APPARITION

Genre: Horror 

APPARITION

By Randy Romero

            Isaac was seriously lost. The narrow, unmarked trails had led him astray. What started out as an idyllic hike had turned into a harrowing nightmare. He tried his best to navigate his way through the treacherous woods. But the further he ventured, the further he drifted from civilization.

            Sunlight faded rapidly, and the darkness swept in. And as the darkness consumed his surroundings, the fear and paranoia consumed his mind. The anxiety was overwhelming. His legs were rubbery, his chest constricted, his lungs struggling to regulate his labored breathing. Beads of sweat accumulated on his forehead and rained down the sides of his face.

            He checked his cell phone. No reception. It was an old flip phone, one without a light. The pale, bleak moonlight was the only thing guiding his way. He eventually reached a clearing which paved the way for two distinct paths. He choose the path to his right. The path was broader than the other trails. He couldn’t see, but he felt dirt and gravel under his feet, could hear the crunching of dry leaves and the snapping of fallen branches.

            From there, it was all uphill. His calves burned and his thighs screamed as he ambled up the steep incline.

When he reached a hilltop, he stopped to catch his breath and rest his aching, burning legs. The terror still coursed through his veins. What if I can’t find my way out of here?

            “Get a grip,” he said aloud for nobody to hear but himself. “You got lost. Don’t panic. Panicking won’t help. You’ve got to find your way out of here before the temperature drops. You get stuck out here all night, they’re going to find you frozen against the trunk of a pine tree.”

            It took a few seconds for his eyes to register the sight at the top of the hill. It was a lone woman, short and thin. Emaciated would be the better word. She was young, younger than Isaac by at least a few years as far as he could tell under the veiled moonlight.

            What’s she doing out here? He wondered. Maybe she’s lost too. Or maybe she knows the way out of here.

            “Excuse me, ma’am,” he called out. “Can you help me? I got lost on a hike. I can’t seem to find my way back to the main trail.”

            The woman didn’t turn to face him. She didn’t even flinch at the sound of his voice. She stood with her back to Isaac.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said.

            “What?” he said, bemused. He wasn’t sure if he had heard her correctly. He moved closer. The girl didn’t stir.

            “You’re not supposed to be here,” she repeated.

            He got close enough to see how pale her skin was, almost transparent. He reached out to tap her shoulder and she spun around. Her eyes were milky white, as if coated in some kind of clear film. Her irises discolored, her pupils faded. The skin of her face was drawn back, as if being stretched and pulled by some invisible force.

          “Where’s Jeremy?” she asked, hostility in her voice. “Where’s Jeremy?” she repeated, practically screaming it. “You’re not Jeremy! You’re not supposed to be here! Go away!”

            “Please calm down,” he pleaded. “Are you lost too? Maybe we can help each other find a way out. Do you need help?”

            “You can’t help me! Nobody can help me!”

            “It’s alright,” he assured her. “It’s alright. Just calm down, please.” He grabbed her wrist; she was cold to the touch. Skin like the dead of winter.

            A flashlight beamed across the hilltop.

            “Hey, you!” another voice shouted. He glanced over his shoulder. A man trudged up the hill, wearing camouflage pants and a bright orange vest. A rifle slung over his left shoulder. “What are you doing out here?” the man shouted. “You know it’s hunting season? Wandering around in these woods after dark is a good way to get yourself shot.”

            “I’m sorry,” Isaac called out. “I got all turned around. Couldn’t find my way out. And my cell phone isn’t working. Do you have a phone I could use? This girl needs help.”

            “Girl?” the hunter asked as he drew closer to Isaac. “What girl?”

            Isaac turned to look, but the girl was gone.

            “Impossible,” he whispered. “She was just here.”

            The hunter approached him with more caution than he expected from a man carrying a 12 gauge rifle. “You okay, son? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

            “I think I did,” he muttered. “You really didn’t see the girl?”

            “Son, I have no clue what you’re talking about. You were all alone when I first saw you.”

            “I must be losing my mind.”

            “It’s alright, son. I’ll give you directions back to the main trail. I’ve even got a map. Hmm…” the man trailed off.

            “What is it?”

            “Nothing, it’s just…you said there was a girl here? By herself?”

            “Yes. I’m telling you, she was right here. Why, what is it?”

            “Nothing, just reminded me of a story years back. A real tragedy. Girl committed suicide up here.”

            Isaac had a vague recollection of the story. He’d seen it in the papers, even caught wind of it on a few local news stations. He couldn’t remember all the details, but the hunter filled him in on what he failed to recall.

            “Jennifer was her name. I knew her family. I mean, we weren’t best friends, but I used to see her father around town a lot, we’d chat for a few minutes here and there. See her mom in the market. She was always kind to me. Jennifer and her boyfriend used to come up her at night to fool around sometimes. One night, she was supposed to meet him out here, but he never showed. He died in a car accident. A firetruck was racing to a call and they ran a red light, plowed right into him. The whole car was in pieces. Nobody could have survived that crash. She took her own life shortly after, right here on top of this hill. Damn shame, if you ask me. She was so young. Had her whole life ahead of her.”

            “The boyfriend, what was his name?”

            “Jeremy.”

FOOTPRINTS

Genre: Horror

             

FOOTPRINTS

By Randy Romero

           

Thor was acting peculiar, to say the least.

          Not that cats need an excuse to act strange. Cats march to the beat of their own drums. They come and go as they please. Sleep as much as they want, eat as much as they want. Sometimes they want our attention, and sometimes they mosey about as if they’re completely unaware of our existence.

        Cats are hedonists. Pleasure seekers. They exist only to satisfy their own impulses, needs, and desires. And Thor was no exception. But that didn’t stop Vincent Guillory from loving his feline companion.

            But Vincent–or Vin, as he preferred–was having a hard time deciphering the cause behind Thor’s behavior.

Thor was fixed on one corner of the living room. He was crouched, his tail stiff as a board, his ears drawn back.

            “What is it, boy? A mouse in the walls? I hope it’s not a rat. We can’t afford an exterminator. Not on an artist’s salary.”

            Thunder clapped in the distance. The rain was expected to last through the night. It splashed against the windows and hammered the rooftop. Vin looked out, but could see nothing past his weeping windows.

            He let Thor be and wandered into the kitchen, opened the fridge. Nothing but condiments, bottled water, a half-gallon of milk, and a loaf of moldy bread.

            “You’ve really committed to the whole ‘starving artist’ cliché,” he mumbled to himself as he slammed the fridge door shut.

            Vin considered himself lucky that he even had a place to call home. The house belonged to his parents, a summer house that they barely used. They owned four properties in four different states. So they let Vin stay there for next to nothing until he got on his feet. All Vin had to do was keep up with the monthly bills and his parents took care of the rest.

            “Thor,” Vin called as he returned to the living room. “Come on, let’s go upstairs.”

            Thor hissed. Not at Vin, but seemingly at the wall. He inched back, but his eyes stayed fixed on his invisible antagonist.

            “This is getting…weird,” Vin sighed. “I’m going upstairs to my studio. Feel free to join me.”

            And with that invitation, he left Thor to his business and retired to his upstairs studio, which was about as big as a walk-in closet. The doorway was so narrow it took him and a friend three hours to figure out how to squeeze his desk through. But Vin didn’t need require much space for his work. All he needed was a desk and chair to sit down for his sketches, and a canvas for his paintings.

            Vin was self-employed, as many artists tend to be when they start out. He sold his paintings online, at auctions, rented tables at craft fairs and showed up to every art show to promote his work, did drawings and sketches for the occasional comic book. He’d currently been working on some sketches for an unpublished horror comic. Whatever helped pay the bills, he thought.

            Vin spent about an hour on the latest sketches. He was deep into his work when something broke his concentration. The living room was right below his studio and that’s where the noise seemed to emanate from.

            “Thor,” he called out. “What are you doing down there?”

            Thud. Thud. Thud.

            “What the hell…” he trailed off as the sound continued.

            Thud. Thud. Thud.

           Heavy footsteps, pounding the living room floor like a sledgehammer.

            “Who’s there?” he cried out.

            No response.

            Thud. Thud. Thud.

            The sound reached the bottom step and continued as someone or something ascended the staircase.

            Sweat dripped from Vin’s furrowed brow. His throat was as dry as a desert. His hands trembled as he fumbled through his pockets for his cheap, off brand cellphone.

            “I’m calling the police,” he croaked.

            Thud. Thud. Thud.

            Thud. Thud. Thud.

            The footsteps stopped at the top of the stairs.

            The door to his studio was wide open. He always left the door ajar incase Thor felt like watching him work.

            The hallway was engulfed by a large, indistinguishable shadow. A dark figure lurched forward and stood accusingly in the doorway. Vin could not make out any features beyond its silhouette. It had a human shape, but he couldn’t see its eyes, couldn’t see a nose or a mouth or hair or clothing of any kind.

            The rumble of thunder gave Vin such a startle he was almost ejected from his desk chair. The lights blinked and the room went dark.

When they came back on, the shadowy figure had vanished without a sound.

            Thor was twitching at Vin’s feet.

            Vin went for his phone again and dialed his parents number.

            “Vin, is everything alright?” his mother asked. “It’s late.”

            “Mom, I need to know everything about the house. Who did you buy it from, who lived here before us? Did the realtor ever mention anything strange to you or dad about this place?”

            She recognized the trepidation in his voice. “Oh, God…” she said and trailed off momentarily. “I was hoping you’d never find out. Your father got the property for a steal. The realtor was upfront with us about everything. They told us about the incident. But we simply chose to ignore it.”

            “What incident?”

            “The family that lived there, their son died. The realtor said he had problems with drugs, that he owed money to a lot of people. There was a break-in when his parents were out of town. There must have been a struggle because they found blood in the son’s bedroom. Some of it belonged to the son, some of it belonged to a second party that they never identified. His body was discovered a few days later, dumped in a mud bank down by the edge of the river. Vin, I’m so sorry. We should have told you, but–”

            It was only then that Vin observed the muddy footprints in the threshold of the door, leading out into the hallway.

            “Mom, I’m gonna have to call you back…”

AFTERLIFE

AFTERLIFE

By Daniel Skye

            The man sat on the windowsill, the cool wind against his back. He was a tall, lean man with wavy brown hair and a pallid complexion. His skin had an almost translucent quality. If not for his bones and organs, you’d be able to see right through him.

            The boy in the red-and-green pajamas sat on the carpet, playing with his action figures. He had all the latest WWE figures from Mattel. And his father had bought him a play set for Christmas which included a miniature ring so he could act out all of his favorite matches and bring his fantasies to life.

The boy was short, even for his age. His ruddy cheeks gave him a healthy glow. Though his belly, bloated from too many carbonated beverages, said different. Too much sugar and soda was his problem, but otherwise there was nothing wrong with him physically. He was perfectly healthy, unlike the man who had spent his life pushing his body to the limits.

A life of drugs, booze, pills, misery, and corruption had brought him to this point. And he had no one to blame but himself. But the boy didn’t know this. In fact, he knew little about the man, but he knew enough to be wary, yet slightly curious.

Casey was named after Casey Jones. You can imagine how thrilled his mom was when she found out where his dad got the name from. His dad had attended school with Kevin Eastman and was a big fan of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in his youth. He had taken Casey to see the new TMNT movies in theaters, but Casey didn’t see what the big deal was. He preferred the Avengers.

“Mom made spaghetti tonight,” Casey told the man. “Yuck! She always burns the sauce. Dad pretends to like her food. I guess you have to when you’re married. But I mean, the food’s not all bad. My mom makes a pretty decent meatloaf. It’s a lot better than her tuna casserole.” He retched at the thought of that casserole.

The man nodded, as if he understood. Though he offered no verbal confirmation.

            Casey was always warned not to talk to strangers, but this particular stranger had taken up residence in his house, and was kind of hard to ignore. And he didn’t seem like a bad man. But even six-year-old Casey understood that looks could be deceiving, that sometimes strangers had sinister agendas.

            “Wrestlemania is a few months away. My friend told me they might do John Cena versus the Undertaker this year if the Undertaker decides to come back. I like Cena, but I don’t know if he can beat the Undertaker. Reigns beat Undertaker last year, but Reigns beats everybody. I think he’s going to win the title again this year.”

            “Casey,” his mom called from the hallway. The door to his bedroom opened and she peeked in. “Who are you talking to?” She surveyed the empty room, then focused her eyes on Casey.

            “Nobody, mom. I was just playing with my action figures.”

            “Okay, well it’s time to get ready for bed. And close that window before you catch a cold.”

            “Okay, mom. Will do.”

            She closed the door and Casey turned back to the man sitting on the windowsill. The man that only Casey could see. The man who had overdosed in Casey’s bedroom three years before his family moved in.

            “Can I ask you something? Does it hurt to die?”

EVOCATION

Genre: Horror

EVOCATION

By Daniel Skye

            Meet Aaron Chase and Brent Gage: Part time convenience store clerks, part time paranormal investigators.

            In a town full of ghost stories and urban legends, Aaron and Brent were quite the popular duo in Fairview. But don’t let their pseudo-celebrity status keep you awake with envy. They still live with their parents.

            And they spend more time working the counter at Quick Stop Convenience than they do investigating and working actual cases. All day long they field moronic questions like, “Is Five Hour Energy considered an aphrodisiac?” Or, “Are Trix really just for kids?”

            That Thursday afternoon, Aaron had to bite his lower lip to stop himself from laughing when a female customer said, “I feel so guilty buying a carton of eggs. All those poor chickens that had to die to make these.”

            When Aaron went on break, Brent handled the counter by himself. When a customer asked to use the bathroom, Brent responded with an emphatic, “NO.” The last time he let a customer use the bathroom, he got stuck cleaning up the mess.

            Who smears shit all over the walls? Brent thought. What goes through a person’s head when they’re doing that?

            Another customer, a young man with black jeans, a pleather jacket, and a skull bandana, asked Brent for a pack of Marlboros.

            “You know, these things give you lung cancer,” Brent said, albeit sarcastically.

            “You’re right,” the young man said, pulling up the sleeves of his jacket that looked two sizes too big. He was practically swimming in it. “Forget about the cigarettes. I’ll just take some chewing tobacco.”

            Brent rolled his eyes, but grabbed a can of Skoal from the rack and scanned the barcode. The young man paid, and as he was walking out, an older man strolled in. He was tall, lean, dark skinned, and wearing a charcoal pinstripe suit with an immaculate cut. He was definitely a businessman. He had that air of scumbag entitlement, and he strutted around like he owned everything he set his eyes on.

            He approached the counter, and Brent could almost feel the confidence radiating from him. It was overwhelming. Or maybe it was just the smell of the man’s aftershave that overwhelmed him. It was a powerful, musty odor that lingered in the sinuses. Brent imagined there was probably a picture of a little ship on the bottle, like something his grandfather would’ve used.

            “I’m Luther Woods,” he said, introducing himself. Brent expected him to follow up with a sales pitch. Luckily, Aaron walked back in and Brent was free to go on break. But before he even left the counter, Luther said, “You might want to stay and hear what I have to say. I’m glad both of you are here. I’ve heard a lot about you guys. As I just told your friend, my name is Luther Woods. And I’m in real estate.”

            “If we could afford our own houses, we wouldn’t be living with our parents, dude,” Aaron told him.

            “Don’t worry,” Luther chuckled. “I’m not here to sell you anything. Quite the opposite. I’m here to acquire your services.”

            “Say what?” Brent muttered.

            “I want to hire you both to investigate a piece of property I’m interested in. It’s a potential investment, but it has a dark and infamous past. Before I invest, I want to know exactly what I’m going to be selling. I’ve heard rumors, stories of the place being haunted. Does the name Thomas Thorne mean anything to you?”

            “Sounds familiar,” Brent said. Aaron was more than familiar with Thorne and the property that Luther spoke of.

            “Thorne murdered twelve people in cold blood. He did it all in that house. I need to know if the house is truly haunted. I’m willing to pay you five hundred dollars each. I know it’s not much. But I assume it’s more you make in a day working here. No disrespect.”

            Aaron and Brent looked at one another, then back at Luther. “We’ll take it,” they said in unison and Luther removed two envelopes from his jacket. Then a key.

            “As a sign of good faith, I’m paying you both upfront. Here is a copy of the key. Get back to me as soon as you check the place out. And if you could, please make this a top priority. I don’t need someone else making a bid behind my back.”

           “We’ll get it done,” Brent assured him.

* * *

            They decided to check the place out immediately after work. It was a decaying farmhouse on the edge of Fairview. What remained of its white paint had bubbled and started peeling away. And green mold had devoured the sides of the house.

            Beside the farmhouse was a rustic red barn that looked more dilapidated than the house itself. They walked up the lopsided porch and chuckled at the screen door that was hanging on only by its bottom hinge. Aaron used Luther’s key to unlock the door and the rusty hinges screamed as he pushed it forward. Brent forced the door shut behind them and they turned on their flashlights. Luther had mentioned in advance that the house had no running water or electricity for the moment.

            Aaron instantly felt a presence. The cold air circulated around him, stinging his ears, his cheeks, and the back of his neck. His skin broke out in goose flesh, and he rolled his sleeves down to hide his apprehension from Brent.

            They made their way into the kitchen, which had been stripped off all but its cupboards. “You want to do the honors or should I?” Brent asked.

            “Be my guest,” Aaron told him.

            Brent, who was raised Catholic, whispered a short prayer to begin. He’d been told that prayer often worked as a seal of protection against angry or malevolent spirits. Then he spoke.

            “Is there anyone among us?”

            He waited for the answer. But the house was silent.

            “We come in peace,” Brent assured them.

            “They’re not aliens,” Aaron chuckled.

            “Quiet. You’ll disrupt the process. Please, if anyone else is here with us, give us some sign. Trust us, we mean you no harm.”

            Silence. But the cold air still lingered in every part of the house.

            “If there are any spirts among us, please give us some sign. We just want to help you find rest.”

            Silence. A flustered Brent gave it one more shot.

            “Thomas Thorne was an evil man. He committed many atrocities. If it offers you any comfort, his crimes did not go unpunished.”

            Just at the mention of Thomas Thorne, the house came to life. The ceiling pipes rattled and the floorboards rumbled beneath their feet.

            “They don’t seem at rest to me,” Aaron said, no longer able to mask his fright.

            There was a loud, thunderous BANG that shook the entire house from its foundation to its eaves.

            Aaron had done his research. When the police finally apprehended Thomas Thorne, they found twelve bodies in the crawlspace of the house. The final victim happened to be Thorne’s own partner in crime, Otis Williams. Aaron had briefly considered that they could potentially be disturbing the spirit of a bloodthirsty killer. But had it occurred to Luther Woods?

            The rumbling ceased and the entire house was silent again.

            “I think your smell scared the spirits away,” Aaron joked, if only to ease his tension.

            “I don’t think this is over,” Brent said. “Not by a long shot.”

            The hinges of the front door screeched. They heard the door slam shut, followed by footsteps. It sounded like a woman’s heels clicking across the floorboard.

            Myra Cobb saw the beam of their flashlights from the hall and shouted, “Who’s there? This is private property. I could have you arrested.”

            Brent was the first to step out from the kitchen. “We’re not looking to cause any trouble, ma’am.”

            “Who the hell are you? What are you doing here?”

            “I’m Brent and this is Aaron,” he said, grabbed Aaron by the arm and pulling him out of the kitchen for Myra to see. “We were hired by a man named Luther Woods. He wanted us to inspect the property before he invested in it. You can call Luther to confirm this. I have his number handy.”

            “Oh, boys,” Myra laughed and shook her head. She was furious, but she was strangely amused. “You’ve been duped. My name is Myra Cobb. I’m a real estate agent. Luther Woods is my competition. My agency recently acquired this property. Luther’s been trying to sabotage us for years. And now he’s sent you here in the hopes that you’ll disturb the spirts who are trying to find peace.”

            “How do you know about the spirits?”

            “I live in Fairview, just like you. I’ve heard the stories, just like you. I’ve felt a presence in this house, just as I’m sure you have.”

            “I don’t understand. If you know of its history, why are you trying to sell it? Are you that greedy?”

            “I’m afraid you’ve misjudged me. My intention was never to sell this house. The house was acquired through my agency, but it was acquired for me. I purchased it. I bought this house so no other real estate agency could try to sell it. I bought it so Luther wouldn’t get his hands on it. I never intended to live here. I just want the spirits that linger here to find their way towards the light.”

            “I don’t understand,” Aaron said.

            “My sister was one of Thomas Thorne’s victims. Is that enough motive to satisfy you?”

            “Fair enough,” Aaron nodded. Then he added, “Sorry for your loss.”

            “But how did Luther get a copy of the key?”

            “I work in real estate,” Myra sighed. “Not everyone in real estate is as honest as I am. He most likely paid one of my colleagues off to make him a copy. Don’t worry. I’ll find out who it was and deal with them accordingly. But that Luther is one sneaky bastard. He deserves to rot in hell along with Thomas Thorne.”

            The floorboards rumbled under their feet again and the front door snapped open and shut.

            “You probably shouldn’t say his name,” Aaron whispered.

            “Whatever Luther paid you, I’ll double it if you get him back for this.”

            “No, we’ll do this one on the house. We owe you and your sister that much. And Luther has it coming to him.”

            “I have an idea,” Brent said, and a malevolent grin spread across his face. “How many doors are there in this house?”

            “Just the front,” Myra said.

* * *

            Just before midnight, Brent phoned Luther Woods.

            “Sorry for calling so late,” Brent feigned an apology. “But Aaron and I discovered something we thought you should know about immediately.”

            “What did you find?” Luther asked, unable to contain his giddiness.

            “We’re not sure about the place being haunted. We haven’t detected any paranormal activity. What we did find is a cigar box full of gold coins in mint condition. I guess the police must have overlooked it. There was a hidden panel in the bottom kitchen cupboard. I don’t know much about coins, but these look pretty rare. We could be talking about thousands of dollars. Maybe millions. You should get down here soon.”

            Luther was already in his car before Brent could finish his last sentence. He arrived just after midnight. Aaron and Brent were waiting for him outside.

            Luther didn’t greet them. Didn’t thank them. The first thing he said was, “Where are these coins?”

            “In the kitchen,” Aaron said. “After you.”

            Luther stepped inside and Aaron slammed the door behind him. He locked the door from the outside, and Brent took a thin block of wood and wedged it underneath the door, so even if Luther had another copy of the key, the door would be jammed. The boys had also boarded up the windows, from the outside.

            And Luther didn’t have to speak the name of Thomas Thorne aloud to rattle the spirits. It was written all over the walls. A final fuck you from Brent and Aaron.

            “Can I come out now?” Myra called.

            “Come on out,” Brent told her. The doors of the red barn opened and Myra stepped out. She joined them and looked back at the house.

            “Think he’ll be alright in there?” Aaron asked.

            “It won’t kill him,” Brent said. “But he might lose his mind after one night in there.”

            “That wouldn’t be a bad thing,” Myra said. “I’ll make an anonymous call tomorrow to the police. Tell them where to find him. You boys did good. I can’t thank you enough.”

            “Don’t mention it. Sorry about the walls.”

            “I can always paint over them,” Myra said. “Hey, you guys are really into this paranormal stuff, aren’t you? I may have a job for you…”