F. P. Dorchak

Speculative Fiction Author

Writing

Crypt of Vampyres

by

Never, Ever Enter Alone. At Night. (Image by Richard apple [CC BY-SA 3.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0], via Wikimedia Commons)
Never, Ever Enter Alone. At Night. (Image by Richard apple [CC BY-SA 3.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0], via Wikimedia Commons)
This (I believe) is the first vampyre (yes, this is my preferred spelling) story I’d ever written. I’d written it for my fifth period 11th grade High School English class. Mr. Jeff Spence was my teacher. A tall (as I remember him) curly haired, affable guy! Always quick with a smile and a laugh.

And he gushed over this story! I can still see and hear him doing so!

He read this up in front of the entire class…emphasizing phrases and words here and there—pointing out cool imagery—and I was positively stunned.

Wow, he’d really liked this story that much?!

Man, here was a professional English teacher absolutely taken by something I’d written. He was beside himself even questioning the class’s non-responsiveness to things he found amazing. The atmosphere I’d created. I’d never seen that kind of enthusiasm for anything I’d written before or since in the professional world and often think back to that fine April day (April 6th, as a matter of fact! Note today’s date!). Yes…that was 38 years ago. Well, plus-or-minus. That paper was due April 6, 1978, but I’m not sure he read it the same day—I doubt it—but I couldn’t resist posting this blog on the same date, 38 years later! This was not planned!I had originally planned on posting this last week, but moved it for the “Snow Paper” post…then had this set for Friday, the 8th…but as I reread it, readying it for posting, the date just hit me. So, instead of posting this this Friday, I moved it up to today’s date. Weird energy…I think it all moves in “mysterious ways”….

Anyway, all I can imagine is that Mr. Spence was impressed with the potential he saw in me. Sure, even through all the incredibly poor and purple prose he saw promise…and some cool imagery…how I had an eye for creating atmosphere…my early employment of irony and even messing around with time and perspectives and points-of-view. It was very cool of him.

So, how are you these days, Mr. Spence? What are you up to? I can’t thank you enough for your unbridled enthusiasm…it’s still out there and I’m still tuning into it. I hope life has been good to you….

I have not done any editing to it (and believe me, it severely needs it…)…no comma clean up…no word choice re-selection…no nothing, absolutely nothing. I even found my severely marked-up copy that my mom edited (I’m amazed I still have it!), and she had hacked it up pretty good. Had I taken any of her advice?! Dunno. Haven’t compared the two. Maybe someday I will.

So, here is the story in all its adolescent glory and error! My Adult Me is, however, kinda embarrassed at the incredibly poor copy I’d turned in for an English assignment. Wow. Geeze.

But Mr. Spence loved it!

Read it to the entire class!

This story has never been published, never seen the light of day (pardon the pun), or been seen anywhere outside of Saranac Lake Central High School’s 1978 5th period, 11th Grade English class, taught by one legendary Mr. Spence. It has been transcribed word for word—no changes.

Try to get through it! I dare ya! :-]

 

Crypt of Vampyres

© F. P. Dorchak, April 6, 1978

 

The night was cool, the pallid moonlight bathed the area in an eerie, ghastly fog. The country road was deserted except for a lone nocturnal figure stalking down the illuminated roadway. There was s light breeze that blew what clouds there were to and fro.

An ordinary person would call the white stuff fog, but this individual saw figures…ghosts, demons, ghouls…all under his control.

This individual Alan Slovik, was an American-slovak holding on to the old fireside tales his ancient grandmother related to him. He fancied himself a “gothic-romanticist.” To others it seemed he was always dreaming, yet to himself, Alan, it was all very real.

Alan was about fifty feet from the only street lamp on the road when the clouds hid the moon. His shadow arrived at the post first and leaned up against it.

Alan, walking with no shadow, soon reached the post and he too, leaned up against it. As he rested there, peering through the eerie mist, he became suddenly aware that he was observing himself. As he watched, he became fascinated rather than frightened.

Slovik noticed a little later that his shadow walked off by itself. He then saw himself look down at his feet then walk off.

After that he stood there. Then looked down and saw no shadow. He too walked off.

 

In the cemetery, the wind whipped through with the eternal sound of lost souls as though it were being chased by something unspeakable. The skeleton -like trees were constantly striking at the foul air with their long boney extremities. The lost souls kept rising in pitch as the fierce wind roared on. In this most unholy of places, evil prevailed.

At the far end of the slumbering corpses lay a vault of unknown age. Few people ever venture near it because legend has it that an unspeakable horror is buried in the crypt below.

Inside lie bodies of an ancient family long decayed by Times’ cold hand. The family was reputed to possess special powers. The story goes that they emmigrated from Rumania for unknown reasons and died out just as mysteriously generations later, yet some people still believe there lurks, in the nights fiendish pall, a horror of the undead.

Inside the crumbling vault of horror a blanket of fetid stench envelopes all present. So thick is it that one can it and must slice a way through it–providing they are able to penetrate it. Dust is everywhere, leaving nothing untouched. Bones of hapless victims lie about.

In the back of the cold, dead chamber there lies a heavy granite door embedded in the lifeless floor. A large iron ring is attached to the door midway from the top and bottom, near the edge. The last person pulling that ring had found what she had been looking for without wanting it to find her.

Below there lay a large cryupt, smelling even more rancid than the floor above. There were old forgotten coffin-boxes strewn about, with clumps of earth cast around. The crypt also had an earthen floor. In the center of this crypt there rested a jet black coffin of some exotic wood. The top was closed.

Down in this crypt there was a mist of death, decayed flesh, and other rancidity. All was still, and utterly devoid of life.

The upper part of the coffin slowly opened with no appearent aid. Inside lie the ancient decaying body of a once-woman. Before the top part opened completely, the lower part slowly opened in the same manner. When the upper part completely opened, the lower part was half-opened.

The decrepit body inside was more pale than virgin white. The lips looked as if they were slightly darker due to some sort of tint.

Then the eyes opened, making the face more sinister still. The eyes were an evil black, blaker than the blackest void ever imagined by any mortal. The dead body slowly lifted up from the waist to a sitting position. It sat there staring straight ahead.

Then, in the next instant, it was standing in front of its coffin. The form of the once-woman stood there loosely clad in an ancient white robe that seemed to float in the muck called an atmosphere. The white hair was just sitting ther on her boney skull-head. Its figure scarely resembled the figure of a woman so dearly kept in every mans mind.

As she stood there, a white fog stood there and she was no more. The eerie mistmoved at a pace of death, slowly creeping toward the old granite door leading to the upper chamber of the ancient sepulcher.

The dead fog covered the cemetery outside. In the cold air, a large bat flapped away from this House of the Dead.

 

Alan Slovik stalked down the eerie road into the thickening fog. He stopped, and his shadow continued. Alan slowly his head,and peered into the wall of whiteness ahead.

He saw himself walking around ina fetid chamber full of empty boxes, upturned and stacked, with one prominant black box in the center, seemingly commanding all present. This box was the blackest he could imagine. In one of Sloviks hands he carried a rather large ax, and in another, a long wooden stake, tempered at he point to charcoal, and a wooden mallet.

The figure approached the box and peered inside at a beautiful body of a woman in her early or mid thirties. He leaned the ax up against the commanding coffin. He then carefully placed the sharp stake between the two full breasts of the ceature before him, and slowly raised the wooden mallet. It stopped. He peered at the seductive body in the sheer white robe lying there. Its eyes suddenly opened and stared directly at him. They burned into his brain. They seemed to implore him. He stared back, arm still poised above the lethal stake. He looked back at the body, then back to the coal black piercing eyes. He lowered his arm, dropped the stake and lowered his lips to the vampyres open, but deadly succulent lips. He and the hell-spawn embraced.

The man’s mind was swirling in confusion, fighting something it didn’t want to fight. The vampyre’s full lips parted even more now, revealing two sharp, lethal fangs. The man went down, as the vampyre’s sharp teeth punctured two neat holes into the side of the victim’s neck.

It sucked in deeply for the hot, crimson blood.

Alan slowly turned himsel around to find another thick wall of fog revealing still another image.

Slovik held his ax in one hand and the charcoal tipped stake and wooden mallet in the other. He walked over to the black coffin slowly but surely, and peered inside. The beautiful woman-thing lay there, its soft seductive body neatly revealed through its shear white robe. Slovik leaned his ax against the coffin, placed the sharp stake between her full breasts and raised the mallet…. The vampyre’s eyes suddenly opened, revealing coal black jewels, but rthis time he did not pay attention to the piercing, hypnotic temptation before him.

Slovik lifted the hand with the mallet slightly higher. The vampyre opened its succulent lips, revealing the teeth of death, and hissed. Then, with one powerful blow, he plunged the sharp stake deep into the creature’s breast, releasing a gushing flow of dark crimson spurting into the air, and onto his face. The figure writhed violently in its bed. Blood ran down the corners of the vampyre’s mouth, nose and eyes. The face twisted into hideous contortions.

Slovik pounded again until he hit the coffins bottom. He then reached for the ax, and raising it above his head, brought it down in one powerful stroke, severing the hideous head from it’s bloody body.

Alan looked at the other image in front of him, and back to the one behind him. He then looked at another form of himself between the two. The figure looked at the latter image.

Alan then turned to come face to face with a beautiful woman’s face in front of him.

He stared at her and she stared back. Her eyes were the deepest jet black he had ever known. She stared, piercing steadily into his very heart. Her jet black hair floated about her head.

As he began to come to focus, it was as if he were viewing the figure through a fine gauze help up before her. Her white robe drifted upon her lithe body which was the colour of deep autumn.

“Who are you?” Alan asked ina trance-lilke state, “What is your name?”

“I don’t have a name,” she answered in a steady, soft voice.

“Please tell me, you must have a name.”

“Vulna,” she replied forceably.

“Vulna? That’s an odd name. Where did you get that name? For that matter, where did you come from?”

“What is your name?” asked the soft voice, avoiding the last question but continuing to stare into his eyes.

“Alan,” he replied obediently.

“Do you come out at night often?” she pressed.

“I walk at night often; yes.”

“Do you live near-by?” Vulna inquired.

“Yes Alan replied, still in a trance-like state.

“Are there other people near by?”

“Yes, down the road.”. Vulna nodded and proceded to drift past him. Alan continued to stare foreward. As she passed him, she seemed to merge as one with the ghastly fog.

Alan slowly turned and came face to face with himself again. This time, he was holding a large crucifix in his right hand at waist level. As Alan completed the turn, Slovik raised the silver crucifix to shoulder height, simultaneoisly moving it out towards Alan.

He turned back around, and saw the same woman again, this time baring her sharp fangs, with fresh blood dripping from the corners of her bloated, crimson lips. He turned back to his other self witht he crucifix. Both images melted into the fog, and Ala,’s shadow returned to him.

He walked on.

 

That morning, Alan got up and had his breakfast while reading the paper. As he began flipping through it, his eyes caught on an article about a strange murder:

“George Burnholser died sometime this morning between the hours

of 1 and 3 A.M. His lifeless body was found at 6 AM. in an

alleyway. The odd thing about his death is that there were

puncture wounds on the left side of his neck, and he was found

to be drained of all his blood. Some are already speculating

that this was the work of a vampire.”

Alan sat there staring at the article. He wanted to see the body…to actually see this corpse. The idea fascinated him.

Alan was good friends witht he undertaker, and told him that he was investigating this bizarre murder. The undertaker took him down into the morgue and pulled out the appropriate slab.

He sttod there staring at the body, then began examining it. The two holes were jagged, and about 1/4 inch in diameter. The body was a pale white.

As Alan stood there, he began staring again. Then, as if seeing through a gauze, he saw himself in a dark coffin, with eyes open and a strange expression on his face. The undertaker was still speaking while he was in the daze. He later broke out of it when his friend nudged him.

The undertaker asked, “What do you think it was, Al? Most others say a vampire did it.”

“I couldn’t tell you,” Alan said, walking off.

 

Later that day, Alan went to a library and got all the information on vampyres he could. Once he got what he wanted, he went home and studied the rest of the day.

When he was done, it was about the end of the afternoon and he thought that he’d go over to the nearest cemetery and take a peek at what was there.

As Alan was walking along, his eyes caught sight of a large, odd-looking vault, undated, at the rear of the cemetery. He started towards it. As he approached, he noticed a large, ancient lock on the door. He remembered seeing a lock similar to that one around his home. His train of thought was broken–

“Hey! Who goes there–you’re not supposed to be there! Besides–we’re closing up now!” The voice was that of a worker.

“Sorry,” replied Alan, and he left promptly.

On his way back he didn’t encounter anyone, including the mysterious woman, and it was getting darker.

Once home, Alan made a mantal note to find that lock and key. He was fatigued from reading all that material and went to sleep early.

 

Next morning while reading the paper, his eye caught on another item. This time two people were attacked. A couple was strolling home when, according to this reporter, the male was attacked by a vampire and drained of his blood, and the female savagely killed. The scene was about a mile from his home, so he finished breakfast and proceded to the dreadful site.

Since he was in a hurry, he didn’t notice a subarticle below it which stated that the previous drained body had since disappeared.

Alan got there in no time at all, and immediately felt the presence of the damned souls.

As he stood there, he saw two people walking down the empty sidewalk at night. A distant, slow flapping can be heard. As the couple nears a grove of trees, a dark figure approaches them. There is a full moon waning. The three figures stop and look at each other.

Then the vampyre puts the man in a trance and approaches him. She wraps her arms around his neck and lowers her hungry mouth. The cold, dead breath cringes his flesh as she opens her thin lips revealing her two sharp eye teeth.

She clamps them snuggly on his warm flesh, making a slight sound, and then sucks lustfully at the warm crimson fluid that will fill her cold, frigid body. A nauseating gargling sound is heard, and the blood runs down his neck. The vampyre, now bloated, lets the lilmp body drop and procedes to walk off.

The tranced girl comes out of it. Realising what happened, she pick ups a hefty rock, and hurls it at the she-devil, catching her in her lower back. The vampyre stops, turns, and approaches her once more. the gril goes into shocj and cannot move. The vampyre picks up her body and throws her a a “V”-shaped tree. Her writhing body hits the tree but as she falls, her neck gets wedged, at the base of the “V”.

She dangles there, just above the saving ground.

Then it’s not there.

 

Alan winks and realizes the extensive similarities of the vampyre and the mysterious woman he had encountered on the street.

Alan quickly returned home and began searching for the lock. He foundit just as the sun was setting. He didn’t have much time but wanted to search the vault. He knew that if she did inhabit the vault, she wouldn’t be htere tonight.

He got his large silver crucifix, an old lamp and the lock and key. He left in a hurry.

When Alan got there, he busted the lock and entered the fetid smelling chamber which ranked at his nostrils. He couldn’t stand it, but would get used to it. As he lifted the lantern up high, he noticed the skeletons lying around. He began to examine one and noticed that they were, indeed, human. There were more strewn about.

“What could they being doing here?” he asked himself, “What would human skeletons be doing out here?”

As he ventured on, he noticed a large granite door in the floor beyond.

Alan endeavored to pull up on the ancient iron ring. The door was heavy, yet he managed to get it open. When he did, he wished he had left it shut. The even more putrid stink ranked harder than ever athis tortured nostrils.

He entered cautiously, with cross up front. Alan coughed at the cloud of decayedness that enveloped him. Once under, in the crypt, he noticed the several man-sized boxes strewn about with earth inside of them. Then he remembered that when Vampyres leave their native country, they must take some of the native soil with them. He walked furthur, and then it hit him why there were skeletons above. They were the movers of the vampyres body from Rumania, handsomely paid, but killed off by the vampyre, one by one, as it needed them in the end.

Their final payment.

As he lifted the lantern higher and stood there in the cloud of decay, he noticed the commanding coffin ahead…coal black and opened. Alan observed it carefully, then drew a cross in the dirt a third of the way down. There was nothing else he could do.

He examined the crypt once more, then decided to leave.

 

The passed quickly for Alan Slovik as he waited for the sun to set. There had been another similar murder this morning and he was fairly sure who was the attacker.

As the sun died, Alan entered the darkening street. While walking, he hoped to meet the mysterious, beautiful lady once more.

A few minutes later he saw the dark silhoutte ahead and knew it was her. Crucifix ready, he approached. She seemed to be in a hurry and he was wondering why she didn’t turn into a bat–if indeed she was a vampyre.

As she got within recognizing distance, she spoke.

“I’m in a bit of a hurry tonight to get to a friends house, so I can’t talk now.” Then she said ina strange tone, “Maybe tomorrow night? Nice seeing you again.” It sounded slightly European.

When she passed, he quickly glanced to see if the mark of a cross was on her back. Through the thick fog, he made out the faint lines.

When he first met her, her had often wondered why she wore such a flimsy garment. His questions had just been answered.

 

He spent the next day readying items to take with him to the crypt. He didn’t have much kerosene left, so he had to go to town to buy it.

It was late afternoon as he proceeded to the cemetery–hoping not to be seen. It was getting dark, so he made it in with not much trouble.

Now he would need extra strength. Waiting untill it was slightly darker and everyone had gone from the cemetery, he carefully, slowly and with a fear of what he was going to find, opened the door and proceeded in.

He closed the door behind him and placed garlic and onions in all the cracks in the vault. Carrying his tools–a silver cross, an extremely sharp ax of some size, a bucket of kerosene and his mallet and charcoal-tipped stake, he entered the crypt with the light from the oil lamp.

As he got into the crypt, he closed the heavy door, placing garlic and onions around that too.

In the still silence of the putrid stench, he suddenly realized that he was all alone.

He proceeded forward, slowly.

He was afraid of what lay ahead, and what may be lurking in the shadows.

The coffin was closed.

Alan set up his lantern on the lower half of the coffin and rested his large ax beside it.

He then slowly opened the eerie coffin, revealing the horrible gruesome sight inside.

The vampyre looked as if she had already had her drink, but her eyes were closed.

Alan steadily placed the sharp stake between the voluptuous breasts, and raised his mallet. As he did so, he took one last look at he woman-demon that lay before him. Suddenly the eyes opened, and burned into his brain. He stared back, observing her imploring lips…

The sun had not yet completely set.

She continued to entice.

His defenses started falling. The stake became loose, the sun became redder. He wanted to kiss her, to emvrace her.

The sun set; the vampyre snarled, revealing her sharp lethal teeth, and proceeded to rise. Alan quickly composed himself, steadied the stake, and plunged it deeply into her chest with one powerful stroke. The vampyre shrieked a blood-curdling scream as the determined stake plunged in like a grave-diggers shovel.

The ill-gotten blood squirted about, flowing freely on her “body”, Alan gave it one more strike to force it to the bottom of the coffin.

It shrieked more. Its face contorted grotesquely, blood spurting out irs nose, ears and mouth. Her reddening eyes bulged out with the strain of screaming.

Quickly, Alan took the ax and severed the vampyre’s gruesome head.

After decapitating it, he lifted itout, threw it on the floor, then poured kerosene on it. He lighted a rag and threw that on it too. The head went up in flames. He then turned to the coffin. When he looked back, he saaw four dark figures standing around him.

His heart stopped.

They were the un-dead.

Hissing, and bearing their fangs, they approached him. He tipped the coffin over, and was backed into a corner.

The four hissing vampyres approached him from all sides.

 

Related Posts

Kirschner Cover Art: "Clowns," by F. P. Dorchak

by

"Clowns," © F. P. Dorchak and Lon Kirschner, 2016.
“Clowns,” © F. P. Dorchak and Lon Kirschner, 2016.

Okay. Yes. I know…shameless, shameless self-promotion!

But I’ve wanted to talk about this cover since I first laid eyes on it…or it had laid eyes on me….

As I’d previously mentioned, I’d been (and still am) messing around with short stories, and had come across this one and decided to published it as its own stand-alone story. So, I turned to Lon Kirschner, who’d done a couple of my other covers. As always, Lon turned out a fantastic cover! It even reminded me of The Grievers, the cover he’d done for Marc Schuster, back in 2012 (and also involving clowns, by the way).

So, of course I want to talk about it!

When I first opened the file and looked at it, the very first thing I saw was the clown’s face…and I thought, ewwww…how frigging creepy! But…why is it starting at me through a slit?…a narrow opening…a…waaait a minuuute—

BOOM!

It hit me, just like that—the clown was staring at me from the blade of a knife!

I bust out laughing.

How frigging perfect!

I was walking around the house with my tablet looking at this thing and laughing my ass off. I just couldn’t take my eyes off it! What a perfect cover for my short-short story! The creepy clown face, the purple from its little clown-doll outfit, the kitchen knife, the script of the title—including the red “S”—all on a black background, which to me symbolizes the night/unknown! It was such a clean, subtle, no-nonsense creepy (have I mentioned this?!) cover!

I mean, our clown…the silly little dresser-top doll…the subtle way it’s peering out at us from the shiny knife blade is just like how I believe these little bastards are peering out at us from our dresser tops! Oh-so slyly…are they…or are they just staring ahead with their lifeless, beady little eyes?

Of course they’re staring at us!

This is what Lon had to say about creating my “Clowns” cover—which, by the way, was the first time he’d ever created a cover for a short story—I think you’ll really get a kick out of this:

“It did creep me out. I don’t really mind real clowns (although they are a little odd) but clown dolls are what I really find creepy. I also find some other types of dolls creepy but that might be just me. When we were kids we had a set of Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls that my Aunt sent from her travels in Europe. They sat on the old radiator that was in the bedroom I shared with my sister when we were very young. I would wake up some times in the middle of the night and I would see them staring at me. Like your story. I still think they moved.

“The other issue with this cover was I knew you had high expectations for this and I felt a little under pressure to produce something that hinted at the story but didn’t give it all away.

“I wanted it very, very simple but have that disturbing feeling. I went back and forth with the alternate “S” in ‘Clowns.’ At first I thought it was a bit cliché, but then I thought it was a good way to bring in that murderous element without being overly gruesome and it did offset that typical circus lettering.

“My own clown issues and creating a successful piece all combined to create something a little difficult to work on, but in reality, once I got going it all fell into place rather quickly.

“I always start with some sort of rough idea. I knew I didn’t want to see the whole clown face and I knew I needed a knife, I just wasn’t exactly sure how they would all meld together.

“This is how I have always worked. Some people sketch it all out exactly but that never worked for me. I do make little sketches on Post-it notes to sort some things out, but that is usually as far as I go. I find the fun in moving things around and making my adjustments on the fly. I think I moved the image of the knife over at one point about a sixteenth of an inch. Then I was satisfied!”

I love this line: “I still think they moved“!

I also like how Lon didn’t want to “give it all away,” which I could see might be a little difficult to do in a quick short short story of less than 800 (713) words! But, he did it, I’m proud of him and his result, and I am still beside myself over the cover!

So…I hope you’ll excuse me for analyzing one of my own, but I’ve been wanting to talk about it since I got it. With my next Kirschner Cover Art post, I’ll go back to talking about other author covers….

But…for now…sleep with one eye open!

Do you know where your knives are?

*******************************************

Lon Kirschner may be contacted at:

Phone: 518/392-3823

E-mail: info@kirschnercaroff.com

Book Cover Site: http://www.lonkirschner.com/

Related Articles:

 

Snow Paper

by

The Woods Hold Secrets. (Image by By Estormiz, own work [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons)
The Woods Hold Secrets. (Image by By Estormiz, own work [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons)
Family tragedies, knives, deserted, wintry forests, wolves, and, well, the stuff of fantasy.

This is yet another story I don’t  remember writing, and was written in the early years (1989), but as I stumbled upon it, it just captured my fancy as such an odd little story. A cool one, so I moved it up in the line-up…especially since we just had a blizzard dumped on us (March 23rd), two days later, another eight inches. And this week? A couple more days of fast moving snow squalls. It’s still snowing outside my window….

This story has never been published.

 

Snow Paper

© F. P. Dorchak, 1989

“No! Don’t do it! Please, don’t—”

The shrill screams pierced through the frigid, moonlit night, originating behind the closed doors of a mountain cabin. Behind tattered, backlit curtains forms moved…jerked…flickering images engaged in a heated argument. Yelling. Pleading. Crying.

Outside, smoke from the chimney mixed with blowing snow.

“Daddy no!”

A gunshot.

Another.

Out from the door dove a dark form.

The shadow was far from maturity…short in height and small in frame…and it plunged directly into the several-foot-deep accumulation of snow. Behind the small-framed shadow—her—the door was left open.

“No! No-no-no-no-no!”

Shelain collapsed face-first into the snow.

“Mommy! Why? Daddy—why?”

But her cries only fell upon the hushed ears of a snow-packed forest.

Blood on her clothes.

Shelain lie face down in the snow, arms covering her head, and sobbed….

She looked up. Into the woods before her.

She didn’t need moonlight to see. She knew what was out there. Snow. And trees. Lots of both and little respite from either.

Shelain had grown up in this forest. She had always been a fast learner. In better times her parents had remarked at how good she’d been in finding her way back home while out hunting. That she could survive in the snow if she had to (she’d built her first igloo at the age of five), and that making fires and snaring food was now quite commonplace to her. Her parents knew she could survive, and so did Shelain. She was a tough little girl, and now she would be put through her right of passage.

Shelain didn’t understood what had happened between her father and mother, only that it had happened…and that was all that mattered just now. But she also knew she couldn’t live here anymore. This had been a home, now it was a tomb—and the living didn’t live in tombs.

She did not want to go back in there.

The woods were her only option. Yes, she would go there. She would go to the woods and find a new place. But before that was to happen, she needed things. And that meant…

Going back inside.

And she did not want to do that.

As soon as she got back up to her feet, she felt her head pound, like the outsides had moved too fast for the insides, and her insides were ready to explode…her heart….

Shelain stood. Wiped snow off herself, and turned.

Entered the cabin.

On the floor were—

She moved around them.

She was unable to take her eyes off what now lay on the floor.

But her father’s woods training and her mother’s practicality took over and she immediately set upon collecting what she needed. She grabbed food and clothes. Water wouldn’t be too much of a problem this time of the year, but she took a flask or two anyway. Putting on as many pieces of outer wear as she deemed practical and useful, she slung the pack over her back and

The floor still mocked her. She couldn’t ignore them.

Stooping, Shelain went to her father…unable to look directly at him. She searched around him before she found what she was looking for. Removing it, she put it into her jacket.

His hunting knife. Now it was hers.

Shelain went to her mother.

She was also unable to look directly at her. She went to her hand. Shelain removed the wedding band. Like gutting a trout or cleaning a rabbit, her emotions suddenly seemed turned off.

That was enough.

Pocketing the band she strode out the door, not bothering to close it.

She felt the crunch of the snow beneath her feet, and headed around to the side of the cabin, adjusting her pack. She pulled her snowshoes out from their snowy groves alongside the building and put them on. She’d gotten these two birthdays ago. She was very adept in them, even able to run in them, dodging in and around trees….

“It’s going to be a cold winter,” she said to no one. She stood back up and looked off into the moonlit night.

Off she trekked, into the dark tree line of the forest.

 

Shelain felt as if she was living one of those fairy tales her parents had so often read to her as a child.

But she was a child no longer.

As prepared as she was, she had forgotten two very important things. One was that she might not be as energetic about things after the shock and the jolt had worn off. Two, she had completely forgotten that she had not yet eaten that night.

She figured she’d been walking for several hours (this she did by the movement of the stars), and though she was young and strong, she needed food and rest, and now was as good a time as any to stop. Unloading her pack, she collapsed against a giant snow-covered fir, careful as to not knock any of the snow capping off. She might end up needing the tree as shelter and would need the snow for insulation.

Fishing through her pack’s contents, she removed a small salted slab of venison, immediately digging into it.

She watched the stars.

Then heard the noise.

Noises.

Only moving her eyes, she surveyed the dark…through the trees and back from the direction she’d come.

She’d been followed.

How stupid of her! She knew better!

The moon lit her trail, but that wasn’t all it had lit up. It also lit up a second trail which had veered off on its own into the woods mere paces away. It didn’t take an expert to know that she was being followed.

Wolves.

Shelain slowly placed the remainder of her venison on the snow.

She sat. Listened.

There came the low, throaty rumblings again….it was all around her.

She positioned her pack firmly in front of her; held it with both hands.

All her training had not prepared her for this. She was alone now, no father to get her out of this one. No mother.

Solo.

The rustling came closer, the growls no longer muted.

Shelain saw the wolves emerge from the darkness. She could actually see their eyes.

Four of them.

Slowly coming to a stand, Shelain kicked the chunk of venison toward the advancing pack. That tiny morsel wasn’t going to satisfy anything. She stayed close to the tree. Shelain felt her mind beginning to go limp…lose its focus.

Fear was taking over. She’d felt this once before.

The wolves closed in…formed a semi-circle….

They pounced!

Three went for the venison…but the fourth charged her.

Pack forced firmly out before her, Shelain managed to deflect the wolf off to the side, but it quickly got back up and resumed its attack. Shelain was only vaguely aware that the other wolves were fighting over the venison—but, how long would that last?

The attacking wolf again leapt at her.

For several minutes they faced off with each other. There was no stopping this beast…and soon the other three would also be upon her.

She was alone, snowshoes strapped to her feet, and mentally and physically exhausted.

There was nowhere to go. No one to turn to for help.

This was it.

What would her father do?

Her hand fell to her side.

Yes. The knife.

She unsheathed the gleaming blade.

The wolf lunged.

She missed the first time, but connected on the immediate back swing.

She was soon lost in the frenzy of teeth, claws, and blade when she felt the knife plunge deeply, she felt something hot spray her face, and her attacker suddenly fell on top of her.

She was bleeding.

Three more! There are three more!

“No!” she screamed. “Oh, Father, why did you do it? Mother, I miss you!”

She so desperately wanted things to go back to the way they had been…to the way they’d been before….

Why couldn’t we turn back time when bad things happened to us?

She’d been mauled pretty good by the dead wolf and her grip on her knife was no longer sure, but her survival instincts again kicked in. Shelain was again on her feet. As she saw the three wolves approaching her, she grabbed her pack and dumped it out in an arc before her. More venison and fruit and bread sprayed out before her…and she ran.

She’d never had to run on snowshoes to save her life before.

All she could do was what she was doing.

Run.

 

She dropped heavily to her knees in knees deep snow, heart beating up and into her throat. She was tired, wet, had lost much blood, and was about to lose much more if she didn’t change her situation…

But she no longer cared.

She’d been foolish to believe she could make it on her own, no matter how smart she thought she was. There was nothing to make it to. Nowhere to go. She’d lost her family, lost everything. And the wolves

(where were they?)

would be on her in—

Her hand hit something.

Dragging her knife through the snow to the object, she poked it through to the surface. It unraveled just enough for her to see it.

It was cylindrical and

Made of paper?

A…calendar?

A paper calendar…and there were days marked off.

Well, great, at least she would know what day she died.

The calendar was dated last year…but not all the days were marked off. What a stupid thing to find in the snow…out in the middle of nowhere…a pack of hungry wolves chasing after you—

And why hadn’t the wolves caught up with her?

But…a calendar….

Her curiosity got the better of her, and with bloodied and freezing hands, she began unrolling it.

The year on the calendar shifted before her eyes.

One moment it read 1830…the next 1700…but always it showed past years, nothing current. And the marked-off dates remained the same. The calendar unrolled, she tried to turn the pages, to see other months, but she couldn’t…none of the pages would yield. She couldn’t unstick the pages. As she looked at the crossed-out dates (what day was it?) she noticed how some of the crossed-out dates looked more messed up than the others. Smeared. In fact the very last crossed-out date was really smeared and blurry and anything but neatly crossed out.

She heard the rustling.

They would nearly be upon her!

Good, let them come…put an end to her misery….

Shelain traced her bloody knife tip along the weeks and stopped at the next open day after the really smeared and soiled and blurry crossed-out

(yesterday…)

date. Wouldn’t it be nice, she thought, if she could go back and change things…make what daddy did never happen. Turn back time? Wouldn’t it be—

 

The wolves broke through the snow-covered trees and leaped upon their prey…but only ended up landing upon one and other, instead. Confused, they shook the snow from their lean bodies, sniffing around the indentations in the snow before them.

There were blood stains…her scent…but no meat.

All that was before them was a snow crater of someone who used to be there.

The wolves dug, but never found Shelain. They did find, however, a useless pile of paper in the snow. They sniffed at it—it was not a good smell—and hurriedly left the area, one less member to their number….

Deep in the woods of the north rested a small log cabin. The smell of hardwoods permeated the air as the smoke mixed with falling snow. Inside the soft glow of the fire’s light filled windows, and there resided a small family of three. It was a meager birthday, but it would turn out to be the best birthday Shelain would ever have….

 

Related Articles

Am I Having Too Much Fun?

by

Since November 2015, I’ve been going over all the short stories I’ve written (and have an accounting of). I’ve been posting them on my blog site, and currently have auto-posts every Friday out until August 19, 2016. And I still have a handful left that I think are “blog worthy.” Some are definitely blog worthy, but are too long (so I won’t post those, since I already have enough on my site that are already pushing the limits for “comfortable” blog reading; they’ll be in the short story collection I’m putting together, however). But I’ve been having so much fun doing this that I no longer have (or make) the time to post other non-short story-related posts!

So, I thought, I’d make some time!

My stories run the gamut…from my current “paranormal/metaphysical fiction” M.O., to fantasy, to back into the deep dark past of straight-on, unflinching horror-fiction writing. And one or two of them are downright vile. And one of these non-horror stories is so damned powerful to me that I can’t help but get emotional every time (and I mean every time…) I read it…but it’s too close to real life, and people and situations in it are too identifiable, so I can’t release it…but also have to admit that of the 21 pages, only four of them had been written in 1997 (and those four pages still got me emotional!); I’d written the other 17 a couple weeks ago…the story still that fresh in my mind of what I’d wanted to do. I feel it’s arguably the best short story I’ve ever written. I’ve written other shorts that are never going to see the light (or dark) of day for various reasons. In any event, they all show where my head was at and what I’d done. They all helped shaped me into the writer that I am today. And I think that’s cool.

I’m also glad that not everything I’ve ever written has been published!

And the “forgetting more than I ever knew” part? Yeah, I don’t remember having written a lot of these…but there it is, my header info with my contact information at the time, and dates. Yup, that’s me—

But a different me.

I can comfortably say that I am no longer the person who wrote those stories…yet that person is definitely still a part of me. And we’re both enjoying this! I think we’re both amused with the other. Fascinated. Well, I know I am!

So, if some of these stories piss you off, get you excited, make you think…than I have truly done my job. My big goal now…is to try to get you to cry….

In doing this I’ve really seen how much my writing has changed. It’s like when Steven Spielberg said that had he written Close Encounters of the Third Kind “now” he would not have written the Roy Neary character to go off with the aliens, because he did not have children when he wrote it. I’m finding that my huge interest in things like UFOs and aliens and monsters and the like is waning for more stories about the Human Condition. As gnarly and explicit as Voice is, that is one of my favorite stories because it speaks so much to aspects of the Human Condition. I mean, I’ve tried to do this with all my work to one degree or the other, but in Voice it’s so visceral. I think The Uninvited is also another “visceral” read. I’ve thought about this a lot over the years, but my migration away from straight horror (which can also be said to “speaking to the Human Condition”) was also largely motivated by this same feeling. I didn’t always admit it, but I have and always wanted to make people emote…to cry, rage, or just plan feel something other than the horror-related emotions of fear and, well, horror (not that there’s anything wrong with that…). I’ve always wanted to be that “literary writer” where I could dig a little deeper with words and emotional and conditional explorations while still telling a compelling story.

In short (pardon the pun), I’m finding I’ve grown more concerned with people rather than machinery, monstrous attacks, and conspiracies.

But, that doesn’t mean I won’t still write the occasional horror story…if the story grabs me enough! And nearly all of my work will have elements of the paranormal, the metaphysical, the supernatural. I just like writing about that kind of stuff.

And on this site, yes, I am cleaning them up some, but I am intentionally trying to keep them in as close a “form” as when I wrote them. When I compile the better ones into my book-form collection, I will be going over them with as fine-toothed a comb as possible…yet will keep them in the era in which they were created, i.e., I won’t update for cell phones and other currencies and the like. If written in the 1980s, the story itself will not be updated to 2017.

So.

I hope you don’t mind that I’m putting all this stuff out there! I know they’re not for everybody, but I think there’s something for everyone. These stories show the various shades of my ability (or lack thereof to any critics out there who feel Indies just aren’t good enough for traditional platforms…)…and the expansiveness of what I chose to write about. If this is what I am…there are certainly others out there just like me…or I’m just like them…

Because as different as we all are…we’re also very much the same.

And, damn it, I’m just having fun!

Related Articles

 

The Girl Who Chased Gargoyles

by

That Was Just The Way She Was. (Image by Loadmaster, David R. Tribble, CC BY-SA 3.0 [http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0] or GFDL [http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html], via Wikimedia Commons)
That Was Just The Way She Was. (Image by Loadmaster. David R. Tribble, CC BY-SA 3.0 [http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0] or GFDL [http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html], via Wikimedia Commons)
The inspiration for this story came from a piece of artwork I’d bought in my single days and no longer have. It wasn’t in oils or acrylic or anything…just a framed poster that’d really grabbed me. It depicted a young girl on the top of a building blowing bubbles and a gargoyle that had broken free from its perch, reaching after the bubbles, bits of that perch crumbling away.

I loved the imagery!

So I penned (keyboarded) a story. It is one of my more disturbing stories…at least to me. Reminds me of the Twilight Zone episode “It’s a Good Life.” I suppose this story could be considered allegorical to elements of the Human Condition (“absolute power corrupts….”), and to be honest, I don’t recall my motive in penning this one…except that the artwork I had was quite imaginative and I’d just wanted to write a story about it….

And then I find this perfect graphic of a little girl and a gargoyle! It really is perfect.

This story had never been published.

 

The Girl Who Chased Gargoyles

© F. P. Dorchak, 1992

 

I knew her long ago…a bright, wispy sprite of a girl. And she loved to climb things. She also loved her bubbles. Blew them everywhere. It was those bubbles that had set me free.

But that was so long ago. And I miss her.

And now I will tell you of her story.

 

Angela was her name. She was so bright and cheerful that I didn’t think there was a thing in the world that could ever bother her. She had long, silken hair and a smile as bright as the sun.

The sun. A sun that had grown dark with the death of her parents.

But that’s for later.

For now, she skipped and sang everywhere she went. And (as I have said before) she loved to climb. Trees. Rocks. Buildings. Anything. There wasn’t an obstacle she would not tackle and this so frightened her parents, for there was nothing they could do. She was a most determined child, and a very sure-footed one—the most sure-footed I have ever seen—there was no fear in her, only wonder and amazement. To her, everything was beautiful. Everything was fun. There was no such thing as evil.

She was indeed the purest of souls.

 

One day, while walking through town with her parents, Angela had spotted a building that had immediately captured her fancy. It was an old, abandoned remain and her father, a construction worker, had told her that it was a building scheduled for destruction. This brought a momentary frown to Angela’s face.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because, Angela, to all things there must come an end.”

Angela thought about this.

“Why must all things die?”

“Well, I think it’s God’s way of telling us that we must live life to its fullest.”

“Well,” said Angela, “that’s what I’m going to do.”

That’s the way she was. Nonplused. Practical (in an idealistic kind of way) and direct-to-the-point. Death didn’t seem to bother her like it did other kids her age. In fact nothing seemed to bother her quite like it did the other kids. She was always the one to explain things to her friends, always the one to comfort them when they lost their favorite marble to an opponent in a game. She was always there when she was really needed and had such a love of life and all that it encompassed.

One day, she came back to the doomed building, and, as do all kids (for she was, after all, but a child) and found her way into it. Blowing her little bubbles, she made her way up the curved banisters, through the hazy interior and up to the very top.

Where she found the monsters.

But to her they weren’t monsters…they were their own form of life no matter how ugly, and, eventually, her companions, her…friends. She would come to talk with them. Have fun, for though she was so bright and sweet she still had no real friends her age, at least any that could understand her. Some people are just born more aware. Her own parents barely (if they ever really did) understood her. Angela was always off dreaming somewhere—and we all know how dreamers are treated.

So, as often as she could Angela would journey into this building and climb the dusty stairs to the top. There she would come out on its ledges and sit among the stone creatures of the sky, the leader of which called itself “Pandor.” She hadn’t known the word “gargoyle” until the monsters themselves told her. Or so she told people…and that made her situation in life very difficult.

“Gargoyles, you say? On top of what building? Do your parents know about this, young lady?”

And all she would do was vigorously nod her head up and down, her smile so bright and innocent, and say, “Yes, they do!” Then she would skip off in some random fashion and leave behind a stunned and indignant lady, poised on the sidewalk, her eyes the size of silver platters. She did not yet know how to keep things to herself, but I suppose that was just a product of her love of life and her desire to share it with others.

It did get her into trouble. Her and her parents.

It had been a day like any other as she skipped homeward, singing to herself, but once she walked through the front door of her home, she felt the change. Slowly she followed the sounds of voices and stalked toward the kitchen. Peeked around a corner. There she saw her mother and father talking with a strange lady she had never seen before. A lady who seemed to ask her parents an awful lot of questions. She was so very official looking, like her teachers at school, only more so.

Do you give her enough food, clothes, and other care?

Is she bathed regularly?

These are her grades, but do you ever discuss them with her?

Do you get involved with her life, play, and fantasies?

Why is it that you let her climb around condemned buildings…

Who was this lady, and why was she asking all these questions?

So Angela left her house and went to seek out her friends, the monsters. It was the monsters that had told her…as she blew her bubbles for them…that this lady was going to try to take her away. That this lady was not to be trusted.

Maybe you should not tell people about everything you do, Angela. Like when you climb up here to play with us.

“Why?” she asked, “why would anyone want to do such a thing? What have I done? I haven’t hurt anybody.”

Because she is an evil person, Angela, prone to sticking her nose into the affairs of others. But do not worry about it, we will not let her take you away from us. We love you.

And we will take care of this lady.

So Angela shrugged her shoulders and continued to blow her bubbles, and the monsters continued to talk with her.

And that was just the way Angela was.

 

When she had arrived home later that day, Angela found her parents waiting for her. They looked very distraught.

“Angela, honey, we have to talk with you,” they had said. They were such model parents. “There was this lady over to see us earlier, a very important lady, who was very concerned that we were not being good enough parents to you. Do you feel we are not being good parents?”

Angela looked from father to mother, then back again. “No, Daddy, I don’t think so. Why—do you?”

That question, even given their daughter’s already sagacious level of development, came as a cold slap in the face to the both of them. However, having grown somewhat accustomed to her often poignant points of view, they replied back to her.

“No—no, honey, your father and I love you very, very much and we work very hard so that you can have the best of all possible things in life.”

“We try to always be there for you,” her father cut in, “but this lady,” he paused to look to his wife (who squeezed his hand very tightly, Angela noticed), “well, she can be very persuasive to the wrong kinds of people. She can take you away from us without much say on our parts. She tells us,” he paused again, “she tells us that there are those out there who are concerned that we are not providing you with proper care. That we let you climb around condemned buildings and—”

“And talk to monsters,” her mother cut in.

“Is this true—are you really climbing around condemned buildings? Tell us this isn’t true, Angela, it’s very dangerous to do things like that. You could get hurt. You could fall and die.”

Both parents looked at Angela very hard.

Angela remained undaunted. She knew what her parents wanted to hear. I would never get hurt, she thought, they would save me, my children, they love me and would never let anything or anyone, harm me—and you too. But she knew what they wanted to hear, and what she had to say.

“No.”

And that was just the way she was.

And we will take care of this lady.

 

It was the next day; an article in the paper. Social worker murdered in apartment parking lot. As gruesome as the details were (parts of her body have not yet been found), her parents breathed a sigh of relief. Granted their file would surely remain in the records even though the case worker was dead, but hopefully no one would ever come back a calling.

That day Angela made her way back to her children and asked them about it.

Yes, we did it. We told you we’d take care of you. Your parents. If something happened to your parents, something happens to you, and we won’t have that. We love you, Angela.

“And I love you. But is that right, what you did, to make someone die?”

Is it right to take away from someone that which is loved by them?

“Hmm. I guess not.”

Wouldn’t that instead make such a person who would do such, evil and dangerous?

“Why, yes, I guess it would.”

Then we have done good, ridding you and your family of such evil, have we not?

“You have. Thank you.”

Then blow more bubbles for us, Angela, we love your bubbles.

And Angela blew more bubbles.

Because that’s just the way….

 

The next day Angela was at the library and looked up what gargoyles were. First she found they were waterspouts, but she knew that couldn’t be right, for water spouts couldn’t talk. Then she found the other description.

 

“Pandor, do you know God?”

Pandor remained quiet for a moment, then spoke.

“Why do you ask, child?”

Well, the other day our class went to the library looking up mythological creatures n stuff—I know what that means—and I saw a picture of you, I mean what looked like you. I asked Mrs. Gartle if I could do extra credit and look up gargoyles, and she said yes. It said you were…tal–is–mans…used to terrify the devil and forced to serve God.”

Pandor stared back unblinkingly.

“But the worse part was that it showed a picture of you eating people. Like me.”

Pandor stared.

“Is it true? Do you eat people? Do you know God?”

Pandor shifted its dense stone frame, sending dull shudder throughout the stone battlements and up through Angela’s tiny frame.

“We are…what we are. Manifestations. Surrogates. We are the horror that men fear. Gods. We are evil incarnate. Inchoate—”

“—I do not understand—”

“—no one does, child—”

“—teach me—”

“—but it is you who are teaching us.”

“Do you eat—”

“Yes. We eat that which is your kind.”

“Why.”

“Because it is necessary. Nothing more.”

“Will you eat me?”

“It is not necessary.”

“Will it ever be?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“We know.”

“Do you know God.”

“God knows us.”

“Is that good?”

“It is nothing. It simply is.”

“Do you know God?”

Pandor turned away.

“Okay, so you don’t want to answer that. Fine, be childish. Then answer this—do you know your true purpose? The book said your exact function is unknown.”

Pandor smiled, the first time Angela had ever seen him do so. The crack that inched itself across its face sent a shiver down Angela’s back. It looked painful.

“We are…what we are. Child. Do not look too deeply—you may never come back.”

Angela retreated backward and lost her balance, tripping over a loose piece of rubble. As her arms flailed out behind her she closed her eyes in preparation of meeting concrete when stone hands reached out and gently grasped her. Angela looked up to see the carved face of another gargoyle.

“And we do not want that, either. You must watch your step, child,” Pandor said, thickly.

“Thank you. But there is so much I do not know, and I don’t know if I like that.”

“There are many things even those such as ourselves do not know. Yet we still are. We exist. The same applies to you, my child. You still are. You exist. We are here for you. We do not want evil to befall you.”

Angela gave Pandor a sharp look.

“Does that make me God?” she whispered delicately.

“I only smile but once a lifetime, child.”

 

But Angela would not let it die. She became fascinated with the topic of God. Fascinated that her companions seemed to treat her as one. It was a topic that she had never really considered before.

God.

All powerful.

All knowing.

What is God?

Angela thought about how she seemed to know so much, so much more than anyone else her age, let alone the adults.

Am I God?

Have I enslaved the gargoyles to be my talismans?

Could it be true?

They do protect me—

Answer my questions—respond only to me—

But how can this be?

I am but a little girl.

 

A little girl who knows too much….

 

Angela slept and dreamt of her monsters, but it was a dream filled with dread. It threatened her. She saw herself atop the building, like she had been when she had first found them. All silent and still they were, poised on the precipices of their battlements; lurched…but going nowhere. Then she came out to the edges and began to blow her bubbles. Stood next to the one that she had come to call Pandor. It looked so scary, she remembered. So real.

She let loose her bubbles and a particularly large one drifted past the Pandor-gargoyle face. Angela looked back down into her bubble bottle, ready to blow another one when she heard a loud thundering sound and felt a burst of wind pummel her.

She looked up to find she was standing alone on the battlement.

Where once had stood a statue, now there stood nothing but still crumbling mortar. She gasped, turned to run, but instead came face to face with the very monster that had only moments before been motionless beside her.

Angela dropped her bubbles and went rigid.

Tried to scream but nothing came out.

Her eyes traveled down the length of the monster’s form and to its massively taloned claws. Noticed how the creature actually hovered, however heavily, inches above the battlement, its wings beating the air.

As Angela took steps backwards, away from the gargoyle and towards the building’s edge, she felt claws wrap around her. To her horror, she saw other gargoyles were also breaking free. She looked back to the first one and saw it bring out its hand from behind its back. In a cruelly twisted claw, rested a bubble.

I offer this back to you, child.

The dream-Angela reached out and took it.

But that was where any similarities from her past ended. No sooner had dream-Angela grasped for the bubble, when it suddenly burst open and spewed blood all over her. Angela looked around to see the faces of other gargoyles. They all leered. Hissed. The first gargoyle stepped aside, and behind him sat a box. It was a dark, subtly vibrating box, Angela thought, but didn’t vibrate physically.

No matter how much she didn’t want to go, she came closer. She had to see. The box was blacker than black, and slowly it opened. Angela heard whispers…multitudes of dim voices. Something tugged at her mind. Voices that rose in a crescendo as the top of the box opened farther.

Something called her name. Reached into her soul.

It was then that the dead light began to pour out from the opening—

Angela awoke.

And found herself standing alongside her bed, bent over and soaked in sweat.

 

The next day found Angela dreamier than usual, aloof even.

While at school people would find her sitting in class, or out in the play yard, just staring off into space. Several times classmates had come running up to her to see if she was okay and she would just ask them Are you God? Do you know God?

When one of the children mentioned this to Mrs. Gartle, Mrs. Gartle simply had to investigate.

“Angela, honey, are you all right?”

Angela continued to stare off into the clouds.

“Angela, it’s me, Mrs. Gartle, can you hear me?”

“I hear.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Why nothing, Mrs. Gartle. I am contemplating.”

“Really, child, you simply must get more to the point. And where do you get all these big words, anyway? Come with me.”

“But I don’t have to.”

Mrs. Gartle froze and choked out a half-choked, “W-what?”

“But I don’t have to go with you, Mrs. Gartle, it is not immutable—”

“You will do as you’re told this instant, young lady! Just because you think you’re smarter than the rest of your peers doesn’t mean you’re smarter than me. You will listen to your elders!”

Mrs. Gartle grabbed Angela by her arm and dragged her back into the school building. That night Angela’s parent’s received a phone call from Mrs. Gartle. About the disrespect she had displayed toward her and the students. Mrs. Gartle was curious if Angela had been behaving this way at home, and why, and when Angela’s surprised parents replied that she hadn’t, but that they’d certainly deal with it, Mrs. Gartle took them at their word and hung up. It wasn’t so easy for Angela, however, who found herself answering before her parents and then performing an extra regiment of chores before going to an early bed.

But in bed, one can dream, and in the dream, Angela met a white light. A light that asked her

Do you question God?

I question everything.

Why?

It seems to be my being. It is what I am.

It is?

Is it so wrong to question?

It is not.

Why do I question?

It is as you have said.

What I am?

You learn quickly.

What is my purpose? Am I God?

You are intensified. You are…more than you are.

I don’t understand.

The white light laughed. Be careful. Do not ungrace yourself, little one.

I don’t understand.

 

Angela awoke. Felt different.

Empowered.

For Angela had decided she was God.

 

Angela sat in front of Border Elementary School when Mrs. Gartle, the principal, and another student, came out the front doors. Heavy storm clouds and gusty winds were rolling in, but there was as yet no rain.

“There she is,” the little girl had said, pointing matter of factly. “She’s right over there.”

“Okay, thank you, Susan. You may return to your class, now.” Susan turned and left. The principal and Mrs. Gartle looked to each other. It was the principal who spoke first.

“Angela—Angela would you come over here please?”

Angela looked up from the thing that occupied her attention and stared detachedly at the two.

“Would you come here, please?”

“Okay.” Angela got up and walked over, still clutching her object. “What would you like?” she asked.

“We would like to know what you’re telling the other children,” the principal said.

“That’s easy.”

“Well, what is it, then?”

“That I’m God.”

Mrs. Gartle brought a trembling hand to her mouth and squealed, but principal Phillips remained quiet, somewhat annoyed at Mrs. Gartle’s inadequate reaction. Angela looked up to the two, proud of her newly realized discovery.

“Is that all?”

“No. No, that’s not all—Angela, why do you believe such a thing?”

“This-this is blasphemy!” Gartle exclaimed, but the principal motioned for her to remain quiet.

“Why do you think this, Angela? We’re very curious.”

“Because…well, because of the way things are.”

“We don’t understand. Can you be more specific?”

“Well, I can’t really tell anyone, you understand, I did once and that person died.”

At this point Mrs. Gartle, brought her other hand to her mouth and rushed away from the two of them, back into the building. The two could still hear her as she cried out about blasphemy and damned souls. Mr. Phillips turned away and suddenly found himself sweating.

“Angela, now you know this isn’t true. Did you think you had this person killed?”

“Well, not me. Others. But I told you—I can’t tell you. You might die.”

“Angela, would you show me what you’re playing with?”

Angela brought her hand up to Mr. Phillips. “Here.”

Mr. Phillips grabbed her wrists and felt his legs go weak. “What do you think you’re doing with that frog?”

The frog’s eviscerated entrails hung down and over one side of Angela’s tiny, pink hand.

“I killed it. I was just trying to make it come back to life.”

“Angela, I think you’d better come with me—would you do that, please?”

“I don’t really want to.”

“Would you do it as a favor to us mortals?”

Angela thought for a second. “Okay. But only for a minute.”

“Thank you.”

 

Angela sat in the office. She had lost track of just how long. Her feet didn’t quite reach to the floor, so she contented herself by dangling them against the frame of the chair. She wasn’t happy with Mr. Phillips. He had made her give him her frog and had thrown it away. It was only in the trash a few feet away from her, but Angela was still mad. Because she had been made to sit in the principal’s office and not move, she couldn’t bring the frog back to life. It was such a waste.

But she was God.

Nobody made God do anything.

Angela looked to the principal and Mrs. Gartle, both of which stood outside the office and talked rather loudly. Angela knew they had called her parents.

She was God.

But what she really wanted right now was to bring that little frog back to life, otherwise, she wouldn’t have killed it.

Angela hopped off the chair and went to the plastic waste basket. She saw how the dead frog lay belly up on wads of crumpled paper and she looked back out into the outer office. Then she reached down into the trash and grabbed it.

Possession.

She cradled it against her chest and began to hum.

Live!

Live!

Come back to me, little frog—come back!

“Angela! Put that frog back into the trash!”

Startled, Angela dropped the frog back in the garbage.

Principal Phillips.

They wouldn’t do this to me if they knew….

Disheartened, Angela quietly went back to her seat and sat down.

Phillips closed the door behind him and thoughtfully went to his chair, leaving Mrs. Gartle somewhere outside. He leaned forward in his seat and clasped his hands together on the desk before him.

Oh, great, now he’s going to act real grown-up on me, Angela thought. I hate it when they act this way.

“Angela, I’ve called your parents. They’re on their way. What do you think of that?”

“I don’t like what you’re doing and neither do my friends,” she said, her forehead scrunched up angrily.

“Let’s talk about these friends of yours, shall we? Just who are they?”

“I’m not supposed to tell.”

“Because I could be killed, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“And they’ve killed before.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t supposed you could tell me who they killed, could you? I mean, it’s done, isn’t it, so no harm could come of your telling me, now, could there?”

Angela paused. This is a trap, I know it. I feel it.

“Why should I tell you? I don’t trust you.”

“Because I want to know more about you—”

Just then the door opened and in came another woman. “Hello,” she said. She was about the age of Angela’s mother, and pretty. She carried a little black notebook.

“Now, Angela, this is Mrs. Beale, she’s a friend of mine and is also interested in helping us.”

“Hello, Angela. I hear you have a dead frog you’re trying to bring back.”

“Yes.”

“Now, Angela,” Mr. Phillips continued, “Would this person who was killed be Mrs. VanWygyn?”

“I don’t know a Missus VanWeegin.”

“Okay. How about the lady the city had sent over to see your parents. Could she have been the one killed?”

Angela froze.

How did he know? He’s not God.

The frog. Live, little frog, live!

I’m God.

“How did you know?”

Mr. Phillips looked to Mrs. Beale. “We know a lot.”

“But I know more. You’re in trouble and I don’t like you. You took my frog away from me—I wouldn’t have killed it without bringing it back to life! You’re also keeping me in here! You probably also sent that mean woman to my family, too! I don’t like you at all! I hate all of you!”

Angela was now standing on her feet and shouting. Her face ballooned into a puffy red and she felt different.

We will let no one harm you, Angela.

We love you, Angela.

We are your friends.

“Live, frog—live!” Angela cried aloud, rushing to the garbage, but Mr. Phillips got to the trash before she could. Even though she was faster, Mr. Phillips was closer. He snatched away the trash can and placed it on the floor behind him.

Angela fumed.

“You’re all alike! You all want to rule us kids! You never let us do what we want! You think you know it all, but you don’t! I do! My friends do, and we’ll kill all of you!”

(we will take care of them, Angela)

(go)

“I no longer want to stay here! Let me go!”

“Angela, please sit down,” principal Phillips said. Nurse Beale got up and nervously came towards Angela.

“Angela, we can help you, if only you’ll let us—”

“I won’t let you do anything to me! I’m God! I have made life.”

Nurse Beale looked back to the principal. “What do you mean—”

A sound came from the trash can.

“Come forth!” Angela commanded.

Mr. Phillips and Nurse Beale looked to each other.

The trash can moved.

Outside thunder and rain suddenly and furiously unleashed from the skies.

“You…are doomed! Both of you! I warned you but you wouldn’t listen! I tried to tell you, but now it’s too late. Too late!”

The trash can jiggled.

Mr. Phillips shot back in his chair. Lightening flashed outside the window behind him. Angela began to laugh.

“It’s too late,” Angela said.

The frog leaped out of the trash can and onto principal Phillip’s desk, portions of its intestines trailing behind.

We’ve come for you, Angela—

A powerful concussion catapulted Principal Phillips forward and over his desk while Nurse Beale was knocked up against the wall. Rain and storm now blew in through the destroyed window behind Phillip’s desk. When next he looked up, principal Phillips found Angela laughing, her face rain-swept and still swollen. Nurse Beale was shaking her head back and forth, a nasty cut across her forehead bleeding all over her. On the window sill, and occupying the entire opening, sat a stone nightmare, its massive wings unfolded behind it. Water fell from its features like a newborn hellspawn and its mouth was a grotesque caricature of pain. Phillips looked to its fangs and claws. Looked into its cold stone eyes.

“We have come, Angela,” the monster said.

“I warned you about this—I warned you! Now you must die!” Angela cried. “I am God and you have transgressed!”

The gargoyle looked to Angela.

“You must pay!” she said.

The gargoyle continued to stare at her.

“Take me away, Pandor, and do what must be done.”

The gargoyle continued to stare at Angela, then to the principal. Lightening flashed close by and the smell of ozone filled the room.

“Kill them!” Angela shrieked.

Principal Phillips stood up, his clothing torn and his body bruised. He knew there were broken bones somewhere. “Angela, what are you doing? You are not God—but you have the devil at your command! Stop while you still can! We can help!”

The gargoyle looked to the man. Lightning and thunder again struck, this time shattering the remaining office window.

“Kill,” Angela commanded.

The gargoyle hopped inside the room and snatched Angela off the floor. Principal Phillips made a move towards the two but the gargoyle backhanded him with such force that before the rest of his body had collapsed, Principal Phillip’s head had flown off and hit the wall next to Nurse Beale—who promptly collapsed into unconsciousness.

Angela and Pandor flew out into the angry purple sky.

 

Why do you act this way, Angela?

Because it is what I am.

Is it?

Yes.

You have changed. You compromise what is.

I am God. I am what is.

You have become evil.

No. It is you that is evil. God is

Dead.

No.

No.

Nooo.

 

Angela, you have corrupted yourself.

I do not understand. I made the frog come back to life.

No. That was not you.

Was it you?

It was what I am.

Answer me directly! I tire of these games!

I am only a product of the force which drives me. I am not what controls me. You said so yourself—I am a tool.

I see. So it was God.

So you say.

Enough!

Angela, we cannot serve you any longer. You no longer suit the purpose which suits us.

Angela held back a rising choke. She looked back at the stolid stone face which she had come to call a friend. But Pandor had become more than just a friend.

Rain still pounded out of the skies and assaulted the two of them, and thunder and lightning continued to crack open the heavens. She watched as the rain ran down the gargoyle’s features. In Angela’s mind it made Pandor look like he wept.

“How can you choose your own purpose—I control you! You said so!”

I did not. You merely used the magic which you are and set us free. I never said you were our purpose, I merely said we loved you and would have nothing harm you—

The conversation was broken off by the sound of sirens in the streets.

They have come for you, Angela. We cannot save you from yourself.

“I don’t…I don’t need you. I am—”

A bolt of lightning hit the battlement nearby and sent a huge section of the building toppling to the streets below. One of the gargoyles tumbled over with it. Angela watched in disbelief as the monster made no attempt to recover itself and return to the battlements.

You have done this, Pandor continued. You have reopened the box…

Box. What box?

The box…

Listen to my name, young Angela, what is its true ring?

Angela searched her mind. All this time she knew it had sounded eerily familiar. Now it finally dawned on her.

Pandor.

Pan-dor-a.

Box.

“That was nothing more than a myth,” Angela angrily replied.

No, it is much more than that, young one. I am what some myths referred to as the First Woman. The releaser of all that is evil to humanity through my insistence of opening the box. I have been made to pay for that transgression by becoming an instrument of humanity. The form does not matter. Only the idea. The substance of what is.

“I do not believe. You are here to serve me.”

Pandora remained silent.

Another bolt of lightning struck another precipice, but on the other side of the battlement. Though she couldn’t actually see it, in her mind Angela saw another gargoyle tumble over.

You have destroyed what was. Now you must reap what is to come. Form does not matter, little one.

“Angela. Angela Pedernasy. Can you hear us?”

It was the police. Angela looked over the side but choose to ignore them.

“Pandora, have I done wrong?”

Pandora held her gaze. What is done, is done. There is no guilt assigned. There is only the present.

“But—b-but I don’t think I understand! I’m…I’m losing something here. I…I feel funny. What is happening to me? To all of this?”

Pandora looked to the sounds that came from below.

“Angela Pedernasy, your parents are here. They have something they want to say.” There was momentary silence as the blow horn was passed from one set of hands to another.

“Angela, honey, this is your mother.”

Angela stiffened.

“Angela, please talk to us, we want so much to understand. We want to help!”

“They cannot help, can they,” Angela said flatly.

Pandora shook its head side to side.

They cannot.

“Angela—we know we have probably not been the best of parents, but we tried. We’re here for you and want to help. Please, honey, talk to us!”

Then another bolt from the sky hit the building, with yet another section of it tumbling streetward. As it fell, Angela felt clammy. Something felt awfully wrong.

Then there were screams. Explosions.

Her parents.

Mommmmmyy—

“Daaadddyy!”

Angela rushed to the building’s edge. Saw the rubble below. The smoke. Emergency personnel were clambering around the broken bodies and destroyed vehicles in the destruction below.

“Mommmy—Daaaddy! What have I done! I’ve killed you! I’ve killed my parents!”

Pandora came to Angela. Lightning strikes were now continuous, chipping away at the building and sending both rubble and gargoyle alike to the ground. Those in the streets below fled.

“I am not worthy to live! I have killed the very parents who have given me life!

“Pandor, I wish to remember you the way things were. I have made a big mistake. I may have been wise for my years, but not for my humanity. I have destroyed my parents and I have destroyed you. There is no cause for me to live anymore.”

Then another bolt of lightning struck and this one took Pandora with it. Angela watched as the gargoyle seemed to topple in an exaggeratedly slow fashion over the side.

The form is not all, my child. The idea is.

Pandora’s eyes seemed to grow and fill her mind.

“Pandor!”

Gone.

Angela stood alone. The building quaked all around her.

Oh, my God, what have I done?” Angela said…

And threw herself over the side.

Because that was just the way she was.

 

The form is not all

my child.

The idea

Is.

 

And thus is the story of a brilliant moment of humanity. Of a silken-haired girl, called Angela. She was a special one to me and still is, for she still lives, but on a different level now. And I, Pandora, also live.

For it is not the form that matters.

But the idea.

And she was the girl who chased gargoyles.

 

Related Posts

Garden of the Gods

by

Is One Ever Truly Alone? Arches National Park, Utah, © 2009, F. P. Dorchak
Is One Ever Truly Alone? Arches National Park, Utah, © 2009, F. P. Dorchak

This story was started back in 1994. Apparently, I never finished it. And it stopped right where you started wanting some answers!

And, once again, I never remember having written this piece.

It’s thinkey and weird…and rather metaphysical…but I like where it ended up. I had to create the last half page or so of the story. That, in itself, I also found “metaphysical.” I mean, Future Me has come to help out Past Me (I wrote this post the same time I’d written up the guest post in that link) in finishing this story! I find this quite fascinating on a synchronistic and a writing level….

There is a Garden of the Gods in Colorado Springs, Colorado, and (of course) all kinds of hiking in Colorado and Utah (myself or a family member took the above photo in Arches National Park outside of Moab, Utah; we we’ve been to Moab a couple of times mountain biking and sightseeing over the years). I’m sure Garden of the Gods inspired me to write this…at least its title…but I’m not sure I’d yet been to Moab when I’d first written this in 1994. Anyway, I think it’s a cool story and actually reminds me of another story I’d read long ago…but can no longer pinpoint. The elements of this story seem very familiar to me on “another level” that I can’t quite explain….

The last time we’d been to Moab mountain biking…I’d actually gotten lost on a trail. It wasn’t for very long, but it was not a good feeling—I’d never in my life been lost before or since. It was later in the day, and my wife and I were coming up on the end of the trail we’d been on (I believe it was Gemini Bridges…), and just up ahead was a short loopback that would have returned us back on the same trail in. My wife wanted to stop; said I should just go on up ahead and finish the trail. So I figured…stay on the trail up a short ways…follow the loop around the recessed destination—just five minutes. But as I looped back around, I found there were no signs. The trail was marked going in…but not so much going out…and I took a wrong “branch” of the “Y.”

Just five minutes.

Famous last words.

I even had a map. It was next-to-useless (it wasn’t a USGS topo map—I’ll never to do that again). The map did not match up with the terrain nor trail. So I biked around for

(just five minutes…)

about a half hour or so, before I was able to backtrack (and it was getting late in the day)…I had finally passed another biker who’d directed me back on the proper path.

Talk about your flying expletives.

And to make things worse?

My wife had gotten a flat tire…and I hadn’t been there for her.

Of course she’d wondered where the hell I’d been, can’t blame her there…but another had come by and helped her. I’d later passed the guy, who’d told me he’d helped her. I thanked him and told him what’d happened.

Just five minutes….

Yeah.

Anyway, I believe all this happened after having written the story…but, curiously, in my mind…it all feels linked….

This story has never been published.

 

Garden of the Gods

© 1994 F. P. Dorchak

The old man lay still. Near delusional. Had been that way since….

Eyes closed and still…heart…barely…beating…body…useless, withered.

Legs broken.

He lay in the dark in a place desiccated from a dryness that sucked every last vestige of moisture from the air. His body. Even sound seemed decayed…hollow. The surrounding rock weighed heavily…the crevasse crushing…there barely enough room even for his deteriorated form.

How long ago had it been since he’d crawled in here?

Too long…no interest…remembering…mind…wandering….

The old man lay between life and death…his consciousness not firmly rooted in either. Yet his mind worked…carefully…slowly…trying to recall a singular event. Trying…desperately…to recall the time…when he’d unwittingly stumbled into

Another place?

Another

(a place of gods)

dimension?

…lonely…mysterious….

Never to be found again.

 

It had happened lifetimes ago when his body had still been strong and able.

His resolve granite.

Age hadn’t mattered then…he’d been young.

He’d been in the great southwest, lost during a hike into the rock and heat of the desert. Sunburned and thirsty, he’d foundered through a hidden ravine and come out the other side into a wonderland of white-and-red vertical rock. The sun was setting and cast monstrous shadows across their faces. Yucca and other scrub dotted the terrain; trees unknown to him reach up from the earth like ancient, arthritic fingers scraping at the sky.

He’d collapsed to the ground. Checked his water supply. Enough to wet his lips and that was it. Reluctantly, he sipped the last drops, was ready to toss the canteen away in anger at his own stupidity in getting lost when he’d heard it.

A rustling, grinding sound.

Holding onto the canteen, he got up. Searched the rock. The grinding stopped, replaced by a softer, gentler trickling…

Water.

The hiker got up and rushed across the scree, slipping more than once.

Water.

Food he could do without for now, but water he’d die without. He already felt himself growing ever more lethargic, stiff. Near nauseous—

Water.

The sound drew him unerringly to it source. Water he’d hoped was real and not the delusion of a dying mind. He’d scurried about a small outcropping of rock and came upon the

Cool, crisp, flowing water!

Out from the very pores of a red rock itself.

He’d dove at it…sucking it directly from the rock face…cupping his hands he splashed the precious fluid to his parched lips.

It’d initially hurt parting his lips so much, cracking open dried skin, but he brought the water up and swallowed greedily. A huge knot of the frigid fluid got caught midway down his throat and he coughed it out, grimacing in more pain. For something so life-giving and necessary, it was sure running him through the ringer….

 

It was now darker from the setting sun, and he’d finished cleaning his clothes and washing himself. Felt more like he should…hydrated, rested. Filled his canteen before going to sleep for the night.

He looked about him.

It was still warm, but not so unbearable as midday. He’d considered continuing…were it not for the weariness of his body. He didn’t think he could get very far in his present condition and deemed a night’s sleep more important.

After all, did he not now have all the water he would ever need?

Did he not now have shelter to weather the merciless sun?

The only thing he lacked…was food.

At one time all he needed was water, but now his stomach growled.

Collecting sticks for a fire, he pondered his next step…when a large hare jumped out before him. It sat on a rock not ten feet away.

The hiker carefully crouched and placed his sticks down before him…stared at the meaty beast. It stared back, motionless except for its twitching nose. The hiker searched the dirt around him for a stone.

Water.

Now food.

He pitched the rock at the animal.

It hit the rabbit square in its head, propelling it over the side of the rock it had sat upon. The man got up, withdrawing his knife from its sheath. On the other side of rock he found it. One leg twitched but momentarily.

He fell upon it.

 

He’d stuffed the steaming pieces of cooked rabbit into his pack and looked out his cave. Early morning should have looked bright, but the day appeared dull, overcast. The heat of the day seemed subdued. Collecting the rest of his things, he’d thrown on his pack and given himself a once-over, checking his gear. Satisfied, he left the cave for the expected heat of the day…

But what he’d found sent shivers up his spine.

Instead of overcast skies and heat, he found it was still night…a full moon overhead.

He looked to his watch…but it was smashed.

Had he lost his mind?

Had he slept into the next night?

All these thoughts flooded him…but the end result was that he couldn’t possibly stay here forever…

Could he?

Some kind of Fate had brought him here and here he must deal with it…at least until he could make his way back to the world he knew.

The facts were that it was cool, dark, and he had food and water—his canteens and pack full with both. He needed to return home.

Resolved to restart his homeward sojourn, he left the security of his cave for the uncertainty of the dark.

He climbed down the boulders and loose rock, down to the water that still flowed mightily from the very pores of the red rock. He looked back and up to his deserted shelter—somewhat surprised that he could no longer

(go back)

find it.

Could he find it again…actually climb back up there just for paranoia’s sake?

But he’d already slept in it. Eaten there. Of course it was there.

Somewhere.

Knock it off, he told himself. Of course it’s still there. It has to be—

Like the water. That came out from the rock.

He shot a glance towards the miniature geyser.

Yes. Still there. Stuck a hand into it.

Cold.

You’ve just been out in the desert too long, that’s all.

He dropped his hand and turned away.

But in which direction should I go?

He looked from where he’d come…to where he was headed. There was plenty of light from the moon, but there was no—

Path.

He blinked. Rubbed his eyes. Moments ago he’d have sworn there was no path, but now…as if it had rolled itself out just for him…

(this is insane!)

It was there.

The hiker took two steps onto it as if testing it for solidity. Plenty solid. Plenty real. Plenty there.

There was an actual clearing of stone and brush—as if stone and brush had actually parted just for him—the earth packed down as if having been traveled before.

By whom? By what?

The hiker stepped onto the path.

Images of an old man filled his head. A man in pain…damaged.

A shudder ran through him. Made him dizzy.

This was not just…not just any old man—

Him?

A future him?

The old man lay still…eyes closed…heart…barely…beating…body useless…broken beyond repair. He lay in the dark in a place that looked remarkably

Like this one.

How long had he been there?

An accident…a horrendous fall. Crawled out of the ruthless, mid-day sun with broken legs into a tiny rock fissure.

Where no one would ever find him.

How long had he lain there?

Too long…alone…never to be found—

Yet the younger him had found him.

And the younger him desperately tried to recall how he’d gotten here…where he was now…had unwittingly stumbled into

Another dimension?

A place of gods?

Never to be found again?

No.

He was strong…capable. Fed and watered. He would make his way out.

And if he truly was tied to this man…this old man…if that old man really was him…he would take him with him.

Together they would both leave.

The young hiker couldn’t tell if it was all in his mind…or like the water, cave, and rabbit…but he looked down and saw a rough-hewn field stretcher…with a leather strap.

He wasted no time.

In his mind’s eye he carefully picked up the old him…and gently positioned him upon the stretcher. He grabbed the leather strap at the end of wooden handles and looped it up and over—around—his shoulders, lifting one end of the stretcher. Shifting his pack and gear…he stepped out onto the path.

Never once did he look back.

The rocks smiled.

Related Posts