Realms Explorer Magazine

REALMS EXPLORER Volume 1

Issue 1

Fantasy, Horror and Science Fiction stories and poetry October 2015

From Our Classic Vault

Birds that Fly page 5

Fall of the House of Usher E. A. Poe

I, Ghost page 39

page 16

Untitled

Published By Sir Flafalot, Dragon Hunter Extraordinaire! page 31

Phillip Stubley

page 34

princepubs.com

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Features

Staff

From the Editor ……………………….…………………...4

Editor-In-Chief …..…………………… Donald E. Gardner

From the Classics Vault …………………….……………16

Publisher ….…..……………………… Prince Publications

In My Opinion ………………………….………………...33

Art Director ……....…………………………. Serene Miller

Submissions and Subscriptions Page ……………………48

Story Editors …………………...……… Cathbad Maponus …………..………………… Donald Gardner

Best Art - Found ……......………………………………...50

© September 2015 by Donald Gardner

This Month’s Stories Birds that Fly ……………………………………...……….5 J. B. Landman

Sir Flafalot ………………………….……………………31 Author Unknown

Untitled ….…..……………………………...……………34 Phillip Stubley

I, Ghost …………………………………………………...39 D. Gardner

Poetry A Sea of Stars …………………………..38 Serene Miller

Welcome to our Premier Issue! Help us get only better: Submit your art at sereneartboutique.com/submission-upload.html

Thank you!

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-Serene

REALMS EXPLORER MAGAZINE ~ PREMIER ISSUE

From The Editor This is our first issue... and yet, it’s not!

You see, back in the mid-1990s, Realms Explorer was an “on-disk” magazine! The magazine’s highest distribution reached almost 500! As you might imagine, we’re hoping for a bit better luck this time around.

We are, however, starting out with the same problems: A lack of funds for the programs that would make the magazine’s appearance so much better. It also prohibits our advertising as heavily aswe should! However, with the Internet now, we are hoping the word gets out.

We have a staff of three, and are looking for others. Interested? Drop me a line at princepubs@outlook.com For the Subject, put ATTN: Editors. Add a bio, and describe how you think you can help us with the magazine! We sure could use a lot of help!

Anyway, I hope you enjoy the magazine!

We have found some excellent authors for this issue! The stories span all age groups: A story from an Unknown Author to be read to the youngest of fans, one from Phillip Stubley for the teen/young adult readers, two from J. B. Landman and D. Gardner (ahem) for the adult crowd, and one from our Classics Vault for the older group! (and Poe fans of all ages!)

Take a look, and let us know if you like it or not! ( princepubs@outlook.com )

From Prince Publications Available in Print and on Kindle princepubs.com 4

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As mankind struggles for survival…

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for a man of his stature? Damn these provincials.

Behind him he heard the driver swear as he lifted his colossal, metal trunk from the back of the car.

Inspired by his anger Trelawney started to drag his heavy frame up the steps. When he was halfway, he heard the engine of the limousine being started. With a gasp of dismay he turned, just in time to see the black coffin drive off in veils of spray. His shiny trunk stood at the bottom of the steps, pelted by the rain.

Trelawney's face became crimson. He almost shook his brolly at the departing car.

"May your drowning be slow," he muttered. "Very slow."

He cast another look at his trunk, scowling.

He'd never get that thing up the stairs alone.

Someone would have to get it for him. He resumed his ascent, puffing and wheezing, growing more incensed with every step he took.

By the time he had reached the perron he was ready for mass murder. He banged on the door.

Sweat was pouring down his face and running in ticklish rivulets down his back. Someone was going to pay for this. Who the hell did these yokels think he was?

After several, infuriating minutes the door was finally opened. An old, decrepit doorkeeper gazed at him with blinking eyes. Trelawney almost pushed him over in his haste to get indoors.

"Easy, easy," said the old man. "What's the hurry?"

Trelawney closed his umbrella. He trembled with rage.

"I AM PROFESSOR VICTOR TRELAWNEY!" he shouted, causing such booming echoes in the great hall, that he was startled into lowering his voice. "I'm here on a mission of global importance," he said softly but menacingly. "The ecology of the world depends on what I have to do in a matter of weeks. That's the hurry. So why is there no goddamn body here to welcome me? Infernal idiots!"

The old man chuckled. "There's nobody here but me and young Otto over there," he said, pointing at a figure that had appeared in the doorway of an office beside the entrance.

Trelawney's anger evaporated. This was

Jan B. Landman Birds that Fly As the silent limousine slid along through the torrential rains, Professor Victor Trelawney reclined in the back, lazily, feeling mighty pleased with himself. He was about to embark on the greatest mission of his career. It was to be a triumph of such historical importance that it brought a smirk to his lips whenever he thought of it. It was almost as if he, Trelawney, had been given the divine power to say, in the words of the Book of Genesis: "Let the waters bring forth abundantly fowl that may fly above the earth in the open firmament of heaven."

He took a deep breath. It was almost too much, even for him. He dozed off and was jostled awake by the car stopping suddenly. The driver turned round.

"This is the place, mister."

Slightly dazed, Trelawney tried to look out of the window. They were misted on the inside and dappled with rain on the outside so there was little to see. He gave an impatient shrug. What the hell did it matter, anyway. He groped for his umbrella and shifted his body to the door.

"I trust you'll see to my luggage," he said to the driver, who gave him a brooding look in return.

Trelawney struggled out of the car, with some difficulty, for he was a very fat man. His fame had brought both the boon and the bane of being able to indulge in his passion for food. And he had indulged. He considered it his only weakness.

Opening his brolly, he looked up the monumental steps of the Dutch National Museum of Natural History. He had expected hordes of eager biologists and students to welcome him.

Instead there were only bars of rain driven into the stone with such force that the shattering drops rebounded almost knee-high. Anger filled him, quick as always. What kind of treatment was this 6

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follow the man, the big door was flung open and Otto reappeared, carrying the sixty-pound trunk under one arm as if it were a loaf of bread. The boy's display of strength annoyed Trelawney.

They drank tea in the office. Nobody spoke. The old man fell asleep, Otto just gazed at Trelawney in mute admiration.

too much. In speechless amazement he gazed at the old man, who continued to chuckle and began nodding his head. "That's right," the old man said. "Just us. All the others have been drafted.

It's the war, you know."

Trelawney heaved a sigh. Of course. That damned farce. He should have guessed. He looked at the other man, Otto wasn't it? Trelawney almost burst into laughter at the sight of him. The figure in the doorway could easily pass as a twin of the Monster of Frankenstein. About seven feet tall, with a muscular body and a drooping head. His face betrayed the mind of a simpleton. Small, drowsy eyes, a drooling mouth, and an expression of vacant friendliness.

"Hello, p-p-professor," he said, with a deep, dragging voice. "I'm Otto. I've been told to help you."

"O my God," said Trelawney, turning to the old man. "You don't mean to say that this moron is to be my assistant?"

"That's right," said the doorkeeper.

"There's only us," "O, no. This won't do," said Trelawney.

"Where's the phone?"

"It's in the office but it don't work."

"Doesn't work?"

"Nope. Happens all the time. The rains, you know."

For a moment Trelawney was overcome by frustration. Then he clenched his teeth. What the hell. He'd do it alone. That had always been best anyway. Then he remembered his trunk. He turned to the monster.

"Perhaps you can make yourself useful by getting my trunk. It's still outside." The friendly smile on Otto's face expanded into a gleeful grin.

"Sure, p-p-professor," he grunted. "I'll get it for you." And he ambled to the door. His head bobbed like the head of a lame horse, but he moved with amazing swiftness.

"Perhaps you'd like a cuppa tea, professor?" said the old man. "I've got the kettle on."

Trelawney was about to annihilate the old fool with a scathing reply, but realized it would do little good. "Why not," he said. As he turned to

The department of avian specimens of the Dutch National Museum of Natural History was without a doubt - the finest in the world. There were few species of birds that did not have several representatives here, if only in the form of empty skins, each encased in a box and stored in one of the mahogany cabinets that lined the walls of a hall big enough to house a church. It was four stories high, with a narrow gallery on each floor.

A tall, gothic window adorned the far wall, framing a beautiful glass-in-lead scene of a phoenix rising from the ashes. Out of the gloom that obscured the arched ceiling there loomed a chandelier like a gigantic christmas tree adorned with icicles. An oak conference table stood in the middle of the marble floor, bearing four large table lamps with computer terminals. High-backed chairs stood around it. A scent of beeswax pervaded the atmosphere.

With Otto at his heels Trelawney waddled across the floor. "Ah, this is more like it," he said, rubbing his hands as he looked around. "Good.

Very good. And now to work."

He activated one of the terminals and sat down in front of it. A few keystrokes brought him into the catalog. His mouth watered at the sight of the wealth of specimens. "Right. Let's begin with the Anatidae." he struck a key.

A long list of Latin names appeared, each followed by an identification number and a place code indicating where the specimen was to be found. A glance at the first two place codes made Trelawney very uncomfortable. They read (I) A26-G7 and (III) G-18-X3. If that meant what he feared it meant, he was in dire trouble.

He turned round to Otto. To his disgust the dumb brute had not moved. He had not even put down the trunk. He just stood there, looking happily dazed, holding the trunk under his arm as 7

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The tall boy blushed. "Letters are hard, pp-professor," he said. "I mix them up."

Trelawney felt the first twinge of despair.

This must be some sick joke, he thought.

"But I'm good at figures, p-p-professor." said the boy. "I really am."

"Are you now?" sneered Trelawney.

"Well, get me the first twenty numbers on this list."

The boy cast a casual glance at the list, put it back on the table and ambled off.

Trelawney leaped from his chair. "Hey! Numbskull. You've forgotten the list!"

"No need, p-p-professor," mumbled the boy and broke into a trot.

Trelawney slumped back into his chair, shaking his head. He'd have to get another assistant. This was madness. And he only had a few weeks, if that. The violence of the rains was becoming ominous. His triumph was turning into a disaster. Feeling a bit sick he watched Otto run to the wall, open doors, grab boxes, run on, leap up stairs and race along the galleries stopping only briefly to grab other boxes. In five minutes he was back, balancing two stacks of ten boxes on his outstretched arms.

Trelawney sighed. That imbecile must just have grabbed boxes at random. They could not possibly be the right ones. To his boundless astonishment they were. All twenty.

The boy stood grinning at him like a big ape. "Any more, p-p-professor?" he asked.

Trelawney could not bear the childish glee on the boy's face. The brute seemed to be mocking him. He apparently was one of these specialized idiots who are marvels at arithmetic but cannot spell their own name.

"Yes," Trelawney said sullenly. "Get the rest."

Without a second glance at the list, Otto was off again.

Trelawney should have been delighted at having his first problem so easily solved. Yet he was not. It irked him that this imbecile could do something he could not even contemplate doing.

He opened the first box. It contained the skin of a female Anser Albifrons. Carefully, he

if he had forgotten about it. "You can put that thing down now, Otto," said Trelawney, "And be careful."

Otto grinned. "Sure, p-p-professor." He said and placed the trunk on the floor with amazing gentleness.

"Come over here." said Trelawney. Otto came, his head abob.

Trelawney pointed at the first place code on the screen. "What does this refer to?"

Otto looked startled.

"River two, p-p-professor?" he asked.

"No. Refer to. REFER to! What does it stand for?"

Fearfully the young man gazed at the screen. "Stand for?" he mumbled to himself.

Trelawney pursed his lips in anger. The boy was a complete idiot. Jesus! "What's it USED for?" asked Trelawney.

"Oh," said Otto with a grin "It's the p-pplace c-c-code, p-p-professor. It tells me where I c-c-can find the birds."

"Well? Where do you find this one."

Trelawney pointed.

Otto grinned. "First floor, section A, c-ccabinet 26, row G, box 7." he droned.

"And this one?"

"Third floor, section G, c-c-cabinet 18, row X, box 3."

Trelawney groaned. As he had feared the birds were scattered all over the place. If he had to get them himself, he'd be exhausted before the hour was out and he shuddered to think how long it would take his imbecile assistant to gather them.

O well, he'd just have to try. He got out his stuff.

Microscanner, cell probe and the ledgers, filled with little plastic envelopes like stamps. Each envelope bore the name of the specimen to be collected. Trelawney installed himself at the table.

He printed a list of the first sixty birds he needed and handed it to Otto. "Get me the anserinae first."

Otto gaped. "Anseriwhat, p-p-professor?"

Trelawney closed his eyes in exasperation.

He was about to suffocate. He had to swallow several times before he could speak again.

"You can read, can't you?"

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Trelawney sighed. It all seemed so unreal, no matter how tangible the hammering drops on the glass were. He could still remember the first time he had heard about the asteroids. Over a year ago at the December convention in Chicago. During the NFL playoffs. Old Timmy Gascoigne had taken him along to a game and confided in him afterwards.

"Have I got news for you." he had said.

"You're in love again," Trelawney had replied.

Timmy had collapsed into one of his roaring belly laughs. "Yeah, that too. But we've got an honest-to-god, end-of-the-world situation on our hands."

"Aw, come on."

"It's true. I'm not supposed to tell you yet but you'll hear tomorrow anyway. You're in on the Noah Project."

And there, in the snow-swept parking lot of Soldier Field stadium Trelawney was told about the asteroids. A large previously unknown swarm had entered the solar system the year before.

Nobody had taken any notice at first. Resources were slim and asteroids had little to offer anyway.

Mere vermin of the skies, as they had always been known in the profession. Then Amadeus Semmelweis, a semi-retired astronomer from Vienna published a paper in the German Journal of the Skies. He had studied the asteroid swarm and predicted that their course was likely to bring them in collision with earth. Still nobody took any notice. In despair old Amadeus turned to the tabloids. This led to a few sensational articles on the impending end of the world, but nothing else.

Amadeus Semmelweis died and the whole matter was forgotten. Trelawney himself had not even heard of the asteroids till that December day, when he learned from his old roommate that both the USA and the USSR had commissioned a few lowly assistants to check Semmelweis' findings only to discover that he had been absolutely right.

There could be no doubt that earth was indeed going to collide with the greater part of the asteroid swarm. Panic in high places. An unprecedented agreement was concluded between the two superpowers. To avoid worldwide anarchy

took it out, placed it in the compartment under his microscanner and began to test it for signs of disease. When he had run all the tests, he clipped a small fragment from the tail feathers and dropped it into the first envelope. When he looked up, Otto wasstanding beside him, with another twenty boxes. His face was flushed. He emitted a faint though penetrating smell of perspiration.

"Where shall I put them, p-p-professor?" he panted.

"On the table. And stop calling me p-pprofessor."

The boy blushed. "I'm sorry, p-p-psir," Trelawney worked as fast as he could.

Still, it took him well over five minutes for each bird. He needed at least one male and one female.

His list contained well over two thousand birds, multiplied by two made four thousand times five was twenty thousand minutes. More than 300 hours. Even if he only slept six hours a night he would need three weeks of uninterrupted labor.

And he wondered whether he had the time. The incessant clatter of raindrops on the gothic window made him doubt it.

He worked feverishly. Each time he had finished with a bird, Otto would rush up, place it tenderly in its box and hurry off to return it to its cabinet. Maliciously, Trelawney refrained from suggesting that the boy should wait until he had say ten birds so as to save himself the trouble of nine unnecessary trips. Served him right for being so cocky about his menial ability.

The hours fled. At first Trelawney enjoyed the work. It had been long since he had done basic research but he was still a wizard at it. The depth of his know-how flattered him. With playful ease he ran the tests, never faltering, never doubting.

When he came across the first diseased specimen, he had to call Otto, point out the identification number and wait till the boy had brought a second specimen.

As he sat waiting, he gazed at the window.

Daylight was beginning to fail, turning the phoenix into a harbinger of darkness and doom.

As if it knew. In a matter of weeks it would be shattered, washed away by the conquering waters.

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rising and falling in volume. Twice it died away completely, leaving a silence of sorts, wonderfully soothing, although filled with all kinds of wet splashes, drips and gurgles as the water sought its way down along the building. But neither of the dry spells lasted for more than fifteen minutes.

After two hours, Trelawney decided to take a ten-minute break. He drew back from the terminal and rubbed his eyes. Otto sat in another chair, some three yards away, gazing at him.

Trelawney realized that he must have been sitting there the whole time, like a trusty dog.

Trelawney managed a reluctant grin, which was returned by a beaming smile.

"Need anything, p-p-p ...sir?" said Otto, jumping up eagerly.

Trelawney shook his head.

"You're not finished?" Otto asked, with a wail of disappointment.

"No, I've only just begun. This will take weeks."

"Oh, good," said Otto. He cast a quizzical look at the microscanner. "What are you doing, sir?"

Trelawney was tempted to say he was running a simple integrated multiprobe interdisciplinary status test, but relented.

"I'm taking samples, Otto. That's all."

"What for?"

Trelawney sighed. "To make new birds."

He said, grudgingly.

Otto's drooping nether lip dropped even further. Suspicion knitted his brow. He looked at the microscanner and the little envelopes. Then a hesitant smile brightened his face.

"Ah, that's a joke, is it, sir?" he asked.

"No, Otto, it is not a joke. It's an invention of mine. But it's too difficult to explain. And I'm hungry. Could you get me something to eat?"

"You c-c-can have my sandwiches, sir."

Trelawney shook his head. "No Otto, that won't do. I need proper nourishment. This is hard work. Surely you can send out for something? A big juicy steak would be fine. Some french fries.

A bottle of Burgundy."

The boy began to shake his head, but stopped himself. For once he closed his mouth in a

all knowledge of the asteroids was to be suppressed. Politics were forgotten. Spies and terrorists went scot-free while amateur astronomers were hunted down and butchered like rabid dogs.

When it was found that the asteroids consisted almost entirely of ice, there was some relief, but it was short-lived when calculations proved that the swarm contained enough water to swamp the planet to the peaks of the Andes. To put it simply: if all the asteroids landed on earth, mankind was to experience another flood.

An elaborate ploy of impending war between the East and the West was devised, enabling both powers to start building domed cities that would be able to exist under water. All able men were drafted for so-called defensive construction work. Once they entered the building, sites, they were cut off from the outside world.

And even inside they were kept under the illusion that they were working on military projects.

Meanwhile a global census was conducted to select those who qualified for survival. Young families mostly but also men and women of exceptional talent.

Of course it, had been impossible to prevent all leaks, but the secret services had a field day. Anyone spreading the slightest rumor was certain to contract a swiftly lethal disease.

All in all, the ploy had worked. Another year had passed. Now the vanguard of the swarm was penetrating the atmosphere, bringing these interminable rains. Most domed cities were operational, if far from perfect, and the first evacuations were in full swing. According to the last estimates Trelawney had heard, lowland countries were expected to become uninhabitable in five weeks' time. Just his luck to be in one of the lowest countries in the world.

He was startled from his thoughts by Otto's return. He said, "Here's the bird, sir."

With a grunt Trelawney took it and set to work again. For two more hours he worked without pause, quickly and efficiently, almost entranced, hardly aware of Otto's presence. But he could not help hearing the sound of the rain. That deep, droning noise, like a monstrous humming, 10

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hours' sleep had passed. As a manservant he had no peers.

There was one thing about him that Trelawney did not understand. Despite his glaring imbecility Otto seemed desperate to know what he, Trelawney, was doing. The boy kept pestering him with questions. One day Trelawney could stand it no longer.

"Otto," Trelawney said, "I'm perfectly willing to explain, but I don't think you would understand."

"I c-c-can try," said Otto.

"Oh, all right then. Do you know what a cell is?"

Otto nodded. "That's where they put bad people."

"No Otto. A cell is like a brick. You do know what a brick is?"

Otto guffawed.

"Of course," he said. "I'm not that stupid."

"Right," said Trelawney. "Houses are made of bricks. The bodies of all living things are also made of brick-like parts. They are called cells."

Otto looked at him open-mouthed, raised a hand to his eyes. "Bricks?" he asked. "In here?"

"Yes Otto. Very, very small bricks. So small that they cannot be seen."

"That's true," said Otto, "I don't see any."

"Well," said Trelawney feeling quite a fool. "Each of these bricks contains a plan of the whole house. If you know what one brick looks like, you know what the whole house looks like."

"Like a photograph?" asked Otto, spellbound.

"Yes, like a photograph. And I am the man who has discovered how to bring that photograph to life." He took the specimen he had just tested from the microscanner, a stuffed rook grotesquely lifelike with its beak half open - and held it aloft. "I have taken some cells from this bird. They are dead, of course. But by means of very complicated machinery, I can copy its socalled photograph into a blank, living cell. And that cell will grow Otto gasped. "Really? One that flies?"

"Yes, Otto. This dead bird will fly again.

determined expression. "I c-c-can try, sir. I c-ccan try," he said and shuffled away.

Trelawney could not help but smile.

Despite his loathing for the boy's subhuman intelligence, he was beginning to soften slightly to the brute. At any rate he was eager to help.

Perhaps he had been too hasty in assuming ulterior motives in his glee. He seemed too stupid for those.

He looked at the darkness beyond the table, which was flooded by yellow lamplight. The rain lashed at the window, relentlessly. He sure hoped the predictions hadn't been too optimistic. It would be a momentous tragedy if he and his work were to be lost for posterity.

For two weeks, Trelawney worked like a mad mole. Two hours in full concentration, followed by his ten-minute break. But as time wore on, those ten minutes were not enough. He would feel so drained of energy that it took fifteen to twenty sometimes even thirty minutes for him to recuperate. Those were the times he cursed Otto most for his imbecility. If only he had been a competent assistant. Together they would have completed the job in a fortnight. The worst part was that Otto believed himself to be a great help.

He started to use first person plural.

"How are we doing, sir?" he would ask, to Trelawney's utter disgust. It made him malicious.

He would look into the blank, grinning face and mentally insult him. You impertinent cretin, he would think, a well-trained chimpanzee could do what you do. And better. Thank god I won't have to put with the likes of you in the dome. There's a comforting thought. All the misfits and incompetents are to be washed away. Good riddance, too. At last mankind will be cleansed of its genetic blunders.

Otto himself was totally unaware of Trelawney's dislike. Happily, he continued to run off with each bird that Trelawney had tested.

Nothing was too much for him. He made coffee, went out to get amazingly good food, swept the floor, waxed the woodwork, prepared a bed for his professor every night and woke him when his six 11

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little ball of feathers into the scanner. It was a Golden-crowned Kinglet. The tiny carcass brought a sudden rush of memories. The winter of 49. Just after his operation, paid for by his foster father, after the needless agony of sixteen years with a harelip. How proud he had been. The joy of being inconspicuous. That winter surely ranked as the happiest time of his life. Girls no longer froze at the sight of his ugly mouth. Not only was he ignored, which would have been grand enough, but girls even expressed a friendly interest in him.

He had known his first love. In snowbound Minnesota woods he had walked out with Millicent, a strapping farmer's daughter. At a fallen Tamarac he had felt the caress of tender lips on his mouth for the very first time, to the titters of a flock of Kinglets in the tree. Ah, yes. Those Kinglets. Tears came to his eyes as he scanned the tiny body. Damn the tidal wave. This creature was to fly again, so it might one day titter in the ears of one so much in love as he had been, that winter's day in 49.

His eyepiece misted over. He had to draw his head back.

"What's wrong, p-p-professor?" asked Otto .

"Nothing," snapped Trelawney. "Get me some coffee." “Done!� With a violent curse, Trelawney slammed the ledger shut on the final envelope.

"Right, Otto. Let's move. Pack my trunk and get a car. We've got to get the hell out of here."

"We, sir?" asked Otto, spluttering with excitement. "C-c-can I c-c-come with you?"

"Of course. I need you to carry my trunk."

"Oh, great!" cried the boy and began to bustle about like a fussy old hen.

Trelawney felt a sudden qualm. The poor brute had no idea. There was no place for him inside the dome. Trelawney shrugged his shoulders. Let's not get sentimental here, he thought. This was an emergency if ever there was one. The last thing mankind needed now was the likes of Otto.

Besides, the imbecile would not understand what was happening anyway. When they reached the dome, he would be quite content

This very same bird."

"That's marvelous, p-p-professor ... oops ... sir. Marvelous."

"Yes, isn't it?" said Trelawney, pleased with the response.

Otto nodded. "I like working here." he said softly "It's nice and q-q-quiet and warm and I don't get scolded so much. But I always feel sorry for the birds. They weren't made to be put in boxes, were they, sir? They must fly."

"Yes Otto, they must."

Another week had passed when one late afternoon Otto came running into the hall, drooling with excitement.

"P-p-professor!" he shouted. "The telephone works again. And there's a c-c-call for you."

Trelawney leapt to his feet. As fast as his weight would allow he ran to the doorkeeper's office. The old man was chuckling into the receiver. Trelawney snatched it from him.

"Trelawney here."

"Professor Trelawney?"

"Yeah. Who else? Who are you?"

"Angelsby, sir. Scientific liaison officer.

You're to come in immediately. The ice cap of Greenland has destabilized. There's fear of a collapse and a tidal wave that will swamp half of Europe."

"I need one more day."

"I would advise against it, sir. I'd..."

Silence.

"Hello? Hello!?" Trelawney shouted.

Nothing. He flung the receiver back in its cradle.

A tidal wave. Jesus! Hastily he returned to the hall. Otto was just coming down the stairs, toting thirty boxes. He looked at Trelawney expectantly.

"What's new, doc," he said, breaking into a hiccupy laugh.

"O, shut up, you damned moron!" snapped Trelawney, running up to the table. A tidal wave.

He had to get out. Fast. Run Trelawney, run. Then his eye fell on the monitor. Only forty species to go. No. Damn it. He wasn't going to run, he was going to finish this.

He sat down, grabbed a box, and flung the 12

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to return, unaware of the fate awaiting him. Still, Trelawney ached a little as he watched the loving care with which Otto packed the trunk and returned all the boxes to their proper places.

Trelawney did not have the heart to tell him he might just as well fling them into the garbage can.

He was glad when the boy left the hall to get a car.

Evacuation was in full swing. The roads were crammed with honking vehicles, but miraculously their driver managed to keep his jeep going, veering from the road, racing across shoulders, even bumping other cars out of his way.

He got them within five miles of the coast. Then the pile-up became solid. There was no escape.

The road ran on an embankment, bordered on both sides by flooded farmlands.

They had to walk. Otto took the trunk under his arm and followed Trelawney as he plodded ahead. It was late afternoon. The dripping sky was like solid, dark gray cement. Three miles from their goal the embankment had caved in. A back abyss, filled with swirling water, barred their way. Frantic evacuees were pacing the shore.

Occasionally someone would try to wade across but was swept away by the raging waters.

Trelawney looked at Otto in despair.

"We must get across," he said.

"No problem," said Otto, and jumped into the water. It was waist high, swirling and bubbling but the boy stood like a tree.

"Come on, p-p-psir...." he shouted.

Trelawney jumped. Instantly, the water swept him off his feet, but Otto grabbed his coat and dragged him up. Slowly, the boy started to move. Trelawney clung to him like a frightened child. Again and again his feet swept from under him, but each time Otto pulled him back.

They reached the other side.

"I'm strong, ain't I, p-p-psir...." said Otto, beaming with glee.

"Yes, Otto, very strong."

They walked on, slowly, Trelawney leaning on Otto's arm. When they reached the entrance to the dome, Trelawney was in agony.

His VIP-pass to the dome burned in his pocket. A life of fame and leisure beckoned from the brightly lit reception hall. Cruel death loomed on the outside. He looked at Otto, who stood grinning at him, insensitive to the rain that was soaking him to the skin. Trelawney clenched his fists in impotent anger. He was an old man. Otto was young. His brain might be damaged but his genes could still produce wonderful offspring. A mind

While he waited, Trelawney wandered about the hall and came to a small room at the back. Otto's apparently. It only contained a table with chair, a locker and a clipboard with newspaper clippings and photographs. Trelawney looked at the board without much interest till his attention was drawn by a large, color photograph of a muscular youth in football attire. "Heisman bound?" read the caption. Trelawney looked closer. The boy bore a striking resemblance to Otto, minus the moronic expression and the drooping lower lip. Surely it couldn't be?

Trelawney read one of the newspaper clippings.

"College football star survives horrendous crash.

Tragic end to promising career."

With growing nausea Trelawney read the article. It featured Otto, all right. A brilliant student and masterful quarterback who had driven his car into a tree to avoid a pair of swans, leaving him with irreparable brain damage. Trelawney almost gagged. He sank down into the chair.

"Jesus!" he muttered.

When Otto returned, gibbering with glee that he had found an automobile, Trelawney dared not look at him. He felt smaller than he had ever felt, even with his harelip. The prospect of becoming the savior of palearctic birdlife seemed utterly worthless now. He hardly dared think of Otto's true identity. It was too painful.

Otto had come up with a brilliant find. A 4WD with a devilish driver. When they took off Trelawney sat slumped in the back, feeling sick, while Otto sat up front, gazing about with glistening eyes.

"Wow," he shouted again and again. "This is exciting, p-p-psir."

Trelawney was too dejected to respond.

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"Make them fly p-p-professor. Make them fly."

Then he was gone. Trelawney sank to his knees and wept. He wept for a very long time.

When he had no more tears to weep, he rose. His right hand still clutched a handful of Otto's hair.

His breath faltered. Otto's hair. Otto's cells.

Unimpaired. Trelawney broke into a smile, wry and melancholy yet infinitely glad. Carefully he wrapped the tuft of hair into a handkerchief. Then he grasped one of the handles of the trunk and started to drag the thing toward the entrance of the dome.

equal, perhaps even superior to his own, but ornamented by a gentle disposition, infinitely above his warped self that was the legacy of his miserable youth. What to do?

"Shouldn't we go inside, sir?" asked Otto.

Trelawney choked. "Only one of us can go, Otto," he said feebly.

"Oh?" said Otto. "Well, that's easy. You go. I must go back to look after the birds anyway."

Trelawney could not bear it. He had to fight back his tears.

"You don't understand!" he shouted.

"There's going to be a flood. The water will cover the land. You'll be drowned."

Dumbly Otto gazed at him.

"You'll die," said Trelawney.

Otto blinked. "Die?" he said.

"Yes," said Trelawney. "You'll be drowned."

Otto smiled, with infinite sadness. "Just as well," he said, softly.

Don't say that!" screamed Trelawney.

"You're a fine boy. You deserve to live. Here!" he dragged the pass from his pocket. "Take it. Go inside."

Otto drew back. "And what about you?"

Trelawney shrugged. "I've done enough.

Go. Take the birds. See them fly. Hear the Kinglets titter."

Otto drew back even further, face aghast.

"No professor. I'm a moron. You said so yourself. You're important. I'm nothing."

"Oh, Otto ..." wailed Trelawney .

The boy placed the trunk gently on the ground.

Trelawney pounced on him, grabbed him by the hair, but the young boy was too strong for him. He junked himself free, leaving Trelawney with a handful of curls. Otto ran out of reach.

"Make new birds, p-p-professor," he shouted. "Make them fly. I'll be all right. I swim very good. I'm like a fish in water. I'm not afraid of no flood."

"Otto!" screamed Trelawney "Come back.

For god's sake!"

But Otto trotted away into the rain. From afar his voice rang out one more time.

Rotterdam 1990/ Drenthe 2003 _______________________________________

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Edgar Allan Poe’s

FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 16

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compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the after-dream of the reveller upon opium — the bitter lapse into common life — the hideous dropping off of the veil. There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart — an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime. What was it — I paused to think — what was it that so unnerved me in the contemplation of the House of Usher?

It was a mystery all insoluble; nor could I grapple with the shadowy fancies that crowded upon me as I pondered. I was forced to fall back upon the unsatisfactory conclusion, that while, beyond doubt, there are combinations of very simple natural objects which have the power of thus affecting us, still the reason, and the analysis, of this power, lie among considerations beyond our depth. It was possible, I reflected, that a mere different arrangement of the particulars of the scene, of the details of the picture, would be sufficient to modify, or perhaps to annihilate its capacity for sorrowful impression; and, acting upon this idea, I reined my horse to the precipitous brink of a black and lurid tarn that lay in unruffled lustre by the dwelling, and gazed down — but with a shudder even more thrilling than before — upon the re-modelled and inverted images of the gray sedge, and the ghastly tree-stems, and the vacant and eyelike windows.

FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER By, Edgar Allan Poe

Son coeur est un luth suspendu; Sitôt qu'on le touche il rèsonne..

De Béranger.

DURING the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was — but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for the feeling was unrelieved by any of that half-pleasurable, because poetic, sentiment, with which the mind usually receives even the sternest natural images of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the scene before me — upon the mere house, and the simple landscape features of the domain — upon the bleak walls — upon the vacant eye-like windows — upon a few rank sedges — and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees — with an utter depression of soul which I can 17

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Nevertheless, in this mansion of gloom I now proposed to myself a sojourn of some weeks. Its proprietor, Roderick Usher, had been one of my boon companions in boyhood; but many years had elapsed since our last meeting. A letter, however, had lately reached me in a distant part of the country — a letter from him — which, in its wildly importunate nature, had admitted of no other than a personal reply. The MS. gave evidence of nervous agitation. The writer spoke of acute bodily illness — of a pitiable mental idiosyncrasy which oppressed him — and of an earnest desire to see me, as his best, and indeed, his only personal friend, with a view of attempting, by the cheerfulness of my society, some alleviation of his malady. It was the manner in which all this, and much more, was said — it was the apparent heart that went with his request — which allowed me no room for hesitation — and I accordingly obeyed, what I still considered a very singular summons, forthwith.

very remarkable fact, that the stem of the Usher race, all time-honored as it was, had put forth, at no period, any enduring branch; in other words, that the entire family lay in the direct line of descent, and had always, with very trifling and very temporary variation, so lain. It was this deficiency, I considered, while running over in thought the perfect keeping of the character of the premises with the accredited character of the people, and while speculating upon the possible influence which the one, in the long lapse of centuries, might have exercised upon the other — it was this deficiency, perhaps, of collateral issue, and the consequent undeviating transmission, from sire to son, of the patrimony with the name, which had, at length, so identified the two as to merge the original title of the estate in the quaint and equivocal appellation of the “House of Usher” — an appellation which seemed to include, in the minds of the peasantry who used it, both the family and the family mansion.

Although, as boys, we had been even intimate associates, yet I really knew little of my friend. His reserve had been always excessive and habitual. I was aware, however, that his very ancient family had been noted, time out of mind, for a peculiar sensibility of temperament, displaying itself, through long ages, in many works of exalted art, and manifested, of late, in repeated deeds of munificent yet unobtrusive charity, as well as in a passionate devotion to the intricacies, perhaps even more than to the orthodox and easily recognisable beauties, of musical science. I had learned, too, the

I have said that the sole effect of my somewhat childish experiment, of looking down within the tarn, had been to deepen the first singular impression. There can be no doubt that the consciousness of the rapid increase of my superstition — for why should I not so term it? — served mainly to accelerate the increase itself.

Such, I have long known, is the paradoxical law of all sentiments having terror as a basis. And it might have been for this reason only, that, when I again uplifted my eyes to the house itself, from its image in the pool, there grew in my 18

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mind a strange fancy — a fancy so ridiculous, indeed, that I but mention it to show the vivid force of the sensations which oppressed me. I had so worked upon my imagination as really to believe that around about the whole mansion and domain there hung an atmosphere peculiar to themselves and their immediate vicinity — an atmosphere which had no affinity with the air of heaven, but which had reeked up from the decayed trees, and the gray wall, and the silent tarn, in the form of an inelastic vapor or gas — dull, sluggish, faintly discernible, and leaden-hued.

Shaking off from my spirit what must have been a dream, I scanned more narrowly the real aspect of the building. Its principal feature seemed to be that of an excessive antiquity. The discoloration of ages had been great. Minute fungi overspread the whole exterior, hanging in a fine tangled web-work from the eaves. Yet all this was apart from any extraordinary dilapidation.

No portion of the masonry had fallen; and there appeared to be a wild inconsistency between its still perfect adaptation of parts, and the utterly porous, and evidently decayed condition of the individual stones.

In this there was much that reminded me of the specious totality of old wood-work which has rotted for long years in some neglected vault, with no disturbance from the breath of the external air. Beyond this indication of extensive decay, however, the fabric gave little token of instability.

Perhaps the eye of a scrutinizing observer might have discovered a barely perceptible fissure, which, extending from the roof of the building in front, made its way down the wall in a zig-zag [[zigzag]] direction,

until it became lost in the sullen waters of the tarn.

Noticing these things, I rode over a short causeway to the house. A servant in waiting took my horse, and I entered the Gothic archway of the hall. A valet, of stealthy step, thence conducted me, in silence, through many dark and intricate passages in my progress to the studio of his master. Much that I encountered on the way contributed, I know not how, to heighten the vague sentiments of which I have already spoken. While the objects around me — while the carvings of the ceilings, the sombre tapestries of the walls, the ebon blackness of the floors, and the phantasmagoric armorial trophies which rattled as I strode, were but matters to which, or to such as which, I had been accustomed from my infancy — while I hesitated not to acknowledge how familiar was all this — I still wondered to find how unfamiliar were the fancies which ordinary images were stirring up. On one of the staircases, I met the physician of the family. His countenance, I thought, wore a mingled expression of low cunning and perplexity. He accosted me with trepidation and passed on. The valet now threw open a door and ushered me into the presence of his master.

The room in which I found myself was very large and excessively lofty. The windows were long, narrow, and pointed, and at so vast a distance from the black oaken floor as to be altogether inaccessible from within. Feeble gleams of encrimsoned light made their way through the trelliced panes, and served to render sufficiently 19

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distinct the more prominent objects around; the eye, however, struggled in vain to reach the remoter angles of the chamber, or the recesses of the vaulted and fretted ceiling.

Dark draperies hung upon the walls. The general furniture was profuse, comfortless, antique, and tattered. Many books and musical instruments lay scattered about, but failed to give any vitality to the scene. I felt that I breathed an atmosphere of sorrow. An air of stern, deep, and irredeemable gloom hung over and pervaded all.

of prominence, of a want of moral energy; hair of a more than web-like softness and tenuity; these features, with an inordinate expansion above the regions of the temple, made up altogether a countenance not easily to be forgotten. And now in the mere exaggeration of the prevailing character of these features, and of the expression they were wont to convey, lay so much of change that I doubted to whom I spoke.

The now ghastly pallor of the skin, and the now miraculous lustre of the eye, above all things startled and even awed me. The silken hair, too, had been suffered to grow all unheeded, and as, in its wild gossamer texture, it floated rather than fell about the face, I could not, even with effort, connect its arabesque expression with any idea of simply [[simple]] humanity.

Upon my entrance, Usher arose from a sofa upon which he had been lying at full length, and greeted me with a vivacious warmth which had much in it, I at first thought, of an overdone cordiality — of the constrained effort of the ennuyé man of the world. A glance, however, at his countenance convinced me of his perfect sincerity. We sat down; and for some moments, while he spoke not, I gazed upon him with a feeling half of pity, half of awe.

Surely, man had never before so terribly altered, in so brief a period, as had Roderick Usher! It was with difficulty that I could bring myself to admit the identity of the wan being before me with the companion of my early boyhood. Yet the character of his face had been at all times remarkable.

A cadaverousness of complexion; an eye large, liquid, and luminous beyond comparison; lips somewhat thin and very pallid, but of a surpassingly beautiful curve; a nose of a delicate Hebrew model, but with a breadth of nostril unusual in similar formations; a finely moulded chin, speaking, in its want

In the manner of my friend I was at once struck with an incoherence — an inconsistency; and I soon found this to arise from a series of feeble and futile struggles to overcome an habitual trepidancy, an excessive nervous agitation.

For something of this nature I had indeed been prepared, no less by his letter, than by reminiscences of certain boyish traits, and by conclusions deduced from his peculiar physical conformation and temperament.

His action was alternately vivacious and sullen. His voice varied rapidly from a tremulous indecision (when the animal spirits seemed utterly in abeyance) to that species of energetic concision — that abrupt, weighty, unhurried, and hollowsounding enunciation — that leaden, selfbalanced and perfectly modulated guttural utterance, which may be observed in the 20

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moments of the intensest excitement of the lost drunkard, or the irreclaimable eater of opium.

condition — I feel that I must inevitably abandon life and reason together in my struggles with some fatal demon of fear.”

It was thus that he spoke of the object of my visit, of his earnest desire to see me, and of the solace he expected me to afford him. He entered, at some length, into what he conceived to be the nature of his malady. It was, he said, a constitutional and a family evil, and one for which he despaired to find a remedy — a mere nervous affection, he immediately added, which would undoubtedly soon pass off. It displayed itself in a host of unnatural sensations. Some of these, as he detailed them, interested and bewildered me — although, perhaps, the terms, and the general manner of the narration had their weight. He suffered much from a morbid acuteness of the senses; the most insipid food was alone endurable; he could wear only garments of certain texture; the odors of all flowers were oppressive; his eyes were tortured by even a faint light; and there were but peculiar sounds, and these from stringed instruments, which did not inspire him with horror.

I learned, moreover, at intervals, and through broken and equivocal hints, another singular feature of his mental condition. He was enchained by certain superstitious impressions in regard to the dwelling which he tenanted, and from which, for many years, he had never ventured forth — in regard to an influence whose supposititious force was conveyed in terms too shadowy here to be restated — an influence which some peculiarities in the mere form and substance of his family mansion, had, by dint of long sufferance, he said, obtained over his spirit — an effect which the physique of the gray walls and turrets, and of the dim tarn into which they all looked down, had, at length, brought about upon the morale of his existence.

He admitted, however, although with hesitation, that much of the peculiar gloom which thus afflicted him could be traced to a more natural and far more palpable origin — to the severe and long-continued illness — indeed to the evidently approaching dissolution — of a tenderly beloved sister; his sole companion for long years — his last and only relative on earth. “Her decease,” he said, with a bitterness which I can never forget, “would leave him (him the hopeless and the frail) the last of the ancient race of the Ushers.” As he spoke the lady Madeline (for so was she called) passed slowly through a remote portion of the apartment, and, without having noticed my presence, disappeared. I regarded her with an utter astonishment not unmingled

To an anomalous species of terror I found him a bounden slave. “I shall perish,” said he, “I must perish in this deplorable folly. Thus, thus, and not otherwise, shall I be lost. I dread the events of the future, not in themselves, but in their results. I shudder at the thought of any, even the most trivial, incident, which may operate upon this intolerable agitation of soul. I have, indeed, no abhorrence of danger, except in its absolute effect — in terror. In this unnerved — in this pitiable 21

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with dread. Her figure, her air, her features — all, in their very minutest development were those — were identically, (I can use no other sufficient term,) were identically those of the Roderick Usher who sat beside me. A feeling of stupor oppressed me, as my eyes followed her retreating steps. As a door, at length, closed upon her exit, my glance sought instinctively and eagerly the countenance of the brother — but he had buried his face in his hands, and I could only perceive that a far more than ordinary wanness had overspread the emaciated fingers through which trickled many passionate tears.

dream, to the wild improvisations of his speaking guitar. And thus, as a closer and still closer intimacy admitted me more unreservedly into the recesses of his spirit, the more bitterly did I perceive the futility of all attempt at cheering a mind from which darkness, as if an inherent positive quality, poured forth upon all objects of the moral and physical universe, in one unceasing radiation of gloom.

I shall ever bear about me a memory of the many solemn hours I thus spent alone with the master of the House of Usher. Yet I should fail in any attempt to convey an idea of the exact character of the studies, or of the occupations, in which he involved me, or led me the way. An excited and highly distempered ideality threw a sulphurous lustre over all. His long improvised dirges will ring forever in my ears. Among other things, I bear painfully in mind a certain singular perversion and amplification of the wild air of the last waltz of Von Weber. From the paintings over which his elaborate fancy brooded, and which grew, touch by touch, into vaguenesses at which I shuddered the more thrillingly, because I shuddered knowing not why, from these paintings (vivid as their images now are before me) I would in vain endeavor to educe more than a small portion which should lie within the compass of merely written words. By the utter simplicity, by the nakedness of his designs, he arrested and overawed attention. If ever mortal painted an idea, that mortal was Roderick Usher. For me at least — in the circumstances then surrounding me — there arose out of the

The disease of the lady Madeline had long baffled the skill of her physicians. A settled apathy, a gradual wasting away of the person, and frequent although transient affections of a partially cataleptical character, were the unusual diagnosis.

Hitherto she had steadily borne up against the pressure of her malady, and had not betaken herself finally to bed; but, on the closing in of the evening of my arrival at the house, she succumbed, as her brother told me at night with inexpressible agitation, to the prostrating power of the destroyer — and I learned that the glimpse I had obtained of her person would thus probably be the last I should obtain — that the lady, at least while living, would be seen by me no more.

For several days ensuing, her name was unmentioned by either Usher or myself; and during this period, I was busied in earnest endeavors to alleviate the melancholy of my friend. We painted and read together — or I listened, as if in a 22

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pure abstractions which the hypochondriac contrived to throw upon his canvas, an intensity of intolerable awe, no shadow of which felt I ever yet in the contemplation of the certainly glowing yet too concrete reveries of Fuseli.

concentration to which I have previously alluded as observable only in particular moments of the highest artificial excitement. The words of one of these rhapsodies I have easily borne away in memory. I was, perhaps, the more forcibly impressed with it, as he gave it, because, in the under or mystic current of its meaning, I fancied that I perceived, and for the first time, a full consciousness on the part of Usher, of the tottering of his lofty reason upon her throne. The verses, which were entitled “The Haunted Palace,” ran very nearly, if not accurately, thus:

One of the phantasmagoric conceptions of my friend, partaking not so rigidly of the spirit of abstraction, may be shadowed forth, although feebly, in words. A small picture presented the interior of an immensely long and rectangular vault or tunnel, with low walls, smooth, white, and without interruption or device. Certain accessory points of the design served well to convey the idea that this excavation lay at an exceeding depth below the surface of the earth. No outlet was observed in any portion of its vast extent, and no torch, or other artificial source of light was discernible — yet a flood of intense rays rolled throughout, and bathed the whole in a ghastly and inappropriate splendor.

I. In the greenest of our valleys, By good angels tenanted, Once a fair and stately palace — Snow-white palace — reared its head.

In the monarch Thought’s dominion — It stood there!

Never seraph spread a pinion Over fabric half so fair.

II. Banners yellow, glorious, golden, On its roof did float and flow; (This — all this — was in the olden Time long ago) And every gentle air that dallied, In that sweet day, Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, A winged odor went away.

III. Wanderers in that happy valley Through two luminous windows saw Spirits moving musically To a lute’s well-tunéd law,

I have just spoken of that morbid condition of the auditory nerve which rendered all music intolerable to the sufferer, with the exception of certain effects of stringed instruments. It was, perhaps, the narrow limits to which he thus confined himself upon the guitar, which gave birth, in great measure, to the fantastic character of his performances. But the fervid facility of his impromptus could not be so accounted for. They must have been, and were, in the notes, as well as in the words of his wild fantasias, (for he not unfrequently accompanied himself with rhymed verbal improvisations,) the result of that intense mental collectedness and 23

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Round about a throne, where sitting (Porphyrogene!)

In state his glory well befitting, The sovereign of the realm was seen.

IV. And all with pearl and ruby glowing Was the fair palace door, Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, And sparkling evermore, A troop of Echoes whose sweet duty Was but to sing, In voices of surpassing beauty, The wit and wisdom of their king.

V. But evil things, in robes of sorrow, Assailed the monarch’s high estate; (Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)

And, round about his home, the glory That blushed and bloomed Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.

VI. And travellers now within that valley, Through the red-litten windows, see Vast forms that move fantastically To a discordant melody; While, like a rapid ghastly river, Through the pale door, A hideous throng rush out forever, And laugh — but smile no more.

so much on account of its novelty, (for other men have thought thus,) as on account of the pertinacity with which he maintained it. This opinion, in its general form, was that of the sentience of all vegetable things. But, in his disordered fancy, the idea had assumed a more daring character, and trespassed, under certain conditions, upon the kingdom of inorganization. I lack words to express the full extent, or the earnest abandon of his persuasion. The belief, however, was connected (as I have previously hinted) with the gray stones of the home of his forefathers. The conditions of the sentience had been here, he imagined, fulfilled in the method of collocation of these stones — in the order of their arrangement, as well as in that of the many fungi which overspread them, and of the decayed trees which stood around — above all, in the long undisturbed endurance of this arrangement, and in its reduplication in the still waters of the tarn. Its evidence — the evidence of the sentience — was to be seen, he said, (and I here started as he spoke,) in the gradual yet certain condensation of an atmosphere of their own about the waters and the walls.

The result was discoverable, he added, in that silent, yet importunate and terrible influence which for centuries had moulded the destinies of his family, and which made him what I now saw him — what he was.

Such opinions need no comment, and I will make none.

I well remember that suggestions arising from this ballad led us into a train of thought wherein there became manifest an opinion of Usher’s which I mention not

Our books — the books which, for years, had formed no small portion of the mental existence of the invalid — were, as might be supposed, in strict keeping with 24

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this character of phantasm. We pored together over such works as the Ververt et Chartreuse of Gresset; the Belphegor of Machiavelli; the Selenography of Brewster; the Heaven and Hell of Swedenborg; the Subterranean Voyage of Nicholas Klimm de Holberg; the Chiromancy of Robert Flud, of Jean d’Indaginé, and of De la Chambre; the Journey into the Blue Distance of Tieck; and the City of the Sun of Campanella.

One favorite volume was a small octavo edition of the Directorium Inquisitorium, by the Dominican Eymeric de Gironne; and there were passages in Pomponius Mela, about the old African Satyrs and œgipans, over which Usher would sit dreaming for hours. His chief delight, however, was found in the earnest and repeated perusal of an exceedingly rare and curious book in quarto Gothic — the manual of a forgotten church — the Vigilae Mortuorum secundum Chorum Ecclesiae Maguntinae.

the malady of the deceased, of certain obtrusive and eager inquiries on the part of her medical men, and of the remote and exposed situation of the burial-ground of the family. I will not deny that when I called to mind the sinister countenance of the person whom I met upon the staircase, on the day of my arrival at the house, I had no desire to oppose what I regarded as at best but a harmless, and not by any means an unnatural, precaution.

At the request of Usher, I personally aided him in the arrangements for the temporary entombment. The body having been encoffined, we two alone bore it to its rest. The vault in which we placed it (and which had been so long unopened that our torches, half smothered in its oppressive atmosphere, gave us little opportunity for investigation) was small, damp, and entirely without means of admission for light; lying, at great depth, immediately beneath that portion of the building in which was my own sleeping apartment. It had been used, apparently, in remote feudal times, for the worst purposes of a donjonkeep, and, in later days, as a place of deposit for powder, or other highly combustible substance, as a portion of its floor, and the whole interior of a long archway through which we reached it, were carefully sheathed with copper. The door, of massive iron, had been, also, similarly protected. Its immense weight caused an unusually sharp grating sound, as it moved upon its hinges.

I could not help thinking of the wild ritual of this work, and of its probable influence upon the hypochondriac, when, one evening, having informed me abruptly that the lady Madeline was no more, he stated his intention of preserving her corpse for a fortnight, (previously to its final interment,) in one of the numerous vaults within the main walls of the building. The wordly [[worldly]] reason, however, assigned for this singular proceeding, was one which I did not feel at liberty to dispute. The brother had been led to his resolution (so he told me) by considerations of the unusual character of

Having deposited our mournful burden upon tressels within this region of horror, we partially turned aside the yet unscrewed 25

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lid of the coffin, and looked upon the face of the tenant. The exact similitude between the brother and sister even here again startled and confounded me. Usher, divining, perhaps, my thoughts, murmured out some few words from which I learned that the deceased and himself had been twins, and that sympathies of a scarcely intelligible nature had always existed between them. Our glances, however, rested not long upon the dead — for we could not regard her unawed. The disease which had thus entombed the lady in the maturity of youth, had left, as usual in all maladies of a strictly cataleptical character, the mockery of a faint blush upon the bosom and the face, and that suspiciously lingering smile upon the lip which is so terrible in death. We replaced and screwed down the lid, and, having secured the door of iron, made our way, with toil, into the scarcely less gloomy apartments of the upper portion of the house.

mind was laboring with an oppressive secret, to divulge which he struggled for the necessary courage. At times, again, I was obliged to resolve all into the mere inexplicable vagaries of madness, as I beheld him gazing upon vacancy for long hours, in an attitude of the profoundest attention, as if listening to some imaginary sound. It was no wonder that his condition terrified — that it infected me. I felt creeping upon me, by slow yet certain degrees, the wild influences of his own fantastic yet impressive superstitions.

It was, most especially, upon retiring to bed late in the night of the seventh or eighth day after the placing of the lady Madeline within the donjon, that I experienced the full power of such feelings. Sleep came not near my couch — while the hours waned and waned away. I struggled to reason off the nervousness which had dominion over me. I endeavoured to believe that much, if not all of what I felt, was due to the phantasmagoric influence of the gloomy furniture of the room — of the dark and tattered draperies, which, tortured into motion by the breath of a rising tempest, swayed fitfully to and fro upon the walls, and rustled uneasily about the decorations of the bed. But my efforts were fruitless.

An irrepressible tremor gradually pervaded my frame; and, at length, there sat upon my very heart an incubus of utterly causeless alarm. Shaking this off with a gasp and a struggle, I uplifted myself upon the pillows, and, peering earnestly within the intense darkness of the chamber, harkened — I know not why, except that an

And now, some days of bitter grief having elapsed, an observable change came over the features of the mental disorder of my friend. His ordinary manner had vanished. His ordinary occupations were neglected or forgotten. He roamed from chamber to chamber with hurried, unequal, and objectless step. The pallor of his countenance had assumed, if possible, a more ghastly hue — but the luminousness of his eye had utterly gone out. The once occasional huskiness of his tone was heard no more; and a tremulous quaver, as if of extreme terror, habitually characterized his utterance. — There were times, indeed, when I thought his unceasingly agitated 26

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instinctive spirit prompted me — to certain low and indefinite sounds which came, through the pauses of the storm, at long intervals, I knew not whence. Overpowered by an intense sentiment of horror, unaccountable yet unendurable, I threw on my clothes with haste, for I felt that I should sleep no more during the night, and endeavored to arouse myself from the pitiable condition into which I had fallen, by pacing rapidly to and fro through the apartment.

and its beauty. A whirlwind had apparently collected its force in our vicinity; for there were frequent and violent alterations in the direction of the wind; and the exceeding density of the clouds (which hung so low as to press upon the turrets of the house) did not prevent our perceiving the life-like velocity with which they flew careering from all points against each other, without passing away into the distance. I say that even their exceeding density did not prevent our perceiving this — yet we had no glimpse of the moon or stars — nor was there any flashing forth of the lightning.

But the under surfaces of the huge masses of agitated vapor, as well as all terrestrial objects immediately around us, were glowing in the unnatural light of a faintly luminous and distinctly visible gaseous exhalation which hung about and enshrouded the mansion.

I had taken but few turns in this manner, when a light step on an adjoining staircase arrested my attention. I presently recognised it as that of Usher. In an instant afterwards he rapped, with a gentle touch, at my door, and entered, bearing a lamp.

His countenance was, as usual, cadaverously wan — but there was a species of mad hilarity in his eyes — an evidently restrained hysteria in his whole demeanor. His air appalled me — but anything was preferable to the solitude which I had so long endured, and I even welcomed his presence as a relief.

“You must not — you shall not behold this!” said I, shudderingly, to Usher, as I led him, with a gentle violence, from the window to a seat. “These appearances, which bewilder you, are merely electrical phenomena not uncommon — or it may be that they have their ghastly origin in the rank miasma of the tarn. Let us close this casement — the air is chilling and dangerous to your frame. Here is one of your favorite romances. I will read, and you shall listen — and so we will pass away this terrible night together.

“And you have not seen it?” he said abruptly, after having stared about him for some moments in silence — “you have not then seen it? — but, stay! you shall.” Thus speaking, and having carefully shaded his lamp, he hurried to one of the gigantic casements, and threw it freely open to the storm.

The antique volume which I had taken up was the “Mad Trist” of Sir Launcelot Canning — but I had called it a favorite of Usher’s more in sad jest than in earnest; for, in truth, there is little in its uncouth and

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unimaginative prolixity which could have had interest for the lofty and spiritual ideality of my friend. It was, however, the only book immediately at hand; and I indulged a vague hope that the excitement which now agitated the hypochondriac might find relief (for the history of mental disorder is full of similar anomalies) even in the extremeness of the folly which I should read. Could I have judged, indeed by the wild overstrained air of vivacity with which he hearkened, or apparently hearkened, to the words of the tale, I might have well congratulated myself upon the success of my design.

At the termination of this sentence I started, and for a moment, paused; for it appeared to me (although I at once concluded that my excited fancy had deceived me) — it appeared to me that, from some very remote portion of the mansion or of its vicinity, there came, indistinctly, to my ears, what might have been, in its exact similarity of character, the echo (but a stifled and dull one certainly) of the very cracking and ripping sound which Sir Launcelot had so particularly described. It was, beyond doubt, the coincidence alone which had arrested my attention; for, amid the rattling of the sashes of the casements, and the ordinary commingled noises of the still increasing storm, the sound, in itself, had nothing, surely, which should have interested or disturbed me. I continued the story.

I had arrived at that well-known portion of the story where Ethelred, the hero of the Trist, having sought in vain for peaceable admission into the dwelling of the hermit, proceeds to make good an entrance by force. Here, it will be remembered, the words of the narrative run thus: —

“But the good champion Ethelred, now entering within the door, was sore enraged and amazed to perceive no signal of the maliceful hermit; but, in the stead thereof, a dragon of a scaly and prodigious demeanor, and of a fiery tongue, which sate in guard before a palace of gold, with a floor of silver; and upon the wall there hung a shield of shining brass with this legend enwritten —

“And Ethelred, who was by nature of a doughty heart, and who was now mighty withal, on account of the powerfulness of the wine which he had drunken, waited no longer to hold parley with the hermit, who, in sooth, was of an obstinate and maliceful turn, but, feeling the rain upon his shoulders, and fearing the rising of the tempest, uplifted his mace outright, and, with blows, made quickly room in the plankings of the door for his gauntleted hand, and now pulling therewith sturdily, he so cracked, and ripped, and tore all asunder, that the noise of the dry and hollow-sounding wood alarummed and reverberated throughout the forest.”

Who entereth herein, a conqueror hath bin, Who slayeth the dragon the shield he shall win.

And Ethelred uplifted his mace, and struck upon the head of the dragon, which fell before him, and gave up his pesty breath, with a shriek so horrid and harsh, and 28

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withal so piercing, that Ethelred had fain to close his ears with his hands against the dreadful noise of it, the like whereof was never before heard.”

at variance with this idea — for he rocked from side to side with a gentle yet constant and uniform sway. Having rapidly taken notice of all this, I resumed the narrative of Sir Launcelot, which thus proceeded: —

Here again I paused abruptly, and now with a feeling of wild amazement — for there could be no doubt whatever that, in this instance, I did actually hear (although from what direction it proceeded I found it impossible to say) a low and apparently distant, but harsh, protracted, and most unusual screaming or grating sound — the exact counterpart of what my fancy had already conjured up as the sound of the dragon’s unnatural shriek as described by the romancer.

“And now, the champion, having escaped from the terrible fury of the dragon, bethinking himself of the brazen shield, and of the breaking up of the enchantment which was upon it, removed the carcass from out of the way before him, and approached valorously over the silver pavement of the castle to where the shield was upon the wall; which in sooth tarried not for his full coming, but fell down at his feet upon the silver floor, with a mighty great and terrible ringing sound.”

Oppressed, as I certainly was, upon the occurrence of this second and most extraordinary coincidence, by a thousand conflicting sensations, in which wonder and extreme terror were predominant, I still retained sufficient presence of mind to avoid exciting, by any observation, the sensitive nervousness of my companion. I was by no means certain that he had noticed the sounds in question; although, assuredly, a strange alteration had, during the last few minutes, taken place in his demeanor. From a position fronting my own, he had gradually brought round his chair, so as to sit with his face to the door of the chamber, and thus I could but partially perceive his features, although I saw that his lips trembled as if he were murmuring inaudibly. His head had dropped upon his breast — yet I knew that he was not asleep, from the wide and rigid opening of the eye as I caught a glance of it in profile. The motion of his body, too, was

No sooner had these syllables passed my lips, than — as if a shield of brass had indeed, at the moment, fallen heavily upon a floor of silver — I became aware of a distinct, hollow, metallic, and clangorous, yet apparently muffled reverberation.

Completely unnerved, I started convulsively to my feet; but the measured rocking movement of Usher was undisturbed. I rushed to the chair in which he sat. His eyes were bent fixedly before him, and throughout his whole countenance there reigned a more than stony rigidity. But, as I laid my hand upon his shoulder, there came a strong shudder over his frame; a sickly smile quivered about his lips; and I saw that he spoke in a low, hurried, and gibbering murmur, as if unconscious of my presence. Bending closely over his person, I at length drank in the hideous import of his words.

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“Not hear it? — yes, I hear it, and have heard it. Long — long — long — many minutes, many hours, many days, have I heard it — yet I dared not — oh, pity me, miserable wretch that I am! — I dared not — I dared not speak! We have put her living in the tomb! Said I not that my senses were acute? I now tell you that I heard her first feeble movements in the hollow coffin. I heard them — many, many days ago — yet I dared not — I dared not speak! And now — to-night — Ethelred — ha! ha! — the breaking of the hermit’s door, and the death-cry of the dragon, and the clangor of the shield — say, rather, the rending of the coffin, and the grating of the iron hinges, and her struggles within the coppered archway of the vault! Oh whither shall I fly? Will she not be here anon? Is she not hurrying to upbraid me for my haste? Have I not heard her footsteps on the stair? Do I not distinguish that heavy and horrible beating of her heart?

Madman!” — here he sprung violently to his feet, and shrieked out his syllables, as if in the effort he were giving up his soul — “Madman! I tell you that she now stands without the door! “

every portion of her emaciated frame. For a moment she remained trembling and reeling to and fro upon the threshold — then, with a low moaning cry, fell heavily inward upon the person of her brother, and in her horrible and now final deathagonies, bore him to the floor a corpse, and a victim to the terrors he had dreaded.

From that chamber, and from that mansion, I fled aghast. The storm was still abroad in all its wrath as I found myself crossing the old causeway. Suddenly there shot along the path a wild light, and I turned to see whence a gleam so unusual could have issued — for the vast house and its shadows were alone behind me. The radiance was that of the full, setting, and blood-red moon, which now shone vividly through that once barely-discernible fissure, of which I have before spoken, as extending from the roof of the building, in a zigzag direction to the base. While I gazed, this fissure rapidly widened — there came a fierce breath of the whirlwind — the entire orb of the satellite burst at once upon my sight — my brain reeled as I saw the mighty walls rushing asunder — there was a long tumultuous shouting sound like the voice of a thousand waters — and the deep and dank tarn at my feet closed sullenly and silently over the fragments of the “House of Usher.”

As if in the superhuman energy of his utterance there had been found the potency of a spell — the huge antique pannels to which the speaker pointed, threw slowly back, upon the instant, their ponderous and ebony jaws. It was the work of the rushing gust — but then without those doors there did stand the lofty and enshrouded figure of the lady Madeline of Usher. There was blood upon her white robes, and the evidence of some bitter struggle upon

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Sir Flafalot the Brave

Author Unknown (Which is a shame, since this children’s story is wonderful!)

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Sir Flafalot the Brave

“The black dragon you spoke of is known as Anvakin the Treacherous.” the dragon rumbled thoughtfully and contemplated for a while.

“Come!” the dragon thundered as he rose to his full height and flexed his enormous wings, “We hunt Anvakin and put a stop to his misdeeds once and for all!” Sir Flafalot was yanked out of bed and found himself fumbling for a grip at the scales on the dragon's back as the dragon cleared the cave and soared into the open skies, which were peppered with starlight.

At that moment, Sir Flafalot realized something strange: He realized that he liked flying!

The hunt for Anvakin the Treacherous was filled with all kinds of wonder and danger but Sir Flafalot did not faint even once.

When they landed in the royal courtyard with the rescued prince, Sir Flafalot forgot to come down from the dragon even when he was addressed by the king. The king was just happy to have his son back and so did not arrest Sir Flafalot for the misconduct. Instead, he royally decreed that there will be neither more dragon hunting nor the killing of dragons forevermore throughout the kingdom. Sir Flafalot became the best of friends with Fanvanir and together they flew through the skies freely ever after.

(Author Unknown)

Sir Flafalot trembled and shook as he inched his way through the dragon's cave.

Shadows flickered on the cave walls as the torch waved unsteadily in the loosening grip of his right hand.

“That's far enough!” A terrible voice thundered out of nowhere, causing Sir Flafalot to finally drop his torch which extinguished with a hiss. Whimpering in total darkness, Sir Flafalot went down on his knees as he scrambled for the lost torch. A jet of flame exploded overhead where he had been standing only moments ago and Sir Flafalot fainted with a sigh.

The next thing he knew, he was lying on an enormous bed with a massive dragon peering down at him. He felt weak with fright all over again and it was a good thing he was already lying down, for he would not have been able to stand at all with his trembling knees.

“I am Fanvanir. Tell me, why have you decided to kill dragons?” the dragon demanded.

Sir Flafalot stammered and stuttered as he explained how the king had decreed all dragons to be hunted down and killed, ever since the prince was kidnapped by a black dragon.

“There are good dragons and there are bad ones. I have come across many bad human beings myself,” the dragon known as Fanvanir lowered his head to fix a piercing glare on the spluttering knight, “Does this mean I should kill every last one of you?”

At this, Sir Flafalot could only hang his head in shame.

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IN MY OPINION A monthly feature by Cathbad Maponus

Look familiar?

How about these?

Do you see a difference? I don’t. Not much, anyway.

Then there’s all those sequels, like Doctor Sleep (the sequel to The Shining).

Bad. Just plain ol’ bad. What is it? Has King running out of ideas? Has he become lazy? Or has he just gotten old?

Don’t get me wrong! I’m still a fan!

He’s still the ‘King’ of the genre!

But, let’s face it. He has fallen off.

Both sets of books above could have been written from the same basic outline. The saving grace is that all four books are great reads!

I’d just like to see some new ideas.

It’s like Stephen King has went the same direction as regular television: Presenting

us with the same old storylines in different packaging.

Has everyone ran out of ideas?

I remember being so thrilled to get my hands on The Cell; only to find myself looking at the cover over and over again, to assure myself I wasn’t reading The Stand!

But, ntil his last one, you’ll find me in line to get all his new books, as they come out! He hasn’t disappointed me yet!

Come on, Mr, King! Jut one more original novel! You can do it!

Sincerely, Cathbad 33

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Untitled

By, Phillip Stubley

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“No… Mum… the skull…” Matt tried to blurt out.

His mother came over and pulled the blanket away from him. “Oh! Your little skull, you’ve dropped it on the floor.” She bent over to pick it up. Her hands trembled and she almost dropped it. “It’s alive!”

This is when he realized his Mum was smiling at him.

“I’m only pulling your leg. Now bed time.

It’s a school night and no more playing with the skull,” she said.

“But…” Matt tried to protest.

She placed the skull on the shelf above his bed. “Just having a bad dream,” she said, “that’s all. Now nighty night and don’t let the bed bugs bite, she said, stroking his head.

It wasn’t the bed bugs he was worried about; whatever was above him now was the problem.

She smiled at him as she left; he heard the lock of his bedroom door.

Maybe he had been overreacting. He cast his mind back to the other week when he had found the skull. It had been lying discarded by the railroad tracks where Matt liked to play. It had caught his eye from under some leaves. He had felt drawn to it. It was unlike anything he had ever seen. It was a large skull, like that of a cat’s, but it was too big to be a cat’s head.

There had been stories of large cat sightings in the area; this attracted Matt to it even more. He saw himself as a collector and this would have been the prize piece. It was so mysterious and alluring. Reports of dead livestock had added to the mystique. Could this really be some kind of weird, unexplained creature?

Matt wasn’t sure, but he knew one thing – it was his skull now.

He had taken it home and set aside his other passion, collecting snow globes for which he had an entire bookshelf dedicated, and it had taken pride of place. He had told his mother it had come from the magic shop so as not to alarm her.

Untitled Phillip Stubley

He woke up as his skull jumped out and on to the floor. Matt looked on in astonishment. This skull was his prize possession. Well, since the other day, when he found it down by the tracks.

Now it just seemed like more trouble than it was worth.

He was looking again as the skull began m0ving across the floor like a parade of ants had lifted it on their backs!

It juddered. Matt screamed and disappeared under his bed sheets. He held his breath as he heard it scraping across the floor.

What was it doing? Where was it going?

The answer came as he heard it knocking against the side of his bed. He scurried through his bed sheets to the bottom of the bed to escape the sound. Maybe he could get to the door and get away - but the skull was too quick for him; as though sensing his presence, it had followed him down to the other end of the bed.

The skull was moving, as though possessed by some malevolent force out to get him. He knew it.

He heard it knocking against the side of his bed, his fortress! He would be safe from it up here, he was sure.

All Matt wanted to do was to cry out for his Mum to make it stop. The banging continued, getting harder and faster. It was coming for him; he curled up into a ball when suddenly a light flashed on…

Through the bed sheets, Matt could see the angelic figure of his Mother standing looking at him, rather puzzled.

“It is long past your bedtime, young man,” she stated bluntly. “What is all this racket?”

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They swarmed over the bed, creating a dark shadow that seemed intent on engulfing him.

Matt fell from the bed and became entangled in the bed sheets – like being in a net! He thrashed around in the sheets and felt the bugs – or whatever they were – dropping from the bed on top of him. Their legs dug into his arms like claws!

Matt finally freed himself of the sheet and flung the free half over the other, covering the bugs. He started jumping frantically on top of it.

He heard the satisfying squish of the bugs, but there seemed to be a never ending waterfall of them flowing from his bed, forever coming for him! Matt looked at the door, ready to make a break for it, but to his horror, he saw that the bugs had formed another front there. They were waiting for him.

Matt looked around, wondering if this was it for him. He looked around and saw his snow globe shelf – his sanctuary! When he had his friend Paul around, they used to climb it and sit on top, no problem. That had been about three years ago, but he was certain it wouldn’t be much different now. He hopped – just like he used to – onto the second shelf and gripped the third. The bookcase rocked, but held steady.

He laughed. He had done it! Now he had just four more ‘stories’ to climb. His arms ached, but he yanked himself up one more shelf.

As if sensing where he was, the malevolent force started creeping up the sides of the shelf and marched toward him.

The bookshelf rocked again, violently. It was starting to feel the strain of all the extra weight. Snow globes were flung off, smashing onto the floor. Matt desperately ducked and weaved to avoid the debris.

A few of the bugs found their way onto his legs, and Matt screamed. The shock caused him to fling himself backward.

He fell back onto the bed but, unfortunately, he had brought the bookcase down with him! Everything on the shelves came hurdling out. Most of the bugs clinging to the sides were squashed, and Matt kicked survivors away from himself.

He never knew what was to come. He always left the skull on his desk when he went to school, but one day he had returned to find it in a different position. He thought maybe it had been his Mum tidying up; but what if it had been moving itself?

That was when he had started thinking it was alive… and hungry. After that day it seemed to have stopped; but last night it had shown signs of activity. Not during the day, but when darkness fell. Matt was a big boy though, and he wasn’t scared of anything like this – or so he told himself.

His Mum always said he had an over active imagination.

Tomorrow, he would get rid of it. That would be the end of it.

Firm in his resolve, Matt turned over to his side to look straight into the empty eyes of the skull. He jumped back – it was moving toward him!

Matt was unsure what to do. He reached behind himself and grasped something solid. He brought it swinging around and down upon the skull. The top of the skull broke inwards, and the whole skull shuddered, then became still.

His hands started to become wet. He looked down to what he was holding. It was one of the snow globes he kept on his bedside table, the one from Spain. He had a couple more from there, so it was no big deal, he guessed.

Everything was still: He had stopped it.

The skull was dead. Matt let out a huge sigh of relief – but he found he was a little premature.

He saw something within the skull. It was shiny. He saw it drop out – a big bug, like a scarab beetle he had read about. It must have been pierced by the skull: Some-thing oozed out of the little bug like blood. The thing crept feebly, limping forward before collapsing.

Matt couldn’t understand it. Then he saw another one of the creatures emerge from inside the skull… followed by another… and yet another. Then more.

Suddenly a torrent of the bugs emerged from deep within the skull – scurrying toward him!

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He could sense the bugs’ hunger. They couldn’t wait to devour him and make them one of them!

There was still no easy way out of here, though, and Matt began to weep uncontrollably.

This isn’t right! He had to think of something. He whirled and saw the only route of possible escape – the window.

He leapt from the bed, threw back the curtains, and quickly slid the window open. The bugs still pursued him, teeming around him. He gulped, and decided that heights weren’t as bad as these devil creatures. He scrambled up onto the sill and out onto the ledge.

There was just enough room for Matt to stand. He hugged the wall, feeling the cold, wet bricks against his hands. He looked down and saw a bug clinging to his pajama bottoms. He kicked it off, sending it flying off into the night. He shuddered so hard, he almost lost his balance.

Matt suddenly had a brain wave, but it would mean having to go back inside. His whole body froze at the prospect. He could jump – but no, it was too high and there was nobody else to help him.

He closed his eyes and screamed as he flung himself back into the room that once upon a time had been his sanctuary, but now filled him with dread. He threw himself across the bed and over to the bookcase.

Trying not to think about it, he grabbed one of the loose shelves, whirled around, and propped it up against the window sill. Bugs turned toward him and he walked backwards up the plank toward the window. He watched as the remaining army of bugs formed an orderly queue to march along the plank.

“You want me?” he screamed, “Come and get me!” He screamed as he leapt back out onto the ledge. He backed away along the ledge until there was nothing else between it and the open air.

And the… he held his breath, unable to look away as, one after the other, they charged up the plank and straight off the end, flinging themselves into the abyss like a group of lemmings. They continued like this for what seemed like hours!

Matt felt his chest loosen, but he couldn’t relax for a moment, refusing even to stir. He stood as still as a statue. Even when there hadn’t been a single bug for a long time, he refused to climb back into the room. After all, they could still be in there waiting for him!

That was where his mother found him later, in hysterics. She had thought he was going to jump!

Silly mother, he thought.

- 30 –

BIO: Phillip Studley has been writing from a young age and studied Drama and Scriptwriting at university. He has written several plays and a short story online. He currently lives in Newcastle, UK and has helped direct and edit videos for the local zoo.

Serene Art Boutique

sereneartboutique.com

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Elf

Dwarf

Faerie

A Sea of Stars by, Serene Miller I woke up and out my portal, Was a Sea of Stars!

I had traveled long out here, But t’was always a joy to see!

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Out the portal I long gazed, At the beauty beyond my reach.

Oh, how I dream to be out there, Swimming through space – Oh how free!

I, ghost

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I, ghost

By, D. Gardner I am not, by nature, a man prone to fancies.

Nor am I superstitious, or have I had any real belief in the so-called supernatural. So what I am about to put to paper – a ghost’s story – I do so with not a small amount of trepidation.

As I begin this writing, it almost feels as if I am destroying the last vestiges of my remaining

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sanity. For, I must admit, I do question my own sanity in this matter. Yet, what I have seen I have seen, and what I have heard – well, I shall leave for you to judge the veracity of it.

It began at that gawd-awful hour of midnight, the twenty-third of this month, and not but three hours ago. I was about to take myself to sleep. Since I work the late shift and get home no earlier than ten-thirty, I would normally stay awake until nearly two a.m., when you decent folk have already been asleep several hours.

Tonight, however, my dinner had settled uncomfortably in my stomach and I thought to sleep it off, if I could.

As you have probably guessed, my stomach was to have none of that! After a rather nasty and prolonged pain wracked my stomach, I got out of bed to search my medicine cabinet for a seltzer. At last finding it, I slammed the cabinet door shut – and that's when it all began.

Believe me or not (and even now, I am not sure I do), I saw an apparition's reflection in the mirror! How, you might ask, did I know it was an apparition? I knew what it was by the simple fact that I could see straight through its human guise!

It was a man – or at least it assumed a man's form. I guessed it to be about thirty five years of age by looks, roughly a decade and a half younger than I. He was dressed in what seemed rather rustic clothing, something a stylish man might have worn, say, in the late forties. His hair was done in waves; or perhaps it was naturally wavy. In either case, it was blond; a dull blond.

His face was weather-worn, like someone who had spent his life outside, perhaps as a fisherman.

There was no gray in his hair, and his body – what I could see of it – looked quite fit.

All this I noticed in but an instant: It is a writer's talent – or curse. Then, shock overtook me and I spun about. Just like a well- (or poorly-) written spook story, there was nothing there, of course. I looked quickly back into the mirror, but the spirit was no longer visible.

Oddly, I felt a bit disappointed at that.

After all, I'd spent the past fifty years on this planet, and not once have I seen something so absolutely extraordinary! I've often read the

Tabloids which exploit the stories of the many people who claim to have seen flying saucers, those that converse regularly with aliens from the planet Cryptonius. I've read of sightings of the Dog-boy, Bigfoot, Unicorns, and so much more!

It's enough to make one (at least me) feel that he (I) has (have) led such a… boring life!

I remember sighing heavily, resigning myself to my fate of loneliness and commonness. I walked into the kitchen, took a glass out of the cupboard and began filling it with water for my seltzer.

"Ah, to drink water again!"

The sudden voice startled me so! The glass dropped from my hand and shattered in the sink. I turned quickly – and there my apparition stood!

"Who… who are you?" I stammered.

"Me?" He seemed to have to think a moment on that one. Then his face brightened and he smiled at me. "Captain Gannon Bridges at your service, kind sir." And he actually saluted me!

I guess I was a bit befuddled, for I found myself saluting him back! "Captain?" asked I. "You are young for a ship's captain, are you not?"

"Aye, I am," he replied, though he seemed to think better of it. "Er… I mean I was, that is.

You see, I was the Captain of a tugboat named the Minotaur. She was privately owned.

"I confess I won the job from the owner, the widower Mrs. Tolliver, more with my loins than my skill, mind you." He gave me a conspiratorial wink at that and, despite the oddness of the present circumstances, it made me laugh.

"And you are dead, are you not?" I asked him outright.

"Hmm? Oh, yes! Yes, indeed. Fact is I've been dead for about thirty years now, if I count the time correctly." He went on to explain, "Of course, time doesn't really pass for me; not that I'd notice. And thank you for being so kind to keep an updated calendar above your desk!"

I nodded. The spirit – Captain Bridges, I should call him – then turned and walked – no, floated would be the better term – into the other 41

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room. What was I to do but be an hospitable host to my dead visitor? I followed him in. Confusion, rather than fear, filled me from head to soul.

My flat has only three rooms; the kitchen and bathroom of course; then there's the main room. Here I have a bed, a small couch, a television I could ill-afford but bought anyway three years ago, and my wonderful desk.

Upon said desk is my pride and joy, an IBM Selectric typewriter. I've owned her for the past seven years. I keep her in tip-top shape.

There is, I know, a newer model on the market now, but I prefer my beloved prize, whom has so lovingly assisted me in my never-ending endeavor to be a successful writer.

You see, I fancy myself a good writer, though I've yet to prove it to the world at large. A few of the stories I've penned over the years have made their way to publication. These infrequent sales have helped keep me afloat over the years; that, and jobs such as I have now, as the night clerk at the Quickie-Mart Convenience Store just down the road a piece.

At this very typewriter, I have spent better than half the time I've been in this apartment, and that includes sleep.

"I say," I asked my ghostly visitor, "I've lived here for the past seventeen years – " "Oh, I know!" he interrupted rather enthusiastically, "And a good tenant you've been!

I've so loved your stories. Hope you don't mind knowing, but I have been reading over your shoulder as you write."

"Oh? Um… no, of course not. That's quite all right." I offered up what I hoped sounded like a good-hearted chuckle and added, "After all, a writer writes in the hope that someone might actually read his work, does he not?"

"Surely, surely! And you are certainly a good writer!" the ghost boasted of me. I smiled and thanked him; I could feel my face turn a bit red.

"But sir," continued I, "why is it, in all this time, I have neither seen nor heard hide, hair, nor sound of you before this?"

"Oh, that." Until that moment, I had never heard anyone tell of, nor would I have believed in,

a blushing spirit! "You see," he explained shyly, "I have never quite got the hand of – the knack, if you will – of being a poltergeist."

"Oh?" The captain shook his head. "Can't lift a thing," he lamented, and demonstrated by thrusting his incorporeal hand through the pencil holder on my desk, making a motion as though he would have picked it up. Only, he couldn't. "And I've never been able to make contact with the living."

"Until now," I commented.

"Hmm?" "Until now.

You have finally made contact – with me!"

"Oh, yes! Right-o!" he said, nodding his head enthusiastically. "At long last, I can speak to you! Oh, I've had so much to say to you over the years! Advice… Questions… Comments on your marvelous stories! Oh, how I've longed to speak to you!"

"I suppose that very longing it the reason you can speak to me now?" I offered.

"Perhaps it is," he replied, repeatedly nodding his ghostly head, "perhaps it is."

"So tell me," I began again, after a pause in our conversation, "how did you come to dwell here?" I was surprised at how easily I was taking to all of this. There was, after all, a real ghost in my flat! But then, I suppose in my mind, I still felt that this was probably just a dream, vivid though it was, brought on by those horrible clams I'd eaten. And besides, I certainly did not feel the least bit threatened by my late-night visitor.

"Well," began he with a long sigh, "you remember the widow I spoke to you of? The one that went and made me the Captain of the Minotaur?"

"Yes." "Well, you see, this house was originally hers."

"Really?"

"Indeed!" the Captain confirmed. "It was built in Nineteen thirty-eight, by her then husband.

He'd been eight years younger than her; quite an odd marriage in those days, mind you.

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"When the war came, he got called up. As a man of wealth (he'd inherited it all from his father, of course), he could easily have bought his way out of the thick of it. To his eternal credit though, he did not. He was (and I begrudge him not) an honorable and admirable man.

"He went to Europe, after serving nearly two years at a State-side camp. He survived the horrors of the Normandy Invasion, only to take a bullet to the temple three weeks later, some-where in the center of France. Poor chap lived even after that – seven days, I'm told!

"Way I heard it, he finally died of starvation. He'd been the whole time in a coma, and there was not adequate doctoring or equipment, of course. He had hung tenaciously to life, but finally gave it up. I read the letter they sent to his widow. Even up to the end, his vitals looked fine, even though he were in a coma.

"Anyway, it were nearly two years after the war that I met Mrs. Tolliver. She'd already converted half this house into a bed-and-breakfast.

She still resided in the other half. Done it mostly for something to do, she did. She really didn't need the money, what with her husband's estate left to her.

"I'd been working on the Lolli-Lady, a tub in the fleet of six tug boats owned by one of her late husband's companies. It were one of the few companies she hadn't yet sold off, though she couldn't have explained why she kept such a filthy, manly company.

"So that's how I met her. She was on the docks that day, inspecting the boats as they'd come in. A mere formality – the good woman didn't really know what she was doing, or even looking at. But it makes for good relations for the crews to see the owner from time-to-time.

"I was in conversation with Nick Remey, a pub-going friend of mine. I didn't even realize she had made it onto our ship, yet. So there I was, telling Nicky how I'd just lost my apartment above the Ritz – which you may or may not know burnt down that week. I was wondering if Nicky could put me up for a few nights, until I found a place to stay.

"Before Nicky could answer, I heard a woman's voice – and you didn't hear a feminine voice aboard a ship much in those days. So I weren't slow to realize it was the boss-lady herself! She tells me, 'It just so happens that a room at the Lost Wharf has just come open.'

That's what she called this place back then, the Lost Wharf. Odd, I always thought.

"I was so confuddled; it was all I could do to stammer a question about the rent. Well, the price she quoted me was such a break, I nearly burst out in joyous song!

"It was at that moment, however, that I saw here looking at me rather queerly.

I understood then, just why I'd gotten such a good deal! The woman had taken a fancy to me!"

He paused as if for affect, or perhaps to see if I believed him. It wasn't hard to; he was a handsome man, if one might say as much of another. He was well built and obviously had a decent education. I nodded and he continued.

"I don't believe I'd lived three days of my tenancy in this very room, before she came to me.

Oh, she made some pretense about problems with the pipes – we had steam heat back then, mind you." We both looked over at the still present – thought functionless – heating unit once serviced by a gigantic steam heater in the basement. "But, she offered no resistance when I come up behind her and put my hands on her svelte hips.

"She continued to ramble on about the heating, as though oblivious to me, even as I kissed the back of her neck. One of her hands came up and took hold of the back of my head, but still she rambled nervously on.

"I slipped my hands around to her belly and, as she spoke about the possibility of overheating such a small room, she placed her other hand gently over mine. Next thing I knew, we were kissing each other passionately. She was crying, telling me she'd never been with another man save her husband. I could not imagine it! A half dozen years without!" He looked incredulous and shook his mop of blond hair.

I found I had, out of habit, taken a seat at my desk. The ghost had chosen to remain 43

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standing all this time; though I doubt it would really make a difference to him.

"I know they only converted the other half of this place a few years before I moved in," I told him. By 'they' I meant the realty corporation which had purchased the place. "It was renamed the Flamingo Place Apartments. I suppose you'd been – dead – a while by then?" I hoped I hadn't sounded too tactless.

"Yes," he replied, and nodded for some time, reminiscing. Eventually, he spoke again.

"About two years – no, a bit less than that, I suppose. About that much time after I had moved in here is when I died. Right there." He pointed at my bed.

Despite myself, this disturbed me a good bit. My bed! I looked over at it, but since the light fails in that corner, I could only barely make it and the clump of sheets and blankets I'd left on it. I gulped several times.

Suddenly the ghost laughed. "Please, Mister Seymour!" I was startled to hear him use my name, for I had not given it to him! Then, I remembered he had admitted reading over my shoulder. I always sign my works with my full name: John Harold Seymour. "Surely you don't think you sleep in a thirty year-old bed? Why, don't you remember? All the furniture was brand new when you moved in!"

I slapped my own forehead. "That's right!

Why, even the paint was fresh. And they'd just put in new carpets as well."

"And charged you a pretty penny for the place, if you ask me!" The Captain sounded quite indignant. "Why, the gentleman before you, a Mr. Archibald, paid a third less a month for this place!"

"I suppose they had to pay for the new furniture," I laughed.

The ghost laughed as well. "That is what I've always liked about you, Mr. Seymour! You never let things get you down. Even your stories are full of hope and charm!"

"I'll write one just for you, quite soon!" I promised.

"Ah!" he exclaimed with delight. "That would indeed be wonderful! After all this time of

silence… do you think you could write my true story?

Someone who can manipulate the typewriter the way you can; why, it would be like making up for all thirty-or-so years of my silence!"

I slammed the desk top with open palms.

"I'll do it! Why, no one will believe it of course.

But still, your story is a good one, and it shall be told! And I… I shall have another story to sell!"

"Wonderful! Wonderful!"

"I'd offer you half," I told him, "but I suppose in your current condition, you haven't much need for money!"

He laughed so heartily at this, I figured it must have been the best joke he'd heard in… thirty years! Smiling wide, I took paper and pen out of the top side drawer and made myself notes to catch up to where we were in the story.

"So tell me the rest," I implored Captain Bridges. "At least as goes your life here, with the widow Mrs. Tolliver."

"Oh, yes; my yes! I'd love to." He cleared his throat (odd how even after death he continues the habits of life!) and then did sit down. He sat on the edge of my bed. Actually, truth be told, he'd miscalculated and was actually sitting about two inches above the bed. But, for a ghost, that seemed to me quite proper.

"Where was I? Oh, yes. Three days after I'd come here to live, Mrs. Tolliver and I became lovers. It was a very… how do you say it nowdays? A very hot romance! We made love practically every night. It never ceased to amaze me that she didn't care one rat's tail about the talk that went on, nor who saw her steal into my room at night.

"It was not six months after our affair began that old Captain Ripley, of the Minotaur, up and died. Right nice of him, of course; but hardly unexpected, seeing as he was in his seventies.

Good to know though, he was permitted to die on the very sea he'd spent his life upon. He was a Navy man, you see. Retired from the Navy shortly after the first World War. Went right from there to working for the widow's husband's father.

Worked with us straight through 'til his timely death."

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The Captain chuckled. Oh my, how I do go on! This is supposed to be my story, isn't it?

Not Captain Ripley's; though I dare say in all honesty, his story would probably be a mite more of an interest than mine!"

We both laughed at that. I said, "Perhaps I'll write his story another day, using you as my primary source. But for now, I shall indeed write your story!"

He looked at me then with sad, thoughtful eyes. "How very kind you are! You may not realize it, but you're a rare beast. So few men – in either your time or mine – have such a kind, warm heart. I've oft wished I had been more of that kind of man."

He seemed to be reminiscing, so I said nothing; merely waited. After a time, he shook himself out of his reveries and continued his story.

"Well, you can imagine the consternation it caused among the other men when I was assigned as Captain of the Minotaur. Yet, I'd had nearly twenty years of experience on the sea by then. I was a hand on my Uncle's fishing boat when I was a teen. I'd even served in the War. My duty had been the South Pacific, on a battleship. I volunteered in 'forty-one, just a few days after Pearl Harbor.

"Our ship saw plenty of action. I was on a gun crew, so my hearing was a bit impaired by the time I'd finished my four years of duty and returned to a civilian life." He canted his head to one side and said, "Odd, but death seems to have cured my poor hearing!" He winked at me and we laughed again.

"Anyway, Mrs. Tolliver and I had no problems communicating. And since I could hear decently out of my left ear, I had no real problems at sea. Life had turned out good.

"In but a few months, I had earned the respect of the crew, despite my youthfulness and company tenure – or lack thereof. Truth was, there were younger tug-boat Captains.

My relationship with the boss – which was well known by then – became a non-factor. In fact, we soon fancied ourselves the best of the six boats in the company, and took pride in that! Our ship was always the cleanest, fastest, and most efficient – as

well as best serviced. To this day, I believe I proved I was worthy of my questionably-received Captainship."

I smiled. I had been taking notes on the pad I'd brought out so I wouldn't forget anything.

Now, it occurred to me that I was so enthralled by my unsuspected roommate, that I knew I could never forget a single word he spoke!

"So now," the Captain continued, "we come to the moment of my death." He sighed heavily. "All during our love affair, I'd tried to convince Mrs. Tolliver to marry me. I cared not a cent for her money; I had been, in truth, deeply and totally in love with her since the first night we were together.

"But, as I suppose a rich woman should be, she was concerned about my 'true intentions'. Was I only after her money? Did I truly love her, as I told her over and over, and not exclusively in the thralls of passion?

"Six days before my untimely death, we were sitting at a table that occupied the space your desk now takes up." Here he stopped, I suppose to reflect.

"When you moved in," he restarted, "they had put a new eating table there."

"Yes," I confirmed. "A rather small one – a two-seater. But, I asked the manager to take it away so I could put a desk in here. I made a good deal on this beauty," I tapped on the top of my beloved wooden desk, "but as you can see, it's quite large and I knew there wouldn't be much room left over."

"No, there's not," Captain Bridges agreed with a smile.

"Well, I've been happy with the place," I finished lamely. I suddenly realized I didn't tell stories about myself very well. I could have told him of my search for the Perfect Desk; how I'd about given up hope of finding it. How at last I'd discovered this beauty in an out-of-the-way shop that only advertised nick-knacks, yet also had several fine pieces of restored old furniture. I could have told the Captain how the salesperson had been so… oh, never mind. I, too, seem to have forgotten: This is Captain Bridge's story.

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Mine, I'll save for another day still. The Captain was speaking again.

"I remember that I was indignant you would do such a thing! I mean, the table had been a fine one – all the furniture as. The table had even reminded me of the one my love and I often ate at. 'Why,' thought I, 'would a decent man not want to eat his meals at a proper table?'"

He chuckled again. "Well, I saw soon enough you do all right at meal times! You seemed a fine cook and made out well, eating and writing at the same time."

I laughed at this. It was all true, of course.

When I was writing, I wouldn't let even my need for nourishment slow me down much! I was finding I really liked this Captain.

"Where was I?" the ghost reflected. "Oh, yes! Six days before my death. My lady and I were seated at the table. We were eating some sweet cakes she'd brought, and drinking some rather exotic tea I'd got down at the docks. We had already made love (thought of course, I was hoping for another bout). I remember I looked up into her eyes and saw her beaming at me. Love! I could see it in her eyes. She loved me! I believe I would have openly cried, had the silence gone on.

"Then she said to me, 'yes darling, I love you.' As though she had read my mind! Oh, how I loved her then! I shouted – literally shouted, mind you – 'marry me! I love you with all my soul! Be my wife!' And, to my everlasting amazement, she replied, 'Of course, darling. That's just what I meant. Yes, I will marry you. I love you.'

"Oh, how my heart was filled with joy!"

Here, my new-found companion got up from the bed and rushed about the room as he spoke in a quickened tongue. "The next days were a blur of activity! We had decided to marry in naught but a fortnight. Neither of us were willing to endure being separated by living arrangements anymore!

There was so much to plan, though.

"She saw to renting a place – the old Warren Theater, I believe, is what she finally decided on. We both had lots of friends (who were not the least surprised by our announcement) and we could not forget to invite a single one of them! It became my duty to address and mail the

invites, for, she told me, I had 'beautiful penmanship'.

“A minister friend of hers had agreed to perform the ceremony. The mates of all her ships were demanding front-row seats of which, of course, there were far from enough! And I had a hell of a time deciding upon a Best Man! I’d finally chosen Anton, my good friend and First Mate, but…” Here he sat once again (and once again miscalculated) upon the edge of my bed in the dark side of the room. “…but I never got the chance to tell him!” His voice was much smaller now, and filled with such sorrow, I thought I would cry.

“Late that afternoon,” he continued, “I dropped off the last of the invitations to the Post. I wasn’t expecting to see my lady that evening, for she had promised to spend the whole night at her best friend’s house, outside of town.

“So, I came home and made myself a bachelor’s meal.” He smiled at me. “You know – spam, green beans from a can, bread, tomatoes and a beer.”

“Oh!” I exclaimed. “One of my favorite lunches!”

“Aha!” he nearly shouted. “So I have noticed. Imagine, if you will, my surprise to discover your favorite lunch had been my very last meal!” He was smiling as he said this, but it threw me for a loop. I suddenly felt very sad, and even a bit ashamed.

“No matter,” said he, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Anyway, afterwards, I lay down. I kept my bed just where yours is now, of course; no other decent place for one. Perhaps if I’d been a more careful cook…” He shook his head.

“A lot of bachelors die that way,” he said softly. “Or so said the Chief of Firemen, when he came to survey the damage. You see, I’d left the fire on under the skillet! Could have sworn I turned it off, but there you have it. I’d not paid enough attention – perhaps I’d merely turned it down and thought I’d turned it off.

“The skillet caught fire, but the fire never left the stove. However, it poured out black 46

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smoke, and that was my demise.” Again he shook his head and smiled sadly.

“Stupid way for a man to die, it is not?” he asked me. I didn’t know how to answer him.

“Here I was, only a week away from marrying the True Love of My Life, and I die of smoke inhalation.

“Fortunately, we have a good and efficient Fire Department. When a neighbor smelled the smoke, they called it in immediately. A couple of chaps even tried to force open the door, but in those days a door was a door! It was meant to keep things out and in this case it unfortunately did. The door proved too strong for them.

“Of course, the firemen had axes. They arrived quickly and broke their way into the apartment. They got things taken care of rather quickly; but for me, it was too late.

“I had a first-hand view of it all! It was an odd feeling at first, knowing I was dead. There was my body upon the bed, and the room filled with smoke and firemen and looky-loo’s at the door. I watched it all in a stunned daze.”

I breathed out heavily, only then realizing I’d held that breath a rather long time! “It’s quite a story!” I told him. “How… er… did Mrs. Tolliver take it?”

For several seconds, he said nothing. Then he shrugged his ghostly shoulders and said, “Badly, I suppose. She never returned here. I’d hoped she would.

Even though I quickly discovered I could not make contact with the living, I felt certain, somehow, that if she would but come, I could speak to her!”

He then looked at me shyly. “You truly think it’s quite a story, eh? I always thought it was rather a common one.”

“Not when told from the view of the victim!” I assured him. He smiled at that.

“I am so fortunate,” said he, “to have found someone who can manipulate things so well!”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Only that you shall use that thing,” he pointed at my typewriter, “to tell my story! And I already know how fine a writer you are!”

“Well, thank you,” I responded. “And that is exactly what I shall do; tell your story. In fact, I do not think I could sleep tonight until I finish typing it all out! I find I’m not tired at all, and even my stomach seems to have calmed down!”

He laughed lightly, nodding his head.

“Oh, to be heard again!” he sang. “To be able to communicate with another! It is so grand, I assure you, my friend!”

“You must feel free to communicate with me anytime you wish!” I told him, and felt it was the absolute truth I felt; I was not just saying it to be polite.

“Well enough! I shall do so.” He stood up once more.” But for now, I shall take my leave of you. I know you prefer solitude and quiet when you are writing. Have I not seen you turn off the television before you start on a story often enough? I shall leave you to your work.”

“Very well.”

“I am sure, Master Seymour,” he said in a softer, friendly tone, “that our relationship shall be a long and amicable one!”

“Oh, of course!” I stood too. “Consider me your new Best Friend!” I smiled, and meant to extend my hand to shake his, but he suddenly saluted me again – then vanished into thin air!

For several minutes, I but stood there. Did this really happen? Was it all true? The facts could be easily researched of course, but what, exactly, had just happened to me? Had I truly been visited by the ghost of a previous occupant of my room, or was it but an hallucination? The end of a dream, discovered upon waking? A fiction caused by bad clams?

It matters not, in the end. The story is a good one, and I knew I must put it at once to paper lest, as is the wont of dreams, it disappears from my mind!

I sat down and began to type. I was like a madman! The words – the exact conversation – so easily came to my mind! My fingers danced over the keys. I am a fast and accurate typist normally, but tonight it was as if the Devil himself had taken control of me; I could not be stopped!

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It is morning now. The sun spreads its rays through the small and sole window in this apartment only in the first few hours of the day.

They fall right upon the desk.

These are the last words I shall type, for now. Despite finding I am not the least tired (my adrenalin must be working on overtime), I must lie down. If I do not get some rest, I’ll be no good at work tonight. I shall force myself to get a little sleep.

It has been quite an evening, though; the most exciting of my life! It was a good tale, and in the telling of it I feel a great peace, joy, and even invigoration. This evening, I hope my friend shall return. I wish him to review and give his opinion on the story as I have written it.

Besides; he must have a plethora of stories to tell, and I am most anxious to hear them!

Goodnight.

communicate with the living at all! Perhaps the good Captain was merely experimenting with his new-found talents?

Oh, what vanity have I! “Who is there?” I demanded. Then, in a softer voice, “Captain Bridges, is that you?” But here, I remembered, the Captain was a well-built, stout man and surely larger than the small statured person who now hid under my sheets!

Finally, my courage came to me. “I’ll have you!” I shouted, and roughly pulled back the covers.

Oh, what horror I did reveal!

For the figure repasting in my bed was none other than my own!

No breath comes from those nostrils anymore. No longer shall those eyes behold the beauty of day or evening. No more shall those hands caress a woman’s breast, or the petals of a rose, so alike.

Oh, the Lord is a cruel God! What is this!

What unjustly thing has happened!

I was to bed. I lay down. Not tired, and certainly not unawares. Just as I lay my head to my pillow, I leapt back up – for someone was already in the bed!

What intruder has come! I thought, and looked for a weapon. Then a second thought occurred to me. Perhaps the man in the bed was none other than Captain Bridges! The ghost come to give me a fright? Yet, had he not told me he could not manipulate his surroundings as a poltergeist might? Then again, I remembered that before last night, he’d never been able to

The Captain is standing behind me now, as I type – no, manipulate – these final words. He speaks not, but lays a comforting hand upon my shoulder. He is a true friend in need.

I laugh softly, as I realize the Captain’s words are so surely true.

He and I shall endure a long and amicable relationship!

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