F. P. Dorchak

Speculative Fiction Author

Ghosts

Voice – Free Review Copies!

by

I have 19 slightly damaged copies of Voice that I want to give away!

Their damages?

The inside graphic image of the front cover is grainy. That’s it. Nothing else is damaged in the book—well, if you don’t count my intense, troubled characters. So, this being the case, I want to give them out for free for reviews. I’ll also pay for shipping.

I’ll even autograph them for ya.

So, where’s the risk?

You can contact me at the following, but these are hardcopy trades, so I will need a name and address:

  • fpdorchak (at) fpdorchak (dot) com
  • F. P. Dorchak, P. O. Box 49393, Colorado Springs, CO 80949

So, there’s no risk! You not paying for the book, you’re not paying for the shipping, and if you don’t like it, you don’t have to keep reading! But I’m hoping you will like some aspect of this intense, emotionally thrilling story and will write up a review on your favorite site as well as on Amazon.com. If you’re not interested, please pass this around to another who might be interested, and as long as I have copies, I’ll send them out.

I also plan on doing the same with some advanced review copies for my short story collection, Do The Dead Dream?, coming out this Hallowe’en, so stay tuned!

I thank you all in advance for your time!

And Now…I Will Leave You….

by

I Will Leave You To The Dark…. (Photo © F. P. Dorchak and Jan C J Jones, 2016)
I Will Leave You To The Dark…. (Photo © F. P. Dorchak and Jan C J Jones, 2016)

Black Friday—how apropos in terms of title!

I had not planned on publishing this here. The origin of this piece is kinda funny: it had started as a blog comment on my friend, Susie Lindau’s, fun Hallowe’en blog post, “Welcome to the Wild Halloween Blogger’s Bash“! Susie is a trip, and she comes up with really cool ideas for posts, like this one, in which she’d said: “Drop a link to your blog in the comments and leave an enticing hook that penetrates the victim’s soul, if they have one.” In her post she also had a cool graphic with the words: “Join me in a blog party that will leave you breathless.”

Well…I had to try to come up with something. This was way too cool of an opportunity to pass up—and on Hallowe’en, my most favorite holiday (and yes, it really should be a holiday where you actually get the day off)!

Anywho, while in the middle of doing half a dozen other things for which I took the day off, I sat down and belted this thing out. Posted it. It literally got me chuckling like an evil little clown doll!

What I had tried to do was write up something creepy that involved imagery from as much of my writing as possible, without going too overboard. To lend an horrific flavor to my overall short story effort. It was so funny and creepy I thought, you know, I should post this on Facebook (and here). So I did. It would be my little “Hallowe’en decoration,” though I’d also posted a Hallowe’en short story, called “The Hallowe’en Tree.” It was fun, that’s all it was, and it was fitting! And with one modification, the rest is as I’d written it that day. Thanks, Susie, for the cool inspiration! The title and subject matter are also “wildly” appropriate, here, becaaause…

This concludes my free short story releases!

It’s been exactly a year of releases! I’ve released 55 short stories/poems and one essay. And I know, not all of them were, well—good—but I sincerely thank all of you who read and commented and followed my work! I had wanted to post the best of my work over the years, in as close to their original form as possible, on this site. To have a “paper trial,” if you will. Then I would heavily edit as much as possible the better of these, and put them in my first and only short story collection, which is due out next year (2017). I will also include any new stories I might come up with prior to its publication (I’m currently working on a new one). The collection is tentatively titled, Do The Dead Dream? It will be released in both e- and print book formats. I’m really excited about finally getting these out there! This has been such a labor of love and quite the trip down memory lane!

I thank Mandy Pratt for her editorial, copyediting, and proofreading assistance! Her efforts will be seen in the final versions in the 2017 collection. She has largely been in the background of these posts, but a couple of times I did employ her for a post or two that really needed an extra eye up front. “The Wreck” was one of them, as well as “Rewrite,” which was a brand new story I’d written this year.

Once again, thank you all for your support and kind words! It’s been a crazy, sometimes eye-opening journey reliving my younger-self’s mindsets and creativity, and I hope I’ve managed to both entertain and enlighten! It is truly with a measure of wistful nostalgia that I finally move on from these works into whatever future belongs to my new efforts….

This post had originally been published October 31, 2016, on Susie Lindau’s “Welcome to the Wild Halloween Blogger’s Bash.” And so…

 

I will leave you breathless

I will leave you headless

I will leave you lifeless

I will leave you soulless

 

I will leave you inside-out

I will leave you ripped about

I will leave you full of knives

I will leave you praying for doubt

 

I will leave you to the dark

I will leave you largely in parts

I will leave you worse than I came

I will leave you to my arts

 

I will leave you on the floor

I will leave you on the wall

I will leave you on the ceiling

I will leave you cloaked in pall

 

I will bruise your mind

I will rend your spirit

I will make you mine

I will have you…upon which to dine

 

I

Will never leave you.

 

Short Story Links

Links to all my posted short stories are here.

Please Have A Seat, Mr. Jordan

by

I remember writing this story.

I remember reading from Stephen King and others about how no (published) horror stories (at least up to the time of when Mr. King had said this) had been or really could be written about “going to the bathroom,” and thought, huh—why not? About the same time I’d heard this, I’d also read some weird goings-on in a town called Dudleytown, Connecticut, in the 1600s and 1700s. Some of the stories I’d heard and read involved similar…”props”…like I’ve included in my story here, though I seem to no longer be able to find those stories. It’s like the ghost stories had become ghosts themselves!

And, to add to all this…at one of my places of work, years and years and years ago, I was working a grave shift. I had to use the restroom. I was the only person in the entire building at some weirdassed early-early hour…and as I sat there in the stall…

All the lights went out.

This story has never been published.

 

Please Have A Seat, Mr. Jordan

© F. P. Dorchak, 1993

 

Frederick Jordan, Real Estate agent Extraordinaire (as he liked to think of himself), pulled off Route 1 and into the deserted parking lot. It was sometime after midnight, and a glistening wetness coated the world, streetlights, and headlights. Maybe it had been something he’d had at dinner, or maybe it was just an unknown tummy ailment, but all he knew right now was that for the past ten miles he’d needed to take the most wicked shit.

Jordan parked his Mercedes in the slot directly before a dirtied picture window with faded and worn paint, which read, Stratford Realty, and turned off the ignition. He hurriedly got out of his car and made for the locked glass doors. Events from the past few hours squirted through his mind like his impending bowel movement. The man was an old, rather eccentric character from The City, and he’d called on him more than once in the past. The gentleman was making yet another buy in Connecticut, and the fact that it was late and he wouldn’t be in Stratford until sometime after nine that night was only a minor point of fact. Jordan knew the man by the color of his money and therefore ignored the lateness of the hour.

But now he was exhausted and had to take the mother of all dumps. Noisily, and somewhat shakily, like real hunger when it strikes, Jordan brought out the large ring of keys he carried and hurriedly jiggled open the lock. He burst in through the doors, even sprinted several feet towards his destination, when he cursed and spun back around

Bombers on time, searching for target

to hastily lock the doors. As it was he bent the key, nearly snapping it off in the process; it was late, he was the only one in the building, and he wanted to keep it that way. Only then did he make his direct, almost-pants-shitting beeline for the rest rooms, deep in the darkened interior.

Jordan burst through the rest-room door, missed the first time, but flicked on the lights in the next scramble, and plunged into the nearest stall. He’d be damned if he was going to be

(shitting)

sitting in the dark. Frederick Jordan prided himself on being levelheaded, but when it came to being alone in the dark, things changed. Reason changed. It was like darkness changed the very structure of the air, the way life was supposed to work. Your worst fears came to life. And no matter that this was New England—Stephen King, Rick Hautala, and all those goddamned ghost stories—

And speaking of stories, what was that one about that town near Cornwall—Dudleytown was it? A real doozy of a tale if he’d ever heard one. He’d grown up with it, and continued to have nightmares about it. He’d first heard the damned thing around a Boy Scout campfire one summer night, up towards Hartford. The Scout Master was from Cornwall, the son of a bitch. Even after all these years Jordan still hadn’t managed to forgive him for it. The story went that back in the 1600s, and again later in the 1800s, an entire town had grown mad to nearly the last soul…and disappeared. A real-life ghost town buried deep in the woods of New England. Then there was something about Stratford. Demon dummies in a preacher’s house—

Knock it off. Didn’t need to be thinking about that shit. Got other shit to fry. Shit that was having a hard time coming out what with his mind working overtime on ghosts, and goblins, and—

Constipation.

Well, fuck me over and leave me to die! Frederick Jordan grunted and strained, but nothing passed.

On target! Bomb-bay doors open; bombers on time; release failure! Release failure!

“Well, ain’t that a pisser.”

Jordan strained again, found a little relief, but didn’t get nearly what he knew was there. He gave it another heave-ho and found this attempt much more satisfying—until the lights went out.

“Fuck!”

Dudleytown bolted back into his consciousness with a mind-deafening boom, and Mr. Jordan’s bomb-bay doors slammed shut.

Calling off bombers! Mission aborted! Mission aborted!

Hastily, Jordan reached about blindly for the roll of toilet paper he knew was cubbyholed neatly in the steel wall beside him, and commanded reason to take over. There’s nothing but

(dark)

space between him and the sinks and paper towels. Nothing but further

(dark)

space between the sinks and the about-face out the door. And he knew this because the rational side of his mind had told him it was so. There was nothing to be afraid of—he was the only one in the building; had gone to great pains to ensure that.

But.

There was always the possibility that all those friggin fairy tales were true and there were ghosts. After all, how brave were people—really—when it came right down to it, and they were trapped in a bathroom stall, alone, at night, nobody around, all lights suddenly flickered off by an unseen agent? Wasn’t there always just a little fear, a little doubt, no matter what people might try to tell themselves during the comfort of daylight? The fact remained that the fear was there and it had been his first reaction to the situation. No matter how remote or fictional there was always The Most Remotest of Possibilities that somewhere…sometime…out in the darkest parts of the woods or in the most recessed corners of a building…there was something lurking.

Waiting.

For all the lights to go off.

Waiting.

For the dark to work on folks’ minds and strangle that little Imp called Reason. Imagined or not, right or wrong, fear was fear, and it was alive and well in Stratford, Connecticut tonight.

And why would people make up tales like these anyway, if there wasn’t even the remotest of truths to them….

As Frederick Jordan’s now-shaking fingers touched the roll of invisible toilet paper, the lights flickered back on.

“Shit!” Frederick relaxed.

See, his Rational Side jubilated, there’s nothing to be afraid of, little Freddy! The dark has nothing the light doesn’t have! It’s all in your mind, Freddy, boy, all in yer mind.

Yeah, just like you.

“Okay, come on, baby, hold out. Don’t flicker off again. Gimme just five minutes! Five minutes—that’s all I ask—then I’m outta here! Gone! You can keep your darkness, your ghosts, and I’ll promise never to invade you again, no matter how strong the urge.”

All right, bring em round again, boys. We’re going in for another run.

Still clutching his little swatch of torn-off toilet paper, Jordan wondered if inanimate objects ever experienced fear and about how nice it would be to be like that: distanced and untouchable. Like the toilet paper roll…or the walls of the bathroom stall. Sometimes he wished he could be inanimate, impervious and able to observe…unafraid. But humanity was not about untouchability or mere observation, it was about fear and experience. It was about those things and more, and Frederick Jordan finally felt himself beginning to loosen up….

Bombardier to pilot…steady now, steadyyy…

Bomb-bay doors open. Keep er steady—

Roger, we have target acquisition! Bombs away! Released!

And boy was there a load.

Chuckling to himself, he pictured the old black and white newsreels he’d seen on TV, the one where the Dubbaya-Dubbaya-Two pilots released a seemingly endless dump of munitions upon the godless German bastards below, and oh, such sweet relief…

The bathroom door swung open.

Jordan bolted upright, and slammed shut the bomb-bay doors like nobody’s business.

A million things slammed through his mind in that instant, the foremost being who the hell was in the building, let alone in the john. He’d locked the frigging door, all right—and there were no other cars in the parking lot. It was

(he looked to his watch)

12:17 a.m.!

Dudleytown, my friend, Dudleytown’s back.

Yes.

For you.

And we’re going to squash that Rational Side foreverrr—

Then it occurred to him: it was somebody from the office. Herb or Mark had been driving by, seen his car, and stopped. Yeah, that was it—Herb or Mark—after a date, a drink at the tavern. Sure. Playing a little trick on Freddy-boy. Or maybe it was Ellen.

Frederick tenuously convinced himself that his Rational Side was still alive and kicking, even if its voice had grown somewhat dull and dead. Holding his breath, Jordan strained in his seat and listened. It almost sounded like there was a swishing sound, like a broom across the floor.

The cleaning crew?

Silence.

“Mark? Is that you? Herb—”

The lights flickered again.

Fuck the toilet paper!

Jordan reached for his pants and yanked them up. He peered through the slits between the stall’s walls and door. Nothing; couldn’t see a damned thing.

“Okay, come on, now, who’s there, goddammit, a joke’s a joke—”

The room went black, was dark for a full second, then sprang back to illumination, and underneath his stall, before Jordan could breathe a sigh of anything, lay a cloth figure…limp and motionless on the floor.

Jordan screamed and jumped backward off his toilet seat.

He looked to his ankles (where his pants were now rolled down in a bunch, like ankle cuffs trying to pull him back down) and saw that anything that might have been left inside…well…he’d solved his constipation problem.

The cloth figure lay before him motionless. Jordan saw that it resembled a scarecrow, but was much more cruel in design. There was no loose or spilling straw, and he found himself staring at stitched eyes.

Which opened.

Something loud and screechy spilled out of Jordan’s voice box and he tried to will himself through the wall, through the brick, and out into the cool night air behind the building. The stitched and unearthly eyes looked up to him, and the lights went off again, but not before Jordan saw the mouth begin to form a cruel grin—

Jordan kicked away at the area where the demon doll had lain before the lights had gone out, and backed away from the stall door. He’d fumbled and tripped on his way to the top of the toilet, his pants still down around his ankles, yanked them up, then continued to the top of the toilet. He didn’t know how long he’d sat like that…scrunched up in as much of a fetal position atop the toilet…frozen in fear…but he flat didn’t know what else to do.

Rational thought had deserted him.

Had he indeed imagined it all?

Had he dozed off and been dreaming?

Maybe it had been dinner after all—all he knew was that he continued to hyperventilate until the lights came back on—and not at full strength either, no, that would have been too easy. The fluorescence flickered, and only dimly at that.

The figure on the floor was gone.

He waited several beats before putting his feet back down to the floor.

The stall floor was empty and Jordan felt childishly stupid. He had imagined it all, that was it. Hell, it was after midnight and he’d had a long day. A trying client. Raw steak. He was the only goddamned individual in the entire goddamned building, so how was he supposed to goddamned feel at

(looking to his watch)

12:23 a.m.?

All explainable, his Rational Side squeaked. A perfectly reasonable scenario for anyone…even one as much the pinnacle of Rationality as yourself, Mr. Jordan, to think they had seen, ha-ha, a ghost…a devil doll…or something….

“For cryin’ out loud…,” Jordan said, as he looked up balefully into the still-flickering lights. Best to split while you still got

(your sanity)

light.

It was all in your mind, Herr Jordan. Grow up. Rough day.

He peeked through the stall’s slits again.

(your worst fears)

Still felt prickly.

Yep, all in yer mind, buddy, now get your shit

(so to speak)

together and get home.

Jordan finished pulling up his pants and prayed for the lights to remain on. Logical explanation or not, there was still frost in his veins and he was sure he’d lost several years of his life from that little piece of work.

Zip up them pants.

Cinch that belt.

Now let’s get the fuck outta here—

Jordan reached for the stall latch, and his fingers trembled.

Girly mahn!

Get a grip.

Then he slammed the door back, and the sound of it echoed in the dim corners of his mind like the crisp bang of a firecracker. He quickly made for the opening and stepped out into the constantly shifting patterns of the shadowy room.

Lots of space…lots of open, dark, dark space…that’s all, friend, full of nothing, full of dark, full of—

Sluggish as a dream, he turned to his right

Don’t do it, man! Mr. Rational Side screamed.

to where the

more dark space and nothing

sinks were. Took a step and

Yeah, come to us…the Dark…the Open Dark Spaces of an empty soul—

Jordan saw the first figure leaning up against the wall, its head slumped dumbly forward and onto its chest. Jordan’s bowels kicked back into dry action. He saw the other one, sitting atop the sinks, cocked over in the same stupid manner.

Dudleytown. Dudleytown. What was it about Dudleytown? No, it wasn’t Dudleytown—it was Stratford. It was fucking old Stratford, this very town itself.

A Reverend and his family. Found demon-dummies propped everywhere… praying to a hideous dummy dwarf that swung from a chandelier. Dummies that would change or move when folks blinked or dozed off while guarding them. A ghost tale from the 1600s that was now his very own nightmare in present-day Stratford!

As the lights continued to flicker, Jordan saw that the cloth dummies had moved.

They were stiff, like a stop-action film. Subtly. Not so subtly. A hideously crooked finger there, a ghastly tilted head there. Stitched eyes that were open one moment, closed the next.

Standing. Seated. Kneeling.

Jordan turned to run, but found more behind him. Saw the dwarf dummy dangling from atop the stalls. Jordan felt his mind bend. Tear at the seams.

I thought it was all over, one dark corner of his mind whined, but there was no response from Mr. Rational Side.

The figures advanced.

It’s just supposed to be in my mind.

They had backed Jordan up and into the stall he had just come from.

…m-my mind….

The cruelly stitched eyes came for him.

Jordan fell backwards, clipped the door on re-entry, and fell back onto the toilet seat. As the door clanked back open, Jordan could see the figures on the other side. They all shuffled about before the stall and Jordan heard that maddening swish-swishing sound their little cloth feet made across the tile. Saw the dwarf dummy above him, insanely dangling. Jordan shrank back to the toilet into the all-too-familiar cradled position, hugging the porcelain bowl. His mind’s clutch had disengaged and spun maddeningly. He stared blankly into the porcelain, expecting to wake up any moment now—any moment now, please, would be just fine thank you—please!

Cloth fingers clutched at the door’s edge. Jerkily opened the last defense in his crazy battle of madness. Jordan felt life drain out from him; crawled as far behind the toilet as possible and prayed. A part of his mind welcomed the coolness of the bowl and tiled floor…another part simply exploded.

The dark figures congregated.

“N-n-no…”

Then he realized he’d had an opening and bolted underneath the stall’s walls, slamming his head and scraping the top of his back. He scrambled to his feet. Made for the door like an adrenaline-junkie.

He was gone.

 

Jordan collapsed in the carpeted office area. The lights here also flickered.

But I hadn’t turned them on.

He cast a sudden glance around him and was surprised to find nothing had followed him out.

Where were they? What did they want?

Shakily, he got back to his feet and supported himself against a wall. He turned to leave. Saw a dark, familiarly slouched form ahead of him.

Spoke too soon, sonny,

Jordan’s legs wavered and his stomach knotted. The figure approached him in that same staccato-like, stop-fucking-motion movement. Every time Jordan blinked, or even thought about blinking, the damned hellion was closer; zigzagging. Jerky. Always forward.

“NO!” Something snapped inside Jordan’s throat and his voice gave way to silence.

Good. It’ll match what’s left upstairs—

Each time Jordan’s eyes fluttered, the creature was closer. Out of the corner of his eyes, Jordan saw

(felt)

others coming for him out of the darkness. Dark figures, everywhere. All like those from the rest room. They all came to greet him.

Hello, Jordy, enjoying the night….

Jordan felt the frigid north Atlantic wash up and over him, and screamed voicelessly. He bolted past the figure before him, his hands touching the cloth and insanely sinking in. He never bothered to use the key on the way out; didn’t even bother with his car. There were two cloth figures waiting for him there—one slumped over the wheel, and the other leaned crazily against the passenger-side door, cloth face pressed up against the window. Beyond his car, Jordan saw an entire army of dark, silently rustling, figures.

Jerky. Like scarecrows.

Only worse.

Coming home.

 

Many rumors went around town about Mr. Jordan’s sudden and frightful appearance—hair white as driven snow…eyes that screamed of nameless horror…his constantly mumbling, yet voiceless pleas….

Yes, there were many rumors.

Many.

But none as convincing as that which Mr. Frederick Jordan himself had lived.

 

Short Story Links

Links to all my posted short stories are here.

Perfume From Nowhere

by

More Haunted Northern New York, © 2003, Second Printing 2005, Cheri Revai
More Haunted Northern New York, © 2003, Second Printing 2005, Cheri Revai

While in Riverton, Wyoming on our Labor Day Weekend trip, I would get up before my wife and Cousin-in-Law (CIL) and read. I’d started these two books on our upstate New York trip and had finished one of them (New England’s Ghostly Haunts, © 1983, by Robert Ellis Cahill), but was only about halfway through with the other one. That book is the More Haunted Northern New York, by Cheri Revai (apparently Cheri changed her name for one reason or the other, to “Farnsworth”).

I’d sit in the recliner out in the living room, with just the table-side light on and read. What had happened next, I don’t know if it’s really paranormal or not, but I have not found out the source of “the weirdness.”

On the first morning, as I sat and read, I noticed a sudden and definite scent of women’s perfume. It wasn’t an air cleaner/spritzer, it was definitely perfume. I didn’t think any of it, thinking it must be some scent released into the air. I let it go. The next morning, it happened again—twice. This time it happened just as I was finishing up the story about the Hand House (pages 68-70), on page 70. If you read five lines up from my thumb, you’ll read what I read as the two instances of perfume hit me:

"The Hand House," from More Haunted Northern New York, © 2003, by Cheri L. Revai.
“The Hand House,” from More Haunted Northern New York, © 2003, by Cheri L. Revai.

Okay, at this point I put the book down and inhaled some more.

Perfume. Women’s perfume.

Definite, strong.

My wife doesn’t wear it. Neither does my CIL. Neither do his pets.

I put the book down and got up and looked around the shelves behind me (pictures on the shelves and that was it). Nothing. Not one thing that could cause the smell of perfume. I look above and below…I look to the rest of the living room. Nothing. I go out into the hallway…nothing.

Huh.

I sit back down and read the rest of the ghost story and book.

Later that day I ask my wife if she smelled any kind of perfume as she’d sat in the other room the previous day, and she’d mentioned that she had. I looked around some more but couldn’t find anything. I later ask my CIL, when he got up, and he had no idea. But later he brought me over to a knickknack he had. “Is this it?” he asked, at which point he placed what looked like half a geode into my face with a butterfly in the hollow.

I inhaled.

There was a faint scent of perfume. Faint.

He said that you had to run a hairdryer over it to release the smell.

I don’t know if it was the same scent, but I have this to say about the entire affair:

  • I had to ram my nose right up and into that geode/butterfly thing to smell it. What I’d smelled was all around me. It was powerful and strong.
  • No one ran any hairdryer during my early morning hours.
  • This tiny “butterfly thing” was in the next room, around a corner, then recessed back from the entryway into the living room I’d been sitting in by about 12 or 15 feet? There was no way that extremely faint scent could travel like that and amplify it’s scent like it had. What I smelled was like someone had literally sprayed perfume into the air around me. Or like a woman who was heavily perfumed…had stood right next to me.

So…am I making too much out of this?

All I know was that on that second day (and not since) as I read the words “There’s also a very faint scent of perfume“…I smelled perfume. Twice.

Related Articles

The Riverton Orb (fpdorchak.wordpress.com)

 

 

Spirit of Hope

by

Look But Don't Touch. (Image by Rodrigo Della Fávera from Rio de Janeiro, Brasil [CC BY 2.0; http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0], via Wikimedia Commons)
Look But Don’t Touch. (Image by Rodrigo Della Fávera from Rio de Janeiro, Brasil [CC BY 2.0; http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0], via Wikimedia Commons)
This next story is one of my earliest efforts (1989)…and clearly needs more work. There’s definite purple prose and the like, typical “rookie errors” of a beginning writer, here. Rather than severely rework this story, I just did basic clean-up then left it as-is. It was written by a twenty-something in the early stages of learning to write and is what it is….

“Hope” was based on a time in my life in my mid-twenties, when I’d visited a strip club “more than once,” let’s just say. I’d first been brought there by a friend, then occasionally returned to it…in the course of these visits, I talked to and got to know a little about the girls…providing they’d been honest with me. I became curious about their lives…their stories…and most of them had pretty much the same one to tell. Whether or not they were just milking me for extra dollars, I don’t know, but they’re stories were all similar. I always thought it odd that none of these girls (with one exception who actually left) “could leave.” After all, I thought, how difficult was it to find other work—anywhere else—if you really had a desire to leave….

I suspect there was more to their stories than they let on to.

This story has never been published.

Spirit of Hope

© F. P. Dorchak, 1989

Winter’s early release blanketed the landscape with a hushed glistening, and though it was cold, the night was far from alone. There was a specter-like vitality…a presence…drifting among the hills, flashes of argent following the ardor as it permeated the night; maybe even a hint of accompanying laughter. The animated vitality bordered on childlike mischievousness. It rode the wind…darting in and out of the world’s nooks and crannies…examining everything. It played….

In the distance, the town of Wymer, Colorado rested beneath the spiraling forms of steamy smoke-stack halitosis as the falling snow danced. There was mirthful freedom by that-which-rode-the-wind at the open confines of the dark.

Situated at the town’s edge were decaying lots laying party to rental shops, construction yards and aging used car dealerships. A steady ting, ting! rang through the wind, a loose metal lamp shade hitting against its metal support. Abandoned luminescence chaotically spilled from the lamp.

The argent anchored itself around a neon sign boasting topless dancing, boasting “topless” with a darkened “p,” looking more like “To less dancing.” The flashing lady beneath it, ample in breasts and sporting tinseled pasties, left no doubt as to the intentions of the harsh red header. Arms clasped behind her neck, she twisted from side to side against the neon backdrop. A low, lonely hum emitted from the sign.

The neighborhood Committee for Moral Values had a cow when the sign was initially erected (not a word they’d used…), claiming that the nipples of the neon lady were “too” pornographic. When the owner quickly retorted that the town would rather look at his “pornographic nipples” than the lady making the protest (she weighing in at some three-hundred plus pounds, though never verified), the council promptly demanded order and an apology before removing the bar owner. So, to appease all concerned, the breasted display was redecorated with ribboned pasties.

A musical beat, heavy in bass, filtered through the accompanying club’s closed doors, safe from the outside’s elements as girls on raised stages danced inside, performing for whatever earnings could be milked from the predominantly male crowd. The assortment of women varied from the twiggish to the overweight, and, whooping and hollering, most of the uncaring male patrons didn’t bother contributing…fat dumb and happy with their half-downed drinks.

Money.

As with most pursuits, money was the key factor. Most nights the average dancer earned little, having to borrow from acquaintances and “friends,” but on those good nights—what other unskilled job could match what a dancer could pull in? A resourceful, attractive performer could command $200 or more on one night. This, however, was not such a night.

Uno, a huge strapping bouncer at the front door, surveyed the bar, air stale from hours of smoke and failed pickups. A bald roughneck from the early days, Uno knew the importance of maintaining order. His name, actually a nickname, developed from past exploits. As far back as anyone could remember, Uno included, he was always the only one left standing after brawls. No exceptions.

This night was pretty much the same as the other nights, nothing special going on, except for one minor incident. The exception was a surly little bloke who didn’t want to remove his leather jacket. So Uno removed him. The sign clearly stated: “No colors; Have ID ready; Please remove leather jackets while inside. Remove, or be removed.” The latter sentence was scribbled in by a waitress who worked the bar.

Dancing on one of the stages was a lady whose name should have had some bearing on her life. Her name was Hope, and unlike nearly all of the other women here, this was her given name. Hope loved her name, but she wished just a little of her christening would shed upon her life.

Dancing on stage, she did what she normally did while there: she blanked out. More to the point, she blanked out what she was doing while up there. Hope would let her mind wander. Oh yes, she would smile, and say, “thank you,” but it was all done while she was somewhere else…far from the noise and smoke of a lust-filled strip joint. Asking around, she found out some of the other girls were doing the same thing.

Oh, how she had come to hate this place!

But the money…the income…was good….

While dancing, Hope would think of her dreams, the only things that kept her going. She wanted so much to get out of dancing, to do something—anything—else. But what? She had no real background, no college degree, and lately this was something she’d been thinking about more and more, the no-college-degree part.

Hope thought of how she’d like to go to school, but her present financial situation made the prospect look mighty bleak. She had no problem with working while in school, it couldn’t be any worse than what she was doing now, but she just couldn’t afford to take the time off from work to go find a job, having no money to even apply to a school. Hope had no desire to end up like her folks.

Her family life had ended up less than perfect, with her mom dying in a car wreck years ago. Her dad’s disappearance was under somewhat mysterious circumstances shortly thereafter. Hope had long suspected her dad was into drug dealing. People like that often “just disappeared.” Her life with them had never been, well, nice: constantly moving around, parents always fighting, never a steady job between the three of them. It all came to a head one day, and Hope just up and ran. She’d been sixteen.

That was six years ago. Since then, internally, Hope had gone through a lot of changes. Always feeling different from the girls she danced with, but never demeaning to them, she had this feeling she was better than the situation she was currently engrossed in. She had no explanation. Like everyone else she knew, she was a dance-girl, but she felt that she was destined towards a better objective. Sooner or later, unlike most, she would leave this place—forever.

Then there were times when she made good money. And even though those nights were, well, uncommon, she couldn’t quite bring herself to break the mold. Habit was a powerful thing. It was all she could do, working, sleeping and working, always so tired during the day, always so tired during the night. Hope kept telling herself that she would go out tomorrow, or next week, looking for that something better. The strain of her vocation and her ever-increasing bills were constantly eating away at her time, always needing to increase her hours just to make ends meet. Oh well, life goes on…

As Hope continued dancing, a customer began making pelvic thrusting motions while seated in his chair in front of her, his Corona and lime in front of him. Turning her back to him, she threw him a look of disdain. The man in question laughed to his bar-side buddies. As sparse a crowd as it was, it was a good collection of regulars. Hope retreated back into her dreams.

Hearing the heavy front door slam, spoils of white stuff blown inside, Uno turned, getting up from his creaky wooden stool to greet the newcomer.

The stranger was at least six-foot tall, somehow appearing more towering still. Wearing a dark overcoat and a weather-beaten, black fedora, the newcomer slowly raised his head, speckles of loose snow falling, revealing a solemn face hugged by a well-kept beard. As Uno looked at the stranger more carefully, he noticed how his face actually seemed to be on the edge of a grin. The stranger’s eyes were strong and dark—piercing. However able the man appeared, Uno noticed that he didn’t look entirely unapproachable.

“How ya’ doin—” Uno said, planning to ask for the stranger’s ID. Before he could mouth the words, the stranger, in a nonchalant manner, raised a gloved hand…not to be bothered by so trivial a request. The doorman suddenly decided he really didn’t feel it necessary to press the issue and wave him on through.

“Enjoy yourself, man,” Uno said, the stranger bowing in reply and gliding into the club.

Standing for a moment uncertain…Uno felt…dazed. Rapping his shaven pate with callused knuckles to clear his head, he saw the foreboding silver flecks that often precede fainting spells.

The dark figure approached the main stage upon which Hope danced. Her seductive gyrations were quite accomplished. Eyes meeting in no short order, she beamed an inviting smile. Emerging from under the figure’s overcoat, came a gloved-hand-encased fifty-dollar bill. Initially the dancer didn’t notice the denomination, welcoming anything, but as the hand closed in, her eyes belched. Bending over, Hope planted a kiss on the smiling face. The Elvis impersonator, complete with Corona, shot the bearded man a quick look, making gutter comments about the dancer. Backing up, the smiling philanthropist winked, leaving the stage.

Approaching other stages, the stranger relinquished lesser dollar amounts, and Hope following his every move. Motioning to his buddy and collecting his beer, The Pelvic Miracle got up and left.

Tour completed, the dark interloper picked a booth to the rear of the club and ordered a drink. Retaining his garments as he relaxed, and hand merrily tapping at table’s edge, the stranger casually observed the surroundings: women shaking untouchable wares in the faces of eager lust…getting close enough so that each goose pimple could be counted in graphic detail; men sitting around looking meaner than the bikes they rode in on; executives in tight business suits downing expensive drinks. The returning waitress was endowed with a generous tip.

Hope really didn’t like taking money from gonad-grabbing strangers, but her need for it was so great that her repulsions were easily silenced. Twice she was propositioned by men sticking bills into the strings of her panties, twice she told them to get lost.

The end of her set came none to quickly as she collected her things, exiting, the contempt she felt toward her job nothing but growing. Then, remembering the man with the fifty, she diverted and began searching the smoky interior. Spying him in the rear, she weaved her way towards him.

Approaching the fedora-clad stranger, Hope separated the fifty in her hands from the other bills.

“May I have a seat?”

“Sure,” came his warm reply, looking up at her.

“Thank you.”

Pulling out a chair out, Hope situated herself, crossing tanned and shaved legs to reveal succulent thighs.

“This is a mighty big tip coming from someone around here.”

“I’m not exactly from around here,” he said, still quite amused by the surrounding people.

“Oh? Where you from?” she asked, casually feeling for a cigarette. Rearranging her purse to get at the smoke, she suddenly decided against it, tucking everything back into the dark leather pouch. She refocused her attention back on him.

“Oh, I make my way around,” he said, turning his attention to her.

There was something about this stranger that intrigued her. His gaze commanded her with a warmth and softness she hadn’t encountered elsewhere. There was no desire to look away.

“A-a traveler, huh?” she stuttered, slightly unnerved and embarrassed at the fact that she was slightly unnerved.

Cocking his head momentarily to one side, he puckered his mouth slightly, forming his response.

“I guess. I’ve made travel my business. It’s something I really enjoy. And you, what about you, Hope? Do you enjoy this?” he asked, gesticulating around them. There was a moment of silence as he bore into her soul.

“Well, hey—how did you know my name? I never told it to you—” Her eyes narrowed.

“I’m not up to anything, I promise. I just ‘heard’ it around here, that’s all.” Hope could feel that wasn’t exactly right.

“Well,” she began, her eyes beginning to soften back up, “I look at it this way: income is income. This may not be the best, or the worst job around, but it pays the bills—”

“—when there’s money,” he finished.

“Yeah, when there’s money.” She stared into his drink. “It’s pretty stagnant out there tonight.” She looked like a fragile, lost little girl.

“I can see.” Taking a sip from his drink, he kept his eyes on her.

“Would you like a table-dance?” Hope asked, puppy-eyeing. For some reason she didn’t care if she even got paid for it, just wanting to do something for this neat guy who seemed so kind.

“Sure,” he said, setting aside his glass.

Getting up, Hope held onto his mysterious gaze, removing her top for the dance. Never once did the stranger’s attention waver, her eyes his focus. Hope was perplexed that he didn’t look at her breasts, her ass; just her eyes. Finishing up, the stranger extended a helping hand to her, assisting her back to her seat. Removing his hand, there were two hundred-dollar bills left behind. Nearly fainting, Hope swallowed hard, grasping the table’s edge.

“Ho-ly shit! You kidding? For me?” sputtering, she attempted to balance herself. “God, what do you do for a living?”

“Just consider me your friend.”

There was a little more emphasis on the word “your” then Hope wanted to admit. It felt so good to have someone nice say something nice to her that didn’t focus on her looks.

“Great!” she said turning back to him. A smile, gaping and gregarious, ate its way across her face. Looking into his eyes, Hope realized that all she knew about this guy was that he had big bucks, an enticing smile, and a warm manner. He liked giving money, she liked taking it, so why not play the game out? She hoped he was as real as he seemed.

“Look, I don’t even know your name.”

“Max, call me Max; charmed!” He took her hand, kissing it ever so lightly.

“Look, Max, I’ve got to be getting back up now. Will you…be here for a while?”

“If you like.”

“I like. Thanks!” she said, rushing off and tucking the bills into her pink socks.

New performers mounting platforms, Max beckoned another waitress. Getting up on stage, Hope noticed that the waitress walked away with something Max had given her. The waitress, known as Kim, went to each stage depositing Jeffersons. Finally coming to Hope’s platform, Kim left a fifty. Before leaving, Kim called Hope to come closer. Bending over, bare breasts wiggling, Hope lent an ear.

“What is it with you and that guy over there? He just paid me this,” she said, showing her the twenty, “To give these to you all. I’ve been watching him ever since he came in, Mr. Mon-ey Mon-ey!”

“I don’t know what’s his trip, but I do plan on finding out,” Hope said. Shaking her head, Kim went back about her rounds.

This time, before Hope could get back to Max, another girl sat down next to him. Stooping down to receive a bill from a grateful customer, Hope felt her ire blackening. How dare another girl muck in on one of hers! Noticing how close she was to him, and all hands, Hope’s anger flared, knocking over a customer’s drink. After much apology and a new drink, Hope continued her glaring. It was about this time that a distraction stole everyone’s attention.

A particularly unruly customer started getting out of hand, shouting obscenities and doing what hands do best. Uno hadn’t yet noticed, his attention diverted by a phone call. The dancer at the center of the conflict slapped the obnoxious individual several times, finally storming off.

Also momentarily distracted, the girl sitting next to Max turned to get a better view. When it abated, she turned back, only to be greeted by empty space.

The abusive individual staggered into the Men’s room about the time Uno was alerted. The abused dancer started rattling on to Uno about what happened.

Colliding with the door, the drunk pushed it open, coming face to face with Max, cutting a terrifying figure even for a sober man. Blearily, the drunk looked up.

“W-what’sup dude?” he blurted, alcohol quick on his breath.

“You.”

The door latched shut.

“Uno,” the manhandled dancer whined, “This guy’s a total jerk, grabbin’ me everywhere. It was embarrassing!”

“Why didn’t you leave earlier,” Uno muttered under his breath, phone to his ear.

“What? Look, I want him outta here!” Hanging up the phone, Uno spun around, going for the gold. “Okay, where is he?” The dancer couldn’t spot her target.

“I don’t see him yet, he must’ve moved. Check the Men’s room,” she said, eyes squinting as she scanned back and forth. Uno stalked through the smoke-filled hall, a dark figure passing him as he finally went to the john.

Pushing open the door, Uno found the man he was looking for. He was strung up inverted over one of the urinals. It was the type of urinal that stuck out from the wall, like the lower jaw of a reptile, and in that jaw was the sputtering head of the drunk, immersed in a flow of running water, hands tied behind his back. The urinal wasn’t exactly clean, but at least there was running water.

Alone when Hope found him, Max smiled, a scurrying going on in the background as bouncer and manager both cut down the drunk, hauling him outside. The drunk was quite sober now.

“So, Max, do you have a habit of dropping twenties and fifties all over the place?”

“Oh, now and then.” Pause. “What’re you doing after work? Need a ride? How about something to eat?”

“Um, well, I’m not sure,” she replied, gazing back into his deep orbs. She was still under his spell as much as she didn’t want to admit it. “How can I say no? Just a minute.” Running over to make a quick phone call, Hope returned shortly, brushing off someone’s groping hand along the way. She straightened out her panties.

“I just called to tell my ride I’d be getting one from here, and that I’d be getting something to eat.”

“You know that friend of yours who sat next to me? She has very inquisitive hands.”

“I know, she tends to be that way around guys. I don’t want to say anything bad about her, but she’s Okay.”

“If you like pickpockets,” Max said, grinning. Hope was caught by surprise at his remark. Pickpocket? The nerve of her! She’d have a talk with that bitch!

As the night rolled on, so did their conversation and Hope’s income, collecting a Grant for each performance. Scarcely believing any of it, Hope certainly wasn’t about to tell anyone, clearing over three-hundred dollars. It wasn’t long before she decided she’d like to leave, telling her manager she didn’t feel well. The manager had, of course, heard it all before, but having the girls to spare, let her go.

Making her way back to the dressing room, Hope was pulled aside by “the bitch.”

“Hope, where does that guy get all his money?”

“Which guy?” she said, playing coy.

“You know, the one you’ve been sitting with all night.”

“Oh him? I don’t know, he doesn’t tell me much. He seems rather evasive about it all. But he did mention one thing to me you’d be interested in,” she said, sneering.

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“He knows you tried rifling his pockets.” She began to leave.

“What? And he just let me—?” Mouth going slack, she continued. “Fuckin’-A, lady, I didn’t try, I did! There was absolutely nothing in them! No change, no keys, no lint—nothing!” Hope spun around.

Hope and Max left the club just after midnight. The roads were bone dry, the air chilly. Wisps of snow still strayed about the airwaves.

“Isn’t this great, Hope?”

“What?”

“This weather! I love it!”

“I think it rather depressing myself.” Max shook his head at her.

A black Porsche 911 turbo, complete with whale tail and spotless, glossy coat, awaited them. Getting into the rocket, the pair scorched a black patch of rubber, leaving the parking lot. Though somewhat light, snow had been falling continuously all night, but there was no dry patch of exposed parking lot beneath where the car had been parked.

The roads were totally devoid of life, even police. Turning to Hope, Max asked her if she was into some excitement.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” was her grinning reply. Nothing quite like breakneck speeds on late-night city streets. For someone who claimed to not be from around here, Max sure knew his way around.

About two a.m., the Duo pulled into a Denny’s. Actually, it was more like they came to a screeching halt at a Denny’s. This man was so full of life, it stimulated Hope’s dreams of exiting dancing even more. He’d done it all, been everywhere, it seemed.

Where did he come from? Once, when asked by her where he was born, he casually brushed it off with as “somewhere in New England,” and she just left it at that. She didn’t mind all the mystery that much, it wasn’t as if he were a weirdo, and the mystery did, in fact, make him just that much more attractive to her. But there was one thing still bugging her, sticking in the back of her mind: where did all the money keep coming from? He seemed to have a never-ending supply of it, in spite of what her pickpocketing friend declared.

Then there were those times when she’d be gazing into his eyes, and swear that he was reading her, synapse for synapse. He was extremely personable, maybe too personable…

Four in the morning came around quite fast, and in spite of all the excitement and wanting him badly, she was feeling the hour. “Where do you live?” she asked they cruising back onto city streets.

“Oh, nowhere in particular.”

“Well, where are you staying?”

“Nowhere in particular.” Glancing over at her with a smile, he raised his eyebrows a few times, gunning the Porsche into the red, forcing their heads back into the whiplash-rests.

Suddenly jolted by the realization of where they were, Hope pulled herself upright, glaring at him. They were driving down her street.

“How did you know where I live? How do you know this? Have you been watching me? H-how—I want some answers—and now!” Grabbing hold of his arm, her scrutiny hit him full face.

“You want answers?” he asked, continuing to play innocent. “Well, I guess it must’ve come out in one of our conversations—”

“—oh right. Then explain to me how it is that you have all this money, when a friend of mine picked your pockets and found nothing! Not even keys for this damned car!”

Easing alongside the curb, her apartments just a few yards away, Max put the car into neutral. The engine emitted a low but powerful purr as he set the brake. The sky began to lighten, casting a red glow across the horizon.

“Look, I can’t. I told you, I travel and enjoy life—”

“—right, and who doesn’t—”

“You don’t.” Too exasperated to deal with that statement, Hope chose to ignore it, continuing on.

“So you’re my friend, that’s no answer! Things have been just a little too weird around here tonight, and I’d like to at least get one solid answer out of all this.” She resorted to giving him that little-girl look that women resort to once everything else has failed.

“Look, I’m sorry if I’ve frightened you, Hope. I just came out for a little fun. I saw you, liked your company, and wanted to share it with you, you looked like you needed it. Needed a friend.”

No longer smiling, his eyes took on a strange new faraway quality. In fact, it seemed as if he were actually shimmering a little. It had to be a trick of the lights and her state of mind, she passively speculated.

“Come out? Come out from where? You’re always so damned evasive when it comes to anything about you!”

“From the night,” he said, turning away. He stared out the windshield.

“Oh, now you’re really getting weird on me.” Her eyes wide with uncertainty, she pressed.

“What do you mean ‘From the night?’ Are you some sort of vampire?” She was beginning to look quite bewildered and vulnerable.

“Oh no, nothing as mundane as that, my dear,” he said, a portion of his former self resurfacing. Looking at him, Hope didn’t know what to think, but began feeling as though she were losing him, forever.

Reaching over, Max gently smoothed her hair, his hand coming to rest against her chin.

“I’m so sorry to have been so secretive,” he said, his tone warm and encompassing, “but you wouldn’t understand or believe me. I am…a wanderer. I don’t stay in one place for too long. I’ve come from…faraway…giving you a little hope, genuine hope…making you smile and take charge of your own life. I know how unhappy you’ve been, how you’ve been looking for that one big break. But it only comes if you make it happen, Hope. You can and will do it, I know it.”

Pausing, Max decided to tell her it all; he always ended up spilling his guts.

“I’m a spirit. A nomad of the night, if you will. I help those few who require a little something extra—a push. I can’t help everyone, but I try. Take a few days off, Hope, and do some looking. Apply to that school you’ve been wanting to—you won’t be disappointed…

“I have to go…this isn’t easy, even for me.”

Looking up at him, she noticed his eyes were filled with compassion and sadness, they seemed to be as endless as eternity itself. But for the first time since they met, Hope seemed to get a glimpse of his soul. Myriads of thoughts and scenes rushed through her mind, causing her to feel momentarily faint. It was too much, she couldn’t believe what was going on, what she was seeing. It blurred.

Finally pulling herself together, Max was outside the car, standing by her door. Noticing her return, he opened it. Climbing out, the morning chill jarred her.

“I’ll always remember you,” she said, feeling a geysering of emotions. Wetness invaded her alert, mascaraed eyes.

“And I too, will always remember you!” Flashing his smile, he pulled her in, gently kissing her. “I must go now.”

Touching her gently on the cheek, Max got back into the car, giving her one last farewell wave from inside. Pulling the car out from the curb, Hope swore he looked transparent.

Watching as the Porsche drove off into the distance, Hope turned towards the apartments. Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw the car beginning to fade, and swung back around to look at it. She was too late. There was still the sound of the Porsche’s engines, but she saw no car—it had disappeared—speckles of bright argent flecking the air. There was still a good block and a half left to the street corner before anything would be hid from view.

Hope watched a little longer, until the sound, too, had gone. Max had simply faded away, back into the darkness from which he had come.

A tear forming in her eye, Hope suddenly realized she was holding something. Looking down, there was a black, weather-beaten fedora in her hands. Bringing it up to her chest, she clutched at it, a tear loose down her cheek. Spasms of cries ripped out from her swollen chest.

In spite of her sadness, Hope felt a renewed hope, a new resolve. It was something she had not had before this night—a renewed vigor, one which would stay with her for the rest of her life.

Related Posts

Rainy Nights and Christmas Lights

by

Know Exactly Where I am. (Image by By Juliancolton [CC BY-SA 4.0, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0], via Wikimedia Commons)
Know Exactly Where I am. (Image by By Juliancolton [CC BY-SA 4.0, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0], via Wikimedia Commons)
There is a restaurant in Manitou Springs, Colorado, called The Stagecoach Inn. It was an actual stagecoach inn in the 1800s. On the outside of the building are strings of lights. One beautiful rainy night my wife, me, and some of her family had gone to eat here, and as my wife and I held each other outside, she said “…rainy nights…and Christmas lights….”

You don’t say something like that within earshot of a writer and expect to get off lightly…especially by one who trucks in death, dreams, and the hereafter.

As I read it for the first time in years for this posting, it brought tears to my eyes. It is another of my favorites.

This story has never been published.

 

Rainy Nights and Christmas Lights

© F. P. Dorchak, 1993

 

Rainy nights and Christmas lights. That’s all I can think of. All I want to think of.

I only just stumbled into this…inn…moments ago, seeking relief from the bitter cold of an angry blizzard. It’s dark, but I don’t know the time because I no longer have my watch and it’s very desolate—not just for my own heart, but for the souls outside as well.

No one wanted to be out on a night like this and God only knew how long I stumbled about out there, dazed and disoriented. The weather, frigid and snowy for most of the day had turned more brutal, forcing all life in from the streets. I, too, searched for a place to take me in, but nobody would have me, everyone hurrying home for their own families. Was I a leper? It was only this inn that took me, and I had to barter my soul just to gain entrance.

Her name is Laura, and I love her like no other. I love her more than life itself.

Sure, we had our differences like everyone else, but nothing, nothing changed my deep unfaltering devotion for her. Not even the times she said she was leaving….

But now I sit before a raging fireplace in a darkened room, utterly alone. It’s cold, and the chill I feel cuts to my marrow. Just now I think I see a waiter or waitress behind me, but turning find no one.

I look about the room and see that it is small, by some standards, large by others…and has not quite a dozen tables, including those in the alcove to the far end. Each table has unlit candles and neatly placed silverware atop it. The shadows I see are disturbing and gnaw at me. It is all so vaguely familiar, this place, and I feel I should know it, but I…I feel disoriented.

Deep memories stir within, but nothing surfaces.

I am just as helpless as when—

Death.

I love her, oh dear God, how I love her!

Why is it that I alone survive?

Why should I have this cursed privilege! What I would gladly give to have her back! Why did not both of us perish—it is so much better that way, you know, to be together in death than alone in life!

Oh, how I curse God and all that is life! I curse the devil for the torture! I curse everything, except—

Rainy nights and Christmas lights.

That’s what she said, my Laura, the one with the beautiful hair and loving smile.

The one I was to marry…to begin a new life with.

Suddenly I rush to the front door and pull it open.

The wind, she wails and batters me back and I hear glass shatter as the door slams behind me into the wall. It is hideously cold, yet I don’t feel it. All I feel is the pain in my heart.

I do recognize the inn.

Rainy nights and Christmas lights.

Christmas lights….

There are Christmas lights strung out across this building, and as I stand there I know where I am. Know exactly where I am. This is the inn my love and I frequented when…when we were whole…but, worse than that, it is the place where my beloved Laura was so brutally ripped away from me!

I scream into the wind, to the innkeeper who admitted me. Here—you have my soul, why not also take my heart!—oh, why even to be created, only to die! Why is life nothing but torment! Why are we to love, only to lose?

Again I look to the lights.

Still, strangely, they are lit; out of place. I peer through the blinding, heavy snow, but see no others; no movement.

I am all there is.

There is nothing beyond the snow-covered flagstone steps I know are before me. Nothing exists beyond myself and this haunted inn. The lights. I remember

 

Standing out on this porch one rainy, summer night…my Laura wrapped around me…her breath warm against my neck. We gaze lovingly at each other stretching out the moment to eternity.

“Rainy nights,” she bubbles.

“What?” I ask.

“Rainy nights…and Christmas lights!” she blurts triumphantly, radiantly.

I adore her smile and know, right there, why it is I love her.

“Rainy nights, and Christmas lights,” she says again, still beaming.

“That is so beautiful!” I proclaim, and hug her tightly.

“Hold me,” she whispers sweetly into my ears and mine alone, “hold me and don’t ever let me go.”

I knew I’d marry her someday.

 

But the tears now freeze to my face and the wind rips me apart.

Take this too, Devil, take all there is I have left!

My voice is nearly gone and I tear into my clothes to get at my heart—that eternally pumping and vile thing! Fingers unfeeling, I cut into my skin and bring forth blood, but it, too, freezes, and I realize I am truly—truly—doomed—unable to even take my own life!

I slump forward to the snowy porch and bury my hands and face. Rainy nights.

And Christmas lights.

 

So I am resigned to the fate of this dispossessed inn. It seems fitting that I should be held here, a place my love and I so enjoyed. It is so fitting to be forced to relive those moments, those memories…the moment…of her death.

Her death.

 

We had finished dining, leaving the building for a stroll. Ever the adventurous soul, she had leapt upon the ledge of a stone which guarded the creek below. I remember how the water was still visible, unfrozen.

And…the rocks.

I had hoped she wouldn’t fall and rushed to her—

 

“May I take your order, sir?”

Startled, I spill my coffee and send the porcelain cup skittering across the room to shatter somewhere. I look up and see, in the dark and standing entirely motionless, a waitress of ageless beauty. I could barely breathe, yet spare a word.

“W-what? Who-who are you?”

“Your order, sir, do you care to order?”

She placed a menu before me. I stared at it for an eternity…then lifted my head to look out the windows. All I see is the storm, which has increased its intensity, if that be possible. I also notice that I have gripped the edges of my table in a mighty hold, knuckles most assuredly bone-white.

The fire crackles.

“I-I already ate,” I said.

“As you wish,” she says, most politely, and withdraws the menu.

“B-but I could use some more coffee,” I continue. All she did was turn…and smile. I could have sworn she spoke, but I did not, for the life of me, see her lips move.

I’m sure you could, she said.

I know it was dark, and I know I am not in the most stable of minds, but I know what I experienced. She spoke…but did not move her lips.

I blink. She is gone.

I need my woman and I need her now! Forever! I cannot and will not live this way!

The pain is unendurable!

How does one survive?

How can others live through what I continue to grieve over? Nothing means anything to me anymore! As much as I don’t want to dwell on my beloved’s death, I feel compelled—it was our last few moments together…the last time we kissed, held each other…gazed into each other’s eyes or felt the warmth of each other’s touch.

I so desperately want to die and be among the dead with her!

I attempt yet again to get at my heart, my wrists, with knives…forks…broken glasses…but am without strength. Instead, I collapse upon my table and heave great tears into the wood….

I remember my arms reaching out to her.

One moment she stood atop the wall…pirouetting beautifully and telling me how much she loved me and would never, ever leave me—and the next—the next moment I reach out for her and clutch only air…huge fists full of it…and watch helplessly as she tumbles over the side like newly falling snow…drifting down, down…ever downward…

(Christmas lights…)

in her grasp. I watch until I can bear it no longer….

 

“Your coffee, sir.”

I bolt upright. A busboy is pouring fresh coffee into a new cup. His back is to the fire and he seems aglow. His smile is genuine, but he, like the shadows, scares me.

“Where—”

“Nowhere, sir,” he says, and fades from view back into the shadows, his Cheshire smile the last to go. I look to the coffee poured and it remains, small curls of ghostly white steam disappearing into the dark. I touch the cup and find it warm. Solid.

“I don’t want coffee! I want Laura!”

I pound the table. Again.

And again.

I drift off.

 

Time has again passed, and, as I have already told you, I know not how much, but it is still evil and blinding without, dark and foreboding within. I watch the spoils of snow as it batters against the windows of the alcove, and there are times I feel the building shudder, or think so.

Maybe it is just me.

The fire is still alight, though I have yet to touch it.

Where did that gentleman who admitted me go off to?

The shadows close in on me. Something is different.

Rainy nights, and Christmas Lights.

She had grabbed Christmas lights….

That’s all I want back. I want that summer night again, I want her back! I will gladly mortgage my soul again to have her! Anything, I just want that moment to remain, to never change. I want to spend that moment in eternity with my Laura. She is all I live for…all I want to die for….

Yet cannot die.

This I know for some strange reason, but I shall try one more time. I look to the fire and spy a poker. Going to it, I raise it and touch it to my chest; feel its dull accusation. Stoking my emotions, I raise the weapon with mighty intent—but alas, it misses its mark and strikes the wall above the hearth instead. I anchor the handle end into a wall, the point placed firmly over my heart…and ram myself forward…but it slides harmlessly off. I attempt yet one more blow, but it is again deflected, this time pulled from my hands as if by some unseen force.

I pound my fists into the wall.

Laura! Why has this happened?

I want so much to die and join you—I no longer wish to bear this tragedy!

I collapse at my table and once more try to dream

Of rainy nights and Christmas lights.

But hear a door open.

Something is different….

I hear footsteps and look up.

A figure is in the doorway. Stands still.

“Who…are you?” I ask. “I can take this no longer! Please, take me, I am yours!”

I cry, my blood long since cold, my senses frayed. I hope the figure to be Death’s messenger, finally come for me.

“I know,” the figure says, and it is a soft, pleasant voice.

I rocket to my feet, chair spilling out behind me.

I know that voice!

“Laura?”

Unstable, I grip the table for support. Again, I ask, “Laura—i-is that…you?”

“Yes,” she answers, moving out from the shadows. “I am here, my dear.”

It is her, there is no mistake! As sure as I live, it is her!

“But—but you had died!”

She smiles ever so lovingly as she approaches.

“No, my love, it was not me who died. I had grabbed a string of the Christmas lights…and when you saved me from falling by diving for me…you fell yourself. Don’t you remember?”

My throat is suddenly dry. I collapse to my knees.

“But—that would make you—”

“—dead? Yes, I am indeed.”

Still she smiles, unaffected by her words.

My heart pounds, rises to my throat.

I choke.

I love her so much!

I touch her and find her as cold as I am.

“H-how?”

“Does it really matter?” she asks casually, “I am here.”

Standing before me, she reaches down and I grasp her hand. She pulls me to my feet and I notice she places an empty prescription bottle on the table.

I say nothing.

“Tell me how much you love me,” she says, drawing in close to me.

I see the concern on her face…feel the tears on mine and cry, “I love you with all my heart and soul and will always—ever—be there for you!”

“And I, you, my darling. I love you more than life itself!”

And so I know.

 

We sit at our table…together at last…and gaze into the fire. Our hands are tight and true, our hearts one. The blizzard still rages, but I no longer care. As we look to each other, we are no longer cold.

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