Entry #C27

Welcome to Hell

Cypher Lx

When we lit the fires, we had no idea how severe the repercussions would be. It was part of the "Rejuvenation" plan for our little mining town. The landfill was an eyesore and the town officials arranged for the fire department to set controlled fires while new refuse was shipped to a larger dump away from our piece of the American dream.

Despite the warnings offered by the fire chief, the council insisted. The dried leaves that fell from the autumn trees settled amongst the heaps of old furniture, plastic trash bags, and fermented food stuffs that had become readily combustible. Not long after, the dream became a nightmare as the pit fire ignited an exposed coal vein, triggering a rapid chain of events.

The "controlled" fires spread into the mines following the anthracite load, feeding hungrily and creating deep crevices beneath the surface of our town. Streets buckled and cracked. Black and yellow smoke filled the air as ashes drifted down like gray snow. Sinkholes formed, releasing sulfur gases and condemning the structural integrity of many homes. We reinforced the buildings with brick framework braced against the exterior walls and attempted to make repairs to the asphalt and concrete. This was our town and we refused to let it die.

Fissures in the ground appeared faster than we could fill them and after a month, the earth itself began to groan. The fire that now lived underneath released something more horrifying than the toxins the state government claimed we were subjected to. They crawled out from the cracks and holes, flesh as ashen as what coated our homes and eyes as black as the anthracite that lay burning within the mines. More frightening were their bodies. They resembled miners that had met their deaths since the operation began, loved ones that had passed on years before, and even some figures that were represented in historical photographs. Ghosts of the past.

Their hunger was as voracious as the flames that ignited their existence. Overnight, the creatures devoured nearly every resident of the town, save a handful. One-thousand four-hundred and twenty-three souls consumed, nothing left but a finger bone or a tooth in the place the person had been captured surrounded by a small pile of smoldering embers. Witnessing the act was terrifyingly beautiful as the wisps of smoke engulfed its victim and dragged the body to the gaping maw of the creature that controlled it. With a touch from a withered hand, the person transformed into a screaming charcoal briquette before being inhaled bit by burning bit.

Appetites sated, the demons left only six of us alive, crawling back into the ground. But it wasn’t without a cost to our own souls. We were bound to our town with our vow of loyalty and with it the creatures that came from beneath. The government attempted to make us evacuate, not knowing what had truly occurred before they arrived to quarantine the area. Assuming the others had relocated, our town was essentially wiped from existence. Our postal code was repealed and we were taken off of every known modern map. When GPS was created, our coordinates were deleted. But still, we live here, all but forgotten.

Many travelers and seekers of curiosities manage to find our little town, whether by accident or actively researching obscure records. They leave their mark with graffiti on the broken highway along the smoking cracks, oblivious to the evil that lives beneath their feet. Perhaps they can sense it. Often, references in the street art reflect this. In large white capital letters on the asphalt, “Welcome to Hell”. Some will find us keeping our streets clean and mowing our lawns. Over five-hundred houses were demolished since the incident, leaving only four, the church and a few business fronts. But we still have pride in the place we call home. Most of our visitors come during October, looking for a thrill before Halloween, wondering if the urban legends are true, hoping to see ghosts. We welcome them and tell them the stories of days gone by and the glory of what the town once was.

For fifty years the fires have burned. The ash has ceased falling, but smoke still seeps from the fissures and sinkholes, covering the ground like an unholy fog. And each year during the autumn months, the creatures clamber up from their resting place in the smoldering coal and sulfur. We wait for them, ready with their food supply. We are the gatekeepers of Hell.

Author’s Note: In 1962, the fire department in the town of Centralia, PA lit the landfill on fire to “tidy up” for the Memorial Day celebration. A coal vein caught fire and quickly ignited the mines. The fires have been burning ever since. It is believed by some that the fire is now traveling toward Ashland. There are five residents in Centralia and they are still fighting in court to keep their homes which were “officially” taken under eminent domain. They claim that there is no longer any fire or toxin hazard, accusing the government of trying to steal millions of dollars in mineral rights. Many people still visit the burning town out of curiosity even though Route 61 is no longer a functioning highway and Centralia is considered non-existent by state officials.

Entry # B24

A Mother’s Torment

Cypher Lx

Maggie Stewart couldn’t get the image out of her mind. The night her son Jacob was killed. Her husband had stayed home to pass out candy. Usually, that was her job, but Sam’s recent knee surgery prevented him from taking on the Trick-or-Treat journey. After two blocks worth of houses, Jacob dropped his bag of loot as they were heading home, toys and candy scattering into the street. Jacob ran to retrieve his lost treasure at the same moment a car careened around the corner, slamming into his little body and dragging him several yards. She had been haunted by him ever since.

She would see him around corners or dash away into his room. Sometimes she would hear his voice in her head. " Mommy, why are you so mean to me?" Maggie despised it when her dead child asked her that, but it didn’t change the fact that he blamed her. Once, she had mentioned it to Sam and he threatened to have her locked away. She never said anything after that.

It was October again and Maggie was trying to keep her mind busy with mundane things. She was dreading tonight. Trick-or-Treaters were excitedly getting ready to go on their rounds. The image of Jacob’s mangled body was at the forefront of her thoughts. As she stood at the sink washing dishes, Maggie could feel the presence behind her. Then the voice started again.

"Mommy?"

She tried so hard to ignore it.

"Mommy? Are you going to take me Trick-or-Treating?"

Tears began to fill her eyes. When was this torment going to end? Why wouldn’t Jacob leave her alone? Her grip tightened on the butcher’s knife she had been rinsing.

"Mommy? I’m in my costume. Do you like it?"

Jacob’s voice sounded hesitant. Eyes closed and tears streaming down her face, Maggie slowly turned around to face her dead son. When she finally opened her eyes, Jacob stood in front of her, skin pale and facial bones accentuated by deep shadows.

“What are you supposed to be,” she asked.

Jacob smiled and laughed.

"I’m a ghost, mommy!"

Maggie swiped at the apparition with the hand that held the knife. As it did every other time, Jacob’s spirit disappeared on a wisp of air, a scream echoing through the kitchen. Maggie sighed heavily as she turned back to the sink to finish washing the dishes. She scrubbed the knife blade again, irritated that soap spots had dried on the shiny metal.

***

Sam was in the garage cleaning and reorganizing. Maggie was in one of her moods again and she had taken it out on him. It was best to stay out of her way at times like these, but at least he had been the target when she lost her temper. Now she was in one of her cleaning frenzies. It was better than the alternative.

After Jacob’s accident, Maggie had never been the same. She started saying strange things and Sam wanted her to get help. Instead, she shut down and refused to talk about it. Over the past couple months she seemed to be getting better. Her bouts of violence decreased and she was starting to behave like she did before it happened.

Jacob’s recovery had been a miracle. The fact that he hadn’t died on impact was almost unimaginable. Perhaps that’s why Maggie had such a hard time believing it. Their son had coded several times on the way to the hospital from blood loss, but in the end, he had come out with only a couple of broken ribs and a fractured arm. But something had snapped in Maggie that night and Jacob avoided her every day since then because she would slap him hard across the face for no reason.

When Sam heard the scream from the kitchen, he froze. She was having another episode. He should have known her recent change in behavior wouldn’t last. Jacob must have crossed paths with his mother again. He ran into the room from the garage and found Maggie washing dishes calmly as if nothing had happened. As Sam rounded the table he felt his heart stop.

“What have you done?!”

Maggie turned to look at him and walked over Jacob’s limp, bloody body as if it wasn’t there.

“I’ve been cleaning, dear. Do you have the candy ready for the Trick-or-Treaters?”

Entry #A7

Grandfather Clock

by

Cypher Lx

The cushion felt like concrete as she sat, her legs dangling off the edge of the sofa, feet several inches from the oriental carpet. The black velvet dress was scratching against her skin. White ankle socks with lace trim made the black patent leather Mary Janes pinch her toes and rubbed the backs of her ankles raw. The matching ribbon to the dress pulled individual strands of her blonde hair so tight she thought her skull would begin to show. Her tears had dried up hours ago, but she wished for a scissors to make her clothes look as shredded as she felt. The pendulum swung quietly as she watched the minutes tick by at an all too quick pace.

The rest of the house was silent as a tomb save for the light clinking of silverware and bone China coming from the formal dining room and the classical music sounding like a dirge on the record player. She glanced up at the large mirror above the fireplace. Usually reflecting the expanse of the library, it was now shrouded in heavy, dark material. It was the one thing that gave her some comfort. Not only did she not want to see herself, but she also feared what might be staring back at her. Taking deep breaths, her nose was filled with the ever present scents of old books, lingering pipe smoke, and Old Spice. She wanted to scream, knowing that two of those would be lost to her like the perfume of flowers after they had withered and been tossed out.

Clang! The sound nearly made her jump out of her skin. It was the first chime of the Big Ben tune that always marked the top of the hour. Copper mallets like bony knuckles rapping hard against skeletal brass tubes, the song becoming a death knell. The grandfather clock loomed over her like the Grim Reaper. Once an adored object, it now reminded her that she was about to face a horror worse than what she had already endured.

She closed her eyes and imagined that if the clock was laid down, it would look very much like a Maple wood coffin with a glass top, a grotesque display of what it held inside. As the last chime sounded, it echoed ominously. She heard the harsh whisper of satin skirts and the padding of leather soled shoes approach her seat. Opening her eyes she saw her mother standing before her and her father just within the doorway. They wore the same inky color that now decorated everything. The stern expressions on their faces and dead look of their eyes ordered her to behave as the respectful young lady she was forced to dress like. A lifeless porcelain doll who was seen and not heard. Any other behavior would not be tolerated. A pale, cold hand was held out to her.

"It's time," her mother said.

Entry # 9

                                                                Nightmare at Sea

                                                                         by

                                                                  Cypher Lx

The ship gently rocked on the empty ocean. There was no wind to catch the sails. The only sound was the occasional wave lapping against the wooden hull. No one manned the crow's nest. Not that there was a need. There were no other ships and no land in sight. Skies were clear and a full moon shone brilliantly, reflecting on the water and illuminating the decks. Only two men were on the deck, the rest below decks in a deep slumber. A shadowy figure moved quietly toward the man staring out to sea while taking the occasional puff on his pipe. The figure stood behind him and the blade caught a glint of moonlight just before plunging deeply into the man's back. The pipe fell into the water with a barely audible plunk and he slumped forward without a sound. The figure drew back the blade and made its way toward the man at the wheel. The man was the captain. He allowed his crew to sleep after the three days of rough seas and now he was at the helm. The figure crept up behind him, but the captain heard the slight creak of the one loose board that lay two steps away. He spun around to meet a familiar face.

"Ah, it's just you," the captain said with relief in his voice. "Couldn't sleep?"

The figure gave a kind smile. "No."

With a sudden and swift movement the captain's throat was sliced open and he dropped making only quiet gurgling noises.

For several moments the figure looked around and took in all that had just happened and the irony of the fresh salt air in the crisp night. Somehow it seemed that the night made everything clean, including death. It gave the figure great pleasure and looking up at the crow's nest he let out a small laugh. Being that close to the sky made the rest of them look like ants and for days he just wanted to stomp on them. He had been relieved of duty earlier in the evening when the first mate had climbed up to his post. And the first mate had been relieved of his duty immediately after with one swift flick of a knife. The figure contemplated what had compelled him do these things, but could not come to an answer. What did it matter? This gave him more pleasure than anything ever had. After some time, he made his way below decks. The smell down there began to bother him more and more. No one else seemed to notice. The mixture of fruits, days old food, spilt rum, and the stench of his fellow crew was almost more than he could bear. He had been on many other voyages and it never affected him. This time was different, though he didn't know why.

Ever since the last port four days ago, he had felt different. Like everyone else, he indulged in the luxuries that all good ports have. Real food, much drink in different varieties, and all of the loose women a man could handle. Each of these done in excess. Normal behavior for men of the sea and something that he had grown accustomed to these last few years. And like all visits to a port, most could not remember pieces of the revelry. He was no exception. But something had changed and he could not pinpoint the exact moment when it did. He stood in the doorway of the sleeping quarters watching his crewmates as they lay in their bunks, completely unaware of the fate that would take them one by one. As the moonlight cascaded through the portholes, he tried to remember what the whiskey and rum had seemed to wash away. He recalled eating many different and somewhat exotic dishes made with poultry and seafood. The tastes of the rich desserts still haunted his tongue like a lost lover. Being a younger man, he had no problem with the women. There were trysts with four, or maybe five, different whores. A couple of them were taken at the same time. The brief moments in between were filled with drink and laughter.

He stepped from the doorway and crouched down against the wall. The memories came clear and clouded at the same time. They all mixed together in a flood of pleasure. It aroused him even now. He had woken up on the ship just before they had set sail again. Others had also indulged too much and had to be carried aboard. Suddenly, he remembered that he had a task and sprang to his feet. He couldn't allow himself to be distracted. He had to be very quiet so as not to wake anyone. If one of the crew were to hear his actions, it would all be over and he would be taken down quickly. They would accuse him of mutiny and that was not his goal. Not that he really knew what the goal was. He had no desire to control the ship and he was not sure of what drove his actions. He just wanted this. This moment when time seemed to stand still, waiting just for him. Stepping softly to the first bunk, he covered the crewman's mouth and gingerly slit his throat. It was so easy. He continued from bunk to bunk repeating his actions with only the sound of his own heart beating in his ears. It was exhilarating beyond belief. A feeling that all the best food, drink, and whores in the world could not compare to. He glanced back in the pale light at his victims, some with their eyes open in horror, and a smile crept across his face. The massacre continued until he reached the last bunk. Here lay his best friend out of the crew. For a long moment he stood there watching his friend breathe. Blood dripped from the knife and hit the floor like velvet. He leaned over, holding the knife behind him.

"Wake up," he whispered.

His friend opened his eyes, sleep still weighing heavily on him.

"Has something happened?"

A grin slowly appeared on the killer's face. The irony of the question was not lost on him. In fact, he found it quite humorous.

"Nothing at all," he replied, and began laughing.

His friend's clouded mind cleared rapidly as he glimpsed the carnage behind the figure hovering over him. The figure brought his hand forward producing the bloodstained knife. His friend was trapped between him and the wall. His grin became even more evil when he heard the first yelp of fear. Stabbing over and over, he did not stop until he saw nothing but moonlit scarlet soaking his friend's clothing and blanket. Silence. A welcome deafness that only death can provide. Sweat drenched his brow and he backed toward the doorway to survey his work. As he stood there, sound began to return. The gentle lapping of the waves against the wooden hull, the occasional creak of the sea-worn ship, droplets of blood as they softly hit the floorboards. And with the sounds, the smell of iron canvassed the room, covering the stench that had so bothered him before. Never before had he felt such release.

So consumed was he with his job well done, that he did not immediately notice the presence behind him. He felt the breath on the back of his neck. It was hot and yet he was suddenly frozen in fear.

"Excellent," hissed the presence into his ear.

The knife fell from his hand, clattering to the floor. He screamed and dropped to his knees. In the moonlight he could see that he was soaked with blood. A hand lay kindly on his shoulder and he began sobbing uncontrollably. He now remembered what he had forgotten.