echoed across the gap.

     “Problems with the washer? I can take a look at it if you want.”

     “No, no. That’s alright, Eddie. It was old, just finally kicked on its last leg.”

     Edward raised his hand and gave a nod, a silent, and “Say no more.” But he knew that washer was only a few months old. Jack wasn’t the kind of person to buy used appliances. Not worth the hassle. Edwards head slung low, as he realized: Jack was having the visions.

 

Chapter 6

     Later that day, Jack heard a knock on his door. He went to answer it, only to find Edward standing there with a rolled up army cot.

“What’s going on, Eddie? What’s this?” he queried as Edward pushed past him into the house, heading for the basement.

“Wait!” Jack shouted trying to catch up with Edward, his heart beating harder as Edward opened the basement door and started down the stairs, “Don’t! There’s a…”

“I know what’s going on, Jack.” That peculiar odor whiffed past Edward’s nose. It was all too familiar to him. He kept going further into the basement, until he found a nice corner devoid of cobwebs. He began to unfurl the cot while Jack continued to make non-sensical sounds of protest.

“How? What? Why?” Jack pleaded with Edward.

“That smell, there’s no getting rid of it, Jack. It’ll destroy your bedding, your clothes, your sheets, everything.  Best thing you can do is sleep naked on the cot, here in the basement. Get some decent blankets for when it gets cold, but don’t bother trying to wash them. As for the smell itself, you’ll get used to it. The nightmares, not so much.”

“Eddie. What’s going on here? What aren’t you telling me?”

The two men stood eye to eye in the center of the basement. Edward let out a deep sigh.

“Look, Jack, first, I’m sorry. So terribly, terribly sorry…”

“About what? What did you do to me?!” Jack furiously interrupted.

“I didn’t do anything to you, Jack. It’s this town. The tree, everything. Look, you can’t leave. You’ve already started having the visions, the nightmares. And they’ve already marked you,” Edward said waving to the sheet hanging on the rope. “That’s their sign, Jack.”

“Whose sign?”

“Them. I don’t know what they are, but it’s all their doing. I’ve seen them. You have too.”

“Seen what, Eddie? I don’t remember seeing anything resembling a ‘them’. Just those flashes of color, and anger”

“That’s where they are, Jack. At first the nightmares are blurry, more emotion than actually vision. But as time goes by, they visions get clearer and clearer. Until eventually, you can actually see them.”

“But what are They?!”

“They’re monsters. Demons. Evil. Whatever you want to call it. It doesn’t really matter. Just know they’re there, and they’ve marked you. Like they did me. Like they did my sons…” Edward trailed off.

“Eddie. Edward. You need to start making sense to me. Right now.”

“Okay, okay.” Edward recomposed himself. “Remember how I told you the town was settled in 1819 by German immigrants? I was one of those original founders. I was 14 at the time.”

“What?! You’re telling me you’re over 200 years old?! You look pretty good for your age, but c’mon…”

Edward continued, ignoring Jack’s refrain. “It seemed like a great location. Good soil for crops, plenty of resources for building. Close enough that trade with other settlements was possible, but far enough away that we could keep mostly to ourselves. There were extremely few German immigrants to the still new US back then. The first year seemed great. No major illnesses to cut our numbers, crops were abundant. Everyone worked well together and we had all of the amenities we needed. Sufficient housing, granary, smithies, a big church, and a trading post. The second year looked like it was going to be even better. We even built an extra storehouse for the amount of crops we grew. We occasionally saw some of the American Natives go by, and tried to be friendly but they always ran off. Afraid of us for some reason. Maybe because we only spoke German. Still, we never really thought it was a problem. We were there for some time, we never bothered anybody and nobody ever bother us. But it turned out; it was a huge problem for some of the tribes. 1821, near the end of summer. The last big crop that would determine how well or how poorly we would survive the winter. On the night before the harvest, we were awoken by the town bell. All of our fields were burning! One of the tribes, or a couple of them, who knows, thought we were an imminent threat, so they set up a sneak attack. People were running through the town, everyone was shouting as the men grabbed their guns and knives, running towards the fields to confront our attackers. I had just turned 16, and I, and a few other young men, were charged with making sure all of our women and children got to the church safely, and we were to protect them from there as best we could. There were so many Indians, our men were getting slaughtered. The women cried out to Heaven for salvation. They were so loud, they even drowned out the sounds of the massacre going on outside. And then I realized, Mina, the girl I fell in love with, and her mother were not among them. I ran out of the church, and headed straight for her house. I found nobody at first, but then I went to the basement. It was just a crude, dugout hole as most of them were at the time, but Mina and her mother were there. Amidst dozens of candles. Strange symbols were carved into the walls, and dug into the floor. Mina’s mother was on her knees chanting in some language I’d never heard before, when Mina ambushed me at the top of the stairs. ‘Get out! You must get out now! It isn’t safe for you here!’ as she pushed me out of the basement, slamming the door behind her. In the main house, she hugged me, and I held her tightly. I told her I needed to get her to the church, but she resisted. Whatever her mother was doing, she needed to protect her, she told me. That night, while our fathers and brothers died, all of the women in town save one cried out to God. One woman cried out to something else. Guess who answered?”

“And right at that moment,” Edward swallowed to wet his throat, “every one of those Indians dropped dead right on the spot. They’re bodies, and those of our own loved ones who had fallen, turned to dirt. It was so quiet. Except for the hum. Not a strong rumble or vibration, but a faint hum that felt like it had penetrated everything �" and everyone. Mina ran back downstairs to check on her mother, and helped her weakened form up the stairs. I ran over to her other side to assist. A distant sound began to swell. Not one of battle, but of celebration. I went outside and heard female voices adding to the victory chorus. Most of them were praising God, but I knew the truth. Mina hurriedly joined me, begging me not to tell what I had witnessed. For the sake of my peoples’ survival, and for the woman I loved, I agreed.”

“When we awoke the next day, we found not only had the harvest miraculously grown back, but it did so tenfold!  It seemed our celebration was not yet finished. But something else had sprouted up then too. Something sinister. That willow tree, right in the middle of Mina’s property. Over the next few days, the grass around that area seemed as if it was sucked right back into the ground. It didn’t dry out or wilt away, it just disappeared. Mina’s mother, who seemed to have been reinvigorated, went out to prune the tree while the rest of us gathered up the harvest.”

“Several years later, I felt it was time to ask Mina’s mother for Mina’s hand in marriage. We were seldom seen apart, and nobody in town thought we were a bad fit. Nobody, except Mina’s mother, of course. But I was willing to do anything for Mina. I had a long talk with her mother, and made her an incredible offer �" I offered to take her place maintaining the willow tree, so that the curse would not pass on to Mina and damn her soul. Mina’s mother couldn’t believe it. She fully realized then, just how much I loved Mina. She allowed Mina and I to wed. And although she never actually accepted my offer, she didn’t have to. ‘They’ had heard it. Eventually, Mina was pregnant with our first son. But shortly after he was born, Mina’s mother became ill. It was then that I first began to have the nightmares. And our son had a peculiar birthmark on his back; their mark. Soon, Mina’s mother passed away, and we moved into her house. Mina understood what was going on, when I started sleeping away from her, in the basement. I fulfilled my promise, and kept the tree trimmed. As the visions became clearer, I finally understood why. All of the evil, the negativity in the towns vicinity was absorbed by the roots of the tree. If any of its overhang were to ever reach the ground, however, all that it had absorbed would be released into Dammerung. It was not long after that our second child, also a boy, would be born. He, too, had that same mark upon his back. I feared that they would inherit the curse that I took upon myself. So when they got older, 15 and 12 respectively, I gave them all the money I had saved up and sent them eastward, to make new lives for themselves in Virginia. It devastated Mina to send them away, but it was the only thing I could think of to save them. How I wish it had…” Edward wiped a tear from his eye.

‘They wrote to us occasionally. At first with good reports of how they were getting on. But the letters became more sporadic. It wasn’t until I received their belongings in a package from the county did I realize how horribly wrong I was. When you’re marked, there’s no escaping. They followed my boys. My oldest was found mangled, twisted into the shape of Their sign. Nobody thought it a coincidence because the birthmark had disappeared when he died. My youngest boy started getting the nightmares shortly after. He’d seen what happened to his brother. He was so afraid the same fate would befall him as well. They drove him to the brink of madness. In fear and desperation, he took his own life.”

“Oh God!” Jack gasped.

“That’s why you can’t leave. They will just follow you. And torment you until you can’t take it any longer. Mina was never the same after that. In fact, I think the only reason she managed to stay alive for the next 13 years was to support me. When she passed, I buried her right at the foot of that damnable tree. If I was going to have to go out there every day and maintain it, at least I was going to go out there for my own reasons; to be with my beloved.”

“That’s so terrible…” Jack trailed off in disbelief. “But I’m not related to you or Mina, at least I don’t think I am. How did I get marked?”

“I don’t know, Jack. I’m truly sorry. I did enjoy our friendship, but I never intended to get you involved in our town’s curse like this. Damn Them!”

The two men made their way back upstairs. Jack offered Edward a drink, as he had to be dry after sharing all of that history. Edward downed it quickly, and made off for his home even faster. Jack slumped into a chair, fearful of what his future would now hold.

 

Chapter 7

Jack eventually replaced the washing machine, and got used to sleeping in the basement. He and Edward didn’t socialize nearly as much, but Edward made sure to check up on Jack, and the state of his sanity, every couple of days.

Jack tried to get on, as Edward had suggested. Acclimating to that horrible, pungent odor that he woke up to every morning. Becoming a 3 cup of coffee a morning man, showering only when he got up, instead of before bed. But it wasn’t long before that too, became taxing. And when Edward fell ill.

It was late September, but still unseasonably warm. The weather had become more cloudy and damp than sunny and clear. Most people in Dammerung could only recall a couple of times when Edward was not outside multiple days in a row. Rain, snow or shine, Edward seemed almost leery of his house. Preferring to spend time on his porch or different places around town. But disappearing for an entire week? Unheard of. Jack, of course, was feeling this anomaly more than anyone.

He ran down the block to Edward’s house, checking the front and the back. As dangerous as it was, at least the Willow didn’t grow supernaturally fast. He knocked on the door. Nothing. He knocked harder. Still no reply. Jack began banging heavily on the door, shouting Edward’s name. A neighbor on the other side of the Triangle heard the commotion and began to worry. He called the police, who, having little else to do, arrived on the scene quickly.

Jack explained to the officer that Edward had been sick and not contacted anyone for awhile, to which even the officer began to come fearful.

“Alright, Sir. Please stand back,” the officer commanded as he prepared to kick the door in.

WHAM! The handle buckled as the door swung inward violently.  The Officer ran into the house, Jack right behind him. As the officer started searching through the house, Jack knew where to go �" the basement.

“Down here!” Jack yelled, as he could hear the officer’s heavy footsteps changing direction overhead.

On an old army cot, curled up in the fetal position, was the stiffened body of Edward Codger. Freed from this mortal bosom, but not from the curse he had left behind, judging by the look of unmitigated horror carved upon his face. When the officer went over to check Edward’s body, that’s when Jack realized that the smell had left Edward, and his bedding. That’s also when he realized that the curse was now firmly ensconced in his very own being.

 

Chapter 8

Jack went over to Edward’s property daily, to make sure the Willow was trimmed according to Edward’s wishes. He knew that he himself would have to purchase the property to ensure he would be able to maintain the tree.

Mid-October came, and with it a three day festival celebrating the ‘rescue’ of Dammerung from an un-instigated Native American attack that nearly saw their settlement come to a swift and abrupt end nearly 200 years ago.

Jack knew the truth, wishing so desperately to tell them all. Wishing even moreso for a way to break this curse.

Autumn started out wet, and continued to be so a little over a month into its tenure. Darkness arrived early, as lightning began to crackle in the sky, and the distant sound of thunder boomed on the horizon. It didn’t seem to matter how late, or how early Jack went to bed. Even if he tried just closing his eyes in front of the television for a few minutes, the visions tore through his head. He was working hard, in his job, in trying to acquire Edward’s house, and every other aspect of his life. He was exasperated. The thunder got louder as the lightning struck more frequently.

Jack was thrown between fits of nightmarish repose, and thunder reverberating throughout his entire body.  Tossing and turning, he flung himself out of his cot and onto the floor.

“Enough!” Jack roared. He stomped towards the outside basement door, grabbing an axe along the way.

Barefoot and completely naked, Jack strode purposefully towards Edward’s yard, and the willow tree. He was becoming soaked in the downpour, but it didn’t faze Jack in the slightest.

He reached the willow tree, and raised the axe above his head. “No more! Not from me, not from this town!” He continued to bellow in shear defiance. Bringing the axe to bear as hard as he could, it struck the willow.

-------

THWOK!

Despite its other worldly origins, it still sounded like any other tree being struck. But unlike other trees, blood began to rush from the wound. The sky turned a deep wine color. The lightning continued to crackle in it, but dared not touch the ground. Only the thrush of the falling rain continued to make a sound. That, and Jack’s repeated hacks at the tree.

Blood rushed more fervently from the wound that Jack continued to deepen without any regards for himself or anything around him. The tree now lilted at a dangerous angle. There were stirrings among the townsfolk themselves. An almost ominous feeling. Anxious, foreboding, coming over them. Many chalked it up to the storm, but the more sensitive ones could tell it was something more. Something almost primal.

The tree continued to lean further, its overhanging foliage starting to touch the ground. Jack’s arms and chest were burning with the effort, but nothing was going to stop him. With another mighty swing the tree was almost broken enough to fall over from its own weight. But it still held. The wind began to pick up, swirling the warm rain around Jack. Even the silent lightning seemed to be taking on a reddish hue, as if it was holding back for something big.

Then finally, the tree gave way.

The body of the tree hit the ground with a muted thud. It shattered, as if made of crystal. Jack stopped for a moment to catch his breath. He began to feel a small vibration through his feet. It intensified into a hum that seemed to permeate everything. Then, a split second of silence, and then �" the roar.

The tree stump exploded into a huge geyser of blood, spouting several stories into the air. Its viscous mass mingling with the pouring rain as it descended to the earth all around it. But the sound was like that of a huge beast screaming in agony far into the crashing sky. It deafened him, and almost made him fall to the ground if not for the skeletal hand that clasped him from the ichor gout.

“Why?! WHY?!” screamed a female voice. A ghoulish creature attached to that hand writhed out of the gusher. Rancid, decomposing, carcass. Bones and limbs held together by mere strands of tendon and sinew. Several long hairs adhered to a swatch of skin still adorned its skull. No eyes in their sockets, but a profane stare that pierced Jack’s very being. He pulled back violently but this creature held firm, and tried to grab him with its other hand as well.

“WHY DID YOU DO IT?!” The words came with hot, putrid air, assaulted Jack’s senses almost as powerfully as the original stench in his bed sheets. With it, came a force, a wave of energy that slammed into every resident as painfully as if a grand lance had been run through each and every one of them.

“It had to be done!” Jack’s demeanor took on a more desperate mote, as he continued to look at the creature while squinting heavily from the rain of blood and water pouring down upon him. “This curse! It’s evil! It cannot be allowed to abide!”

“But you’ve damned all who have sacrificed for it!” As the creature bellowed in a loud, gravelly voice, skeletal figures began to rise from the ground around Dammerung. An army of the damned, culled from those who were sent to earth almost 200 years earlier.

Jack was oblivious to everything around him, save this she-beast that was in his face, condemning his actions. The unholy fiends began to break down doors and walls, entering into the houses of Dammerung. The residents, still paralyzed by the pain of the supernatural shockwave, were easy targets. The monsters tore them apart. Every man, every woman, every child. No mercy was shown to anyone. People were slaughtered violently. Gored until they were unrecognizable. And this was repeated from house to house until Jack Silbert was the only living soul left in Dammerung.

Meanwhile, Jack struggled with the ghoul, as she ripped and tore at his flesh. He managed to dodge some of her attacks, trying to recover the axe he had dropped earlier. He rolled to the side, hurting his shoulder, but grabbing the axe. He swung as hard as he could, but that twinge in his shoulder caused his aim to falter. Fortunately, he managed to hack the creature’s legs out from under her.

Recovering, he flexed his shoulder a bit to stave off the pain and weakness, as the she-creature tried to crawl to him. It no longer exuded malice, but an aura of profound sadness emanated from her.

“It took my mother! And my sons! And my husband!”

Jack lowered the axe in a sympathetic gesture. This creature was not evil, but tormented.

“And now, it’s taken my people!” she cried, lowering her head into the boney remnants of it’s bosom, totally distraught.

The blood and water still flowed freely, but the lightning began to pick up. That’s when Jack realized that they were surrounded by hundreds of lifeless, festering ghouls. Jack tossed the axe to the side, and let out a sigh of surrender. He held his arms akimbo and closed his eyes, waiting to be torn asunder.

The creatures began to slowly shuffle towards him in unison, but not with murderous intent. A HUGE crash of lightning exploded upon the gushing tree stump, enveloping it, Jack, the she-creature, and the entirety of Edward’s house. The shock wave annihilated everything in the vicinity, leaving a gaping, smoking crater in its wake.

The edges of the hole began to collapse in on itself, causing the crevice to steadily grow larger, swallowing everything in its wake. It continued to ripple outward until every ghoul, every house, every tree, the entire landscape was swallowed up completely. The reverberations of which could be heard and felt for miles around.

 

Epilogue

     Somewhere, on the side of a lonely stretch of Midwestern highway, stands a sign. Rusted and faded, it reads, “Welcome to Dammerung.” It’s the only evidence left that the weepy little town ever even existed…

 

 

 

 

©Mark J. Tannacore, 2018

Author's Note

Apologies if the formatting is somewhat brusque

Reviews

[JayG]

You’ve worked hard on this, spent time editing and thinking about it, and invested yourself emotionally. Given that, I thought you would want to know that there are structural problems you’re probably not aware of. It’s not a matter of how well you’re writing, or one of talent and potential as a writer. So everything I'm about to say refers to an issue that can be fixed.

In a nutshell, here it is: Although we’re not aware of it, we did not learn to write in school, as a publisher, and, that publisher’s customers, view that act. Think about your school days. Compare of the number of reports and essays you were assigned, to the stories. Basically, it’s a small percentage on the story side. And even then, how many of your teachers were published fiction writers and able to correctly advise you on what a publisher or agent expects to see in a well written scene? You would think, were the writing skills they teach the ones we need for fiction, teachers, as the most practiced in those skills, would constitute a high percentage of successful writers. And, if we learned those skills, new-grads would form the bulk of new writers. But neither is true, so…

Here’s the thing: Public education was instituted during the industrial revolution because employers needed a pool of potential workers who could read instructions and notices, write reports, and do basic math. In other words, what’s often called The Three R’s, Reading, wRiting, and aRithmatic. The schoolwork focused on them, then, and it still does. What we forget—and it’s pretty much universal, so you have lots of company—is that professions and trades are learned in addition to the general skills we’re given in school. And writing fiction is a profession, one for which they offer four year majors at the universities. Surely some of what they teach is necessary.

Add to that, that you and everyone you know have been purchasing nothing but professionally written and prepared fiction since you began reading fiction. In practical terms that means that if we want people to enjoy our work, we need to know what the pros know.

In this piece, like about half of hopeful writers, you’re trying to give your story life by transcribing yourself telling it to an audience. But can we do that?

When you read this it works perfectly. The narrator’s voice—your voice—is as filled with emotion as it is for a live performance. As you read you can literally feel your hands making the gestures they would for that performance. Even your expression changes to illustrate the emotions in the story. But… Place yourself into the reader’s chair. They have your words, but not your intent. They can’t know what a given line says till it’s been read, so they can only know what emotion they should have placed into the words when it’s too late to place it there.

In short, verbal storytelling is a performance art, and transcription to our medium removes everything the performance would contribute, which is the majority of the emotional content. And because you ARE performing when you edit, it works perfectly and you never see the problem—at least not till someone like me comes along and hits you over the head with a 2x 4. And that hurts. I know, because I’ve been there. But because we all face it on the path to publication, it’s more a rite-of-passage than a disaster.

The solution? Simplicity itself. Add the tricks of the fiction writer to your existing nonfiction writing and performance skills. I won’t sugar coat it, though. It’s a simple, and obvious solution, but it involves learning the skills and special knowledge of a profession that’s far from easy to master, so it won’t be a matter of “Do this instead of that.” It will take time, study, and lots of practice. On the other hand, if you are meant to be a writer, the learning will be like going backstage at the theater.

So, is it worth the work? Only you can know that. I can tell you that as you learn those skills there will be many times where you’ll say, “Wait…that’s so simple. Why didn’t I see that, myself?” And once you master it you’ll love the difference in your writing—as will your readers. Another thing you’ll love is that your protagonist will become your writing partner. And that makes the writing a lot more fun.

So, what do you do? You might find the articles in my writing blog helpful as a kind of overview of the issues involved. Many of them were written for a publisher’s newsletter, and aimed at the hopeful writer.

Then, the local library’s fiction writing section is filled with the views of pros in the publishing, writing, and teaching fields. And as I usually do, I suggest you begin with Dwight Swain, Jack Bickham, or Debra Dixon. They won’t make a pro of you. That’s your task. They will, though, give you the nuts-and-bolts of creating scenes that sing to the reader.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/

[Unsophisticated]

Wow, that's a lot to absorb! I really appreciate your feedback, and taking the time to even read my story in the first place. I'm still a work in progress (I'm sure most writers would say the same), but literally, I've only been writing seriously for less than two years, so I'll take any advice I can get! I'm going to read the articles in your blog, and work on researching the folks you mentioned. Thank you again!