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F. P. Dorchak

Speculative Fiction (New Weird) Author

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Night Gallery

Nightborders

April 15, 2016 by fpdorchak

There Are No Monsters. (Image by Internet Archive Book Images [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons)
There Are No Monsters. (Image by Internet Archive Book Images [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons)
There is truth to the saying that those who piss off a writer may well end up in said writer’s story…and not in a good way (like, “Ewww, hurt me!”).

I knew a girl once…back in ’89…who said a spiteful thing to me one night. Fine. Be that way, I thought. And that was the end of our on-again-off-again relationship. Then I’d had a story idea…a really nasty horror-story idea…and I put it together with the aforementioned Miss Nasty’s comment in mind. It’s funny how things materialize into stories when you write them. Yeah, this is not my best work (a bit over the top in several ways)…but it is amusing-in-concept. The idea behind the story, the whole “night borders” thing. Ever had the same crazy idea in the middle of the night? No? Nothing you’ll admit to? Well, I bet you can’t say “Candyman” five times while looking at yourself in the mirror, either….

I’m not at all a spiteful, tit-for-tat kinda guy in any way…but the irony in the putting of the two events together was not lost on me and had in itself a certain…well, psychic…poetic justice to it. I didn’t—nor do I to this day—wish her ill. I hope she lived and lives a fine life, wherever she is.

But in this story….

This story has never been published…and probably for good reason. It will probably give you night terrors and insomnia…and that’s good thing, in—

 

Nightborders

© F. P. Dorchak, 1989

 

Quentin Strangefellow was possessed. Not by demons, but by a strange and unreasoning fear. Perhaps consumed was a better word.

This fear had followed him since his childhood, and now as an adult it had grown completely out of proportion. When you’re young it’s easy to take things at face value, but once face value has been passed on, things start taking on different weight.

This fear had no basis—no real basis, anyway—for coming into being, and definitely no basis for any furthered continuation. What’s more, Quentin had no past experience with which to draw upon for this fatuous phobia. It all began (as far as he could remember) one lonely night in a childhood bedroom. No rhyme, no reason. Like so many other childhood afflictions it just came into being on its own. A spontaneous conception.

His fear was of borders.

Nightborders. Borders of the nighttime bed (of course it was at night, things like this didn’t happen during the light of day). That imaginary perimeter between protection and annihilation, physically manned by the edges of the mattress that extended up to the ceiling.

It was an anxiety that no one ever put much stock in…yet some continued to live with in quiet-to-utter terror of their entire lives…quietly and unobtrusively following their hidden and unorthodoxed rules…their wives and girlfriends, husbands and boyfriends never coming into The Knowing.

So Quentin lay there, alone, eyes open and staring.

Once again, he hadn’t been able to get back to sleep and it was now three-twenty in the morning. His body had become rigid—it had never been this bad before—and lately he had found himself dwelling more and more on the borders. It wasn’t so much the borders themselves as it was what lay beyond…

Of what was to happen to those who trespassed.

Still quite awake, Quentin really didn’t feel like getting up and doing anything (like going through the piles of correspondence that kept collecting on the table, or watching TV), but he couldn’t get back to sleep, either. Restless and uneasy, he twisted in his sheets. Even if he had wanted to leave the confines of the bed the sheets would not have allowed it. Sheets were meant to keep you in bed, all of you, safe from the perils of the Nightborders.

Yet the heat was too much and he had thrown off the top blanket. But he was too afraid to turn on the bed-side radio for fear of attracting the attention of whatever there was just beyond the mattress’s edges…any motions he did make outside of these imaginary lines were quick and jerky—as if he were trying to beat the grip of some waiting demon….

Looking down the length of his bed into the darkened interior of his apartment, Quentin half expected to see a shadow rush past. He tried projecting his mind into the other rooms, to see where every piece of his furniture was…every little odd scrap of paper…to feel the familiarity he needed right now.

He saw the dirty dish with the half consumed pizza slice, which was probably quite hard by now…tipped over some dirty silverware and a washcloth covered glass. Saw the bundle of newspapers lying about his floor and couch…his plants quietly sleeping….

Lying there, his arms and legs neatly confined to the interior of his bed, he gave his fear more detailed consideration.

How had all this come about, anyway? And why?

Well the why wasn’t too difficult, he decided, childish imaginations were always quite active, active and somewhat unchecked. Quentin felt—and felt quite strongly—that his imagination was still every bit as active now as it ever had been as a kid. It was just more firmly under control now.

For instance, he no longer believed in monsters under his bed, or in his closet (quickly flashing an embarrassed glance to his closet), or in Tooth Fairies. His closet door was open, and there were clearly no monsters in there. And he wasn’t about to check beneath the bed just now.

He didn’t feel like getting out of bed, that’s all.

In fact all of this morbid indulgence brought back to him a poem he had once read, and for some strange reason remembered. It went something like this:

“It was the Devil’s own pitch

A darkness utterly corrupt and vile.

 

“I couldn’t see a thing, couldn’t hear a thing

The silence absolute—except of that internal ringing sound.

 

“I turned, slowly.

The only way I could know this

Was by the steps my feet made over each other.

 

“That’s when I came face to face with it—

Teeth ripping my face apart…. ”

The poem’s title was “Fear.” He’d always remembered that because it totally described how he felt being in the dark, and it pretty much described how he felt about his damned Nightborders.

Something was going to rip his face off, and his arms, and his legs…

But, he wondered, what would happen should he decide to tempt Fate?

To put to the test his old unreasoning horrors. Looking up to the ceiling, Quentin traced the image of his bed onto its stuccoed facing.

See, nothing there!

Hand reaching for the wall at the head of the bed, he quickly felt that out too.

Nothing. Nothing at all.

But to…to…

No, he still couldn’t quite bring himself to dangle an arm over the side.

What was the cause for all this sudden preoccupation? Shit, what a sissy!

What of reason?

How could dangling your limbs off the side of the bed bring about anything other than sleep? What is there in here that was going to harm you? You’re alone in the room (you checked that before the lights were all turned off), and there’s no such things as monsters.

Quentin had slowly become quietly neurotic.

It had gotten into his head way back that…for some strange reason…if you slept with any of your legs or arms outside the borders of your bed you would wake up more or less dead…

That your limbs would get sliced off by invisible guillotines from hell.

Or that some beast from the netherworld would come and rip them off if the guillotines missed them. It was all childish…totally unreasonable.

It was all just plain stupid and he bloody well knew it.

Now all he had to do was prove it.

Right.

Another night.

The next night was much the same as the previous, insomnia and neurosis reigning as King and Queen…but it was getting worse. And this time he was not alone. He’d met an old girlfriend in the supermarket, and, well, one thing led to another and before he knew it she’d come home with him. Quentin was not too fond of this girl, hence the reason for the “ex” before “girlfriend,” but he had been rather lonely lately and was growing tired of sleeping alone. Besides being rather bitchy most of the time, Tammy was attractive and her good points at night sometimes outranked her bad points.

Today her bad points seemed non-existent.

But he still couldn’t get the satisfying sleep he wanted, even after romping in the sack with Tammy, who was now contently snoring away at his side. He stroked her arm.

“Why do you have to be such a bitch?” he quietly whispered to himself. She just snuggled in closer. She’d gotten what she wanted and so had he.

Quentin lay on his back, feeling her warm body next to him. It had been so long, feeling the warmth of another beside him in bed….

Sleep, goddamn it!

Frustrated and cranky, he flipped on the bed-side radio at low volume, an AM station merrily chattering to itself. Quentin lie there, a leg dangling off the edge of the bed, Tammy’s body still positioned beside him. The queen-sized mattress was perfect for two, heaven for one (more room in which to avoid the borders…).

Unconsciously he drew his leg back in. Recalled how he had told Tammy about his fear of the borders and how she had just laughed at him.

One night he had awoken in the middle of the night to muffled giggling, only to find Tammy crouched beside the bed, holding out one of his legs over the edge of the bed. She’d looked like an evil troll there in the darkness. Lightening wasn’t fast enough to catch his actions as he pushed her off him and snatched his leg back in. That had been the start of their problems. The beginning of the end for their relationship. She continued to nag him (sometimes in public) that he was becoming a whimpering wimp.

Putting his hands behind his head, he brought that same leg that had been out up in a bend, knee pointing ceilingward. Thinking about nothing in particular, he started swaying the knee back and forth to the music. Tammy moved away from him slightly, murmuring something in her sleep, something that involved someone by the name of “Jack.”

“Hope it was good,” he whispered back to her.

Suddenly changing position, she arranged herself nearly diagonal to the bed’s length, feet over one edge, head against his body again. It was a decidedly uncomfortable position, he soon found, so he moved his body to allow her her room.

He finally began to drift off….

Quentin’s dreams were troubled and he tossed and turned, groaning.

Our hero was being chased by monsters and demons…was just able to outrun them….

Sweat poured off him in tidal waves. He’d all but forgotten he was in bed with Tammy, who now had a different leg hanging over the bed-side.

In his dream, he was on his back—when his leg was grabbed.

He looked down to find an iron shackle cinched around an ankle.

Frantically getting up, he tried undoing the binding.

His demons had finally caught up with him!

Time to wake up now…time to wake up—now.

He did.

He felt the bed jerk.

Tammy!

He noticed she too must have been having troubled dreams, her mumblings no longer light and airy, but troubled and near sobbing. There was periodic moaning, which got him excited, but at the same time horrified.

Where was that movement coming from?

He felt around her naked body…the tugging intensified, and to his horror he realized it wasn’t originating from her—

Tammy’s eyes flashed open and a scream came from her mouth.

AM music continued to play from the radio.

Tammy twisted and thrashed about violently in bed, and shot a hand to her ankle. She’d tossed Quentin away from her and slammed his head into the wall at the head of the bed. He saw all manner of stars and white light as he tried to regain mental stability and looked back to Tammy. She was bolt upright, shouting and screaming and there was something about something about her leg….

Quentin squinted, wincing at the pain in his head. Directed his gaze down the length of the beautiful naked from of his ex-girlfriend to…to what?

There was…there was—

A rusty iron shackle was attached to Tammy’s ankle.

Was that right?

Was he still dreaming?

No this was too real…this was no dream.

Tammy had reached down to her ankle and he’d seen something sticky had came off in her hand.

Quentin immediately curled his legs up about him.

His throat had frozen up. Was unable to move.

He watched as Tammy had now reached out for him, her face a grimace of horror. He looked back to the shackle. The shackle held her tight. She grabbed at him.

He lent no help.

“Help me! Goddamn it, Quentin, help me!”

Quentin tried to say something, but nothing came out. He just stared at her…wide eyed and opened-mouthed. He balled himself up into a tighter ball, pushed himself farther away from her and her pleading, from her outstretched hands.

Finally he found his voice.

Found his anger.

“You laughed at me, Tammy…laughed and ridiculed me! I told you about the Nightborders and you laughed! Made fun of me to our friends! You’ve always laughed at me and taken advantage of me! No more! This time you pay!”

“What are you talking about? Goddamn it, Quent, this is real—I’m dying here! Help me—I’ll never laugh at you again! Please!”

“I know you won’t.”

The words came out thick as ice.

Tammy froze in mid-plea.

Quentin watched as she was jerked several times—hard and rough—the fear in her eyes…her mouth an open, silent “O.” He couldn’t see her eyes, but knew how they must look.

He actually felt sorry for her.

Tammy reached back over to the other side of the bed. Quentin heard the sounds of chains and things rattling…saw several things suddenly whipping through the air, but carefully remained within their border…outside the mattress edge.

Tammy was jerked about again, her screams renewed when she saw that her wrists had now been grappled with harsh, rusty shackles like those on her ankles.

“Quentin! Please, please help me!”

Quentin closed his eyes and covered his ears. Shouted back at her.

“I tried to tell you but you wouldn’t listen! I…I can’t help you now! You trespassed! You broke the rules!”

Tammy clawed at the mattress. From her shackles blood flowed out and onto the bed.

Her body was yanked perpendicular to the bed…then yanked and drawn up a foot from the bed…her arms and legs outstretched by the chains that held her. Her painful screams to Quentin were now so mixed with her tears, it brought Quentin to tears as well.

He couldn’t let her die this way.

He broke from his huddle and went to her. Bitch or no bitch, she was still a person…a human…not a piece of raw meat to be so drawn and quartered.

He grabbed her writhing body at the waist, trying to pull her down.

“I’m sorry, Tammy, so sorry, but I tried to warn you! Forgive me!”

She looked to him, her stringy hair swinging in the air as the chains that held her rattled and pulled. Chains that came from above and below.

“Quentin!” The pain in her voice sounded unhuman.

Then a shadow emerged from the floor in front of them.

It followed the contours of the furniture and walls as it rose. It was manlike, arms to its sides.

Straining her head up to see it at its full height of seven or so feet, the shadow stood before them for a second before taking quick powerful strides to the other side of the bed. It checked the shackles. In a flash the figure was back in front of Tammy, who writhed in pain.

The night creature chuckled, filling the room with a contemptuous laughter.

“You shouldn’t have tempted the Fates, Miss Fowler. You should have listened to your boyfriend. Now you have to listen to me and my words are fatal.”

Numbed by her blood loss, Tammy was frozen by the demon’s voice.

It had spoken her name—her name—and that can mean only one thing: there was a spot in hell just for her.

“Let her go!” Quentin shouted, still pulling at her waist.

“I cannot. I am compelled to perform my duty. She has crossed borders that were not meant to be crossed. Illegally trespassed. For that she must pay.

“Good-bye, Tammy.”

In stereo Quentin heard sheathing sounds—just like a guillotine—that came in unison from both ends of the bed. One set had come from the ceiling, down…and the other came from the floor up. It deafened his senses, not from the sounds they made but from the effect he now held within his arms.

Tammy no longer screamed and no longer twisted.

No longer did she call out his name.

No longer would she ever sleep with him…or belittle him.

Quentin sank to his knees.

“Nooo! Why couldn’t you have listened to me—why!” he sobbed. “Damn you, Tammy!”

Quentin sobbed over the draining torso of Tammy Fowler in his arms.

The chains and shackles retreated back to wherever they had come from. Something wet and warm…smelling sickeningly pungent…unloaded onto his bed sheets and pooled about his knees.

The night creature picked up the separated remains of Tammy on the bedroom floor, holding them by their still-attached chains as he went to the quarters of the bed she’d over hung. He collected his due.

It again spoke.

“Obey the rules, my friend, and we can have a long and profitable relationship. But trespass and meet your reaper.”

It held up the limbs and head of Tammy Fowler and chuckled darkly…slowly disappearing the way it had come.

Quentin heaved the body over the borders…and cried….

 

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Filed Under: Short Story, Spooky, To Be Human, Writing Tagged With: Bad Girlfriends, Bedrooms, Beds, Borders, Demons, Evil, Horror, Monsters, Night Gallery

St. Vincent

February 12, 2016 by fpdorchak

Bless Us All. Every One. (Image by CC BY 4.0 [http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0], via Wikimedia Commons)
Bless Us All. Every One. (Image by CC BY 4.0 [http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0], via Wikimedia Commons)

I follow a belief system that is not traditional. I don’t say I follow “XYZ” because I don’t like attributing labels to what I believe in. But some of its concepts can be quite a reach for many: that we create and control our own lives, not a divine being (though I feel the Divine Being is the medium, love, and impetus for our very existence). That we are not at the mercy of others…but attract into our lives all that we get…that we set up our own challenges…and one statement in particular really inspired this particular story…

I think you’ll figure out which statement.

This story was originally published in Black Sheep #40, the April-May 2001 issue.

Saint Vincent

© F. P. Dorchak, 1995

 

Vince ground his booted-heel into the Arizona sand, thoroughly pulverizing the beetle beneath it.

“Must have been your time to go…just like me.”

I raise my head and look up to the scorching sun, smell the fumes of my still-burning Camaro, and feel the heat where I stand. “Why’s everyone so afraid of dying? It’s just part of living.”

I lift my dusty .44-caliber, Dan Wesson to eye level and blow off loose sand. I look it over. What was really responsible here? Me, or this miraculously crafted piece of stainless steel? This wonder of human engineering?

I chuckle.

What a work of art, indeed, from its utilitarian lines to its perfect heft and balance. I drop my hand and weapon back to my side and think about the trooper burning away within the remains of her vehicle and mine. I hadn’t meant to kill her, but she came at me and I just didn’t want to go. Yet. I probably did her a favor. She would have died some other time, under the hand of one who didn’t care nearly as much as I did.

At least I meant well.

I limp away from Route 93 towards the jagged precipice ahead. I stop and turn one last time to consider the wreckage of my ‘67 Camaro and the trooper’s brand new Camaro. Life can be so funny sometimes.

Must’ve been her time.

 

So why doesn’t anything matter?

We’re born, we die; if we’re lucky, we get laid now and then…maybe have a family or two…pay taxes from a job we more often than not can’t stand…then die. I’m not finding any answers, damn it, and I’m damn near the end of my rope—

I move off the pavement.

Vince climbed ever higher up the crags, his gun tucked into the rear of his jeans, waves of heat radiating off the rocks and sand beating into him. He sucks in thick gulps of air into aching, straining, lungs…

Where had I first heard—or read—it? The statement still plagues me like a festering wound: Fact is official fiction.

I mean, who comes up with this shit?

All my life I struggle…try to do the right thing…be the nice guy…and I’m told that everything, everything I’ve ever believed in, everything I’ve ever worked for…is false?

Fact is official fiction, all right.

If we make it all up, then what’s right (is there even a “right”)? Are we actually alive or mere characters? Me killing someone isn’t really killing since I’m not really taking anyone’s life—it’s all an illusion, fiction. There isn’t even a God because we make it all up.

Try to prove it otherwise.

Faith doesn’t work because we create that, too—sure, we create the ideas as well as the substance. It’s all part of how life works—am I the only one who sees this? But, no, it gets better, since we made up this idea of killing, now we must create the idea that if you kill someone—an untruth to begin with—you have to pay for it—another untruth.

Why? Why?

So am I really crazy…or is crazy just another made-up fallacy? And if I’m not real, then others can’t do a damned thing to me, right (and I can’t do a damned thing to them, either)?

Look at me so far: I’ve told my boss to go to hell (punched out the idiot, in fact) then robbed an all-night supermarket. So, several hundred miles, four days, and three dead bodies later, here I am, stuck out in the middle of the Arizona desert, drying up from the summer sun, and hungrier than a circling buzzard.

Yet, here I am.

Vince climbs higher, but never sees, or hears, the Arizona troopers below who block off the road. His mind swarms with tortured, philosophical arguments full of possibilities, probabilities, and inspirations. Finding a particularly good handhold, he pulls himself up and finds a ledge large enough to allow him to stretch out…but which also extends back out of the reach of the sun under an outcropping of rock.

I pull myself onto the ledge and enjoy the feel of the rock. I sense how it reaches out to me as I grab for it. I smell the dryness and timeliness of the earth. Even though my fingers, arms, and legs scream with pain, I enjoy where I’m at and how I’ve gotten here. I settle in on my ledge and stretch out. “So what have I really done?” I casually ask the rock walls. “Have I really robbed anyone…really killed anyone?” If there’s nothing to rob, then I didn’t really commit the crime, now, did I? If there’s nothing to kill, then I didn’t really commit a crime there either, did I?

Then why do I feel so damned guilty?

How can it all feel so genuine if it’s all so illusional? I feel like I’m watching myself—or someone else is—like I’m a-I’m a character in a book, or a movie. I feel like there’re these gigantic faces peering down at me from some ungodly distance….

Why can’t I figure this out?

In a sudden burst of anger, I toss my weapon away—only to realize a moment later what I’ve done—but it’s too late. I watch as my beautiful piece of utilitarian artistry flips and sails through the air…end over end, roll after roll…until (ages later) it clatters and bounces and discharges twice off the rocky escarpment below. The discharges echo wildly and I continue to watch stupidly, even after it has settled quietly somewhere in the rubble below.

“So…what did that mean?” I again ask the rocky walls.

Did that have any significance? Was that just some random act of man, God, or nature? Someone or something guiding me? Why would I do such a thing—and furthermore, would I require further use of the weapon? If no one’s ever really killed what need do I have of the thing?

If there‘s no death, then do I need to fear for my life? Do I need a killing machine to protect a life that can’t be taken away—

This is all so damned confusing.

Why is this happening to me? Am I missing something? Getting a vital part of the equation all fouled up and confused?

I fold my legs before me and clasp them with my hands. I look about. Feel the gentle breeze that softly caresses my skin—it doesn’t care what I have or haven’t done. I enjoy my solitude—that I’m alone on this ledge—just me, nothing else, and revel (did I actual use that word?) in the fact that I got myself here. I never would’ve considered doing something like this before, climbing sheer rock walls.

I try to relax, and inhale deeply; close my eyes. When I reopen them, I notice some strange little creature, like a scorpion, but without that menacing, curving, tail, curiously checking me out. It also doesn’t seem to know what I’ve done, what I’m capable of. It cautiously approaches; stops. Comes a little closer…then again stops. It’s quick. We look at each other. I know not what this thing is, and curiously enough, feel no need to kill it.

Why is that?

I reach out to it and it scurries back a step or two, then stops. I keep my hand where it is, and it reapproaches…pauses…then touches my skin.

I feel nothing.

It takes a tentative step or two with its little legs up onto my hand—then scurries the rest of the way up. I lift my hand to eye level and examine it. Whatever it is, it, too, is magnificently crafted and suited to whatever is its purpose. I smile, but suddenly feel sad, and lower my hand back to the dirt ledge. I allow the creature to hop off and continue on in its adventures.

Maybe I’ve misinterpreted everything. Maybe—

I consider suicide.

Launching myself from this ledge to soar like my gun, until I, too, strike the rubble below…but know I could never do such a thing.

Is suicide different from so-called “natural” death?

If fact is fiction, and we make up everything, then doesn’t that also apply to death, that we choose our own time of passing? If this is so, then how is suicide any different from dying from a heart attack? Either way we take our own lives. Could it be our own perceptions that make things right or wrong…our intents—

This is too weird. If I’ve figured it all out, then what am I still doing here? There has to be more…has to be something I’ve missed….

I again close my eyes and lay back against the rock.

“Oh, God—if there is a You—this feels soooo good.”

No deadlines…no hassles…no worries—current philosophical dilemmas notwithstanding. I feel like that book, Catch-22. How can I say I’m crazy, because if I say I am, am I? I wish I had that book here, now, I never did finish it.

I shuffle my hands through the dirt alongside me and touch something unexpected for my surroundings of sand and stone. I look down and find a paperback novel. I pick it up and read its title.

Catch-22.

It’s a worn copy…just like the one I last remembered reading.

“Wait a minute…this…this can’t be…unless—”

At that precise moment a rifled bullet slams through Vincent’s forehead, fired from the muzzle of an Arizona State Trooper’s rifle, and Vincent achieves sainthood. It was also then that I realized I was telling my own story…and that though I was a character in that story—as are any of us—characters need to care about themselves, just as readers need to care about them. It’s not about nothing—or even fiction—it’s about love, emotion, and experience—all that and more. It’s what each story means to each individual, each character. We all get out of our stories what we put into them. This is my story.

What’s yours?

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Filed Under: Leisure, Metaphysical, To Be Human, Writing Tagged With: .44, Arizona, Desert, Night Gallery, Publishing, Saints, Seth material, Short Stories, Smith & Wesson, Wind Scorpion, writing

Brains

February 5, 2016 by fpdorchak

"Mozky," by F. P. Dorchak. Published in Ikarie (Index 46 711), July 1992
“Mozky,” by F. P. Dorchak. Published in Ikarie (Index 46 711), July 1992

This story gives new meaning to someone who has a “mind of their own.”

Stories about parts of our bodies taking on lives of their own can be interesting. Is it an obvious story idea for writers…or is it more symptomatic of something else? A lack of trust in ourselves? Our perceived “dueling nature”? I don’t know. All I wonder is how heinous (I use this word a lot) would it be if something inside us…that was so a part of us…was trying to get out…?

This story was actually published in the Czech magazine, Ikarie—and even had a cool “pulp” illustration you can see at the end of the story (the illustration isn’t exactly as it should be, you’ll understand after reading it, but it’s still so dang cool—someone created an interpretation of something I wrote!—which is why I love having cover artists come up with their own ideas about my work)! The illustrator was Renatá Fučíková. It was also translated into Czech, which I also thought was extremely cool, my title translated into “Mozky.” The translator was Jan Kantůrek. And how cool (did I mention?) that I found some links to these two after all these years! I’d also received payment for the story, and no, I no longer remember how much it was, but the thrill of it was priceless! People in another land were reading my words in another language!

This was published in the July 1992 issue of Ikarie : Měsíčník science fiction.

 

Brains

© F. P. Dorchak, 1991

 

Migraines.

What causes them? Why do people get them? What makes them so painful? There are many different trains of thought, but I know what really causes them and why they’re so painful.

Something’s trying to get out.

I get them all the time now and have seen their end results. I will be an end result.

It all started—hell, I don’t even know how long it’s been anymore—these damned headaches—migraines—have begun to distort so much of what we call reality I’m beginning to wonder what is truth and what is reality! God, how it hurts! The pain, here it comes! It knows what I’m saying, of course, so there is little respite in what I do, but I have to get it all down before I, like the others, have my turn at death. Shit, it hurts.

It began, well…when it began.

I was taking a walk down a beach one night, by myself as I usually do anymore since the divorce, and I came upon this body in the darkness. At first I thought it was the usual variety of beach bum that inhabit these shores, but something was different about this one, even in its death as I soon discovered it was. It seemed more than vacated; ravaged. I know that the prime directive of discovering bodies (besides calling the authorities) is to leave things as they are, but I felt there was something I should see, something more than the husk that lay before me, curled up on its side, water just barely lapping beside it. Picking up a stick, I poked around, then brought out the mini flashlight I carry with me on such nightly excursions. It was then that I found that ghastly opening.

In the head.

God, the memory of that still fills me with such unutterable dread!

I should have turned away and gone for the phone immediately, should not have indulged my curiosity and dilly-dallied one second longer! Oh, that god, Hindsight!

But I did and here I am, cursed by that decision that the day holds so many of.

I took my stick—and flashlight riding shotgun—did a most fiendish thing. I stuck it inside.

I felt it tapping the hard edges of the skull…inside…I felt it disturb the violated air…inside…air that shouldn’t have been in there. And I felt yet another blasphemous thing, something I should not have felt, but did.

Nothing.

I felt nothing inside that skull. It was totally devoid of any so-called gray matter. This was probably the most heinous instance of the entire encounter that made my blood run cold. What was such a large opening doing there, inside this poor dead man’s head? What or who had done such a thing?

I didn’t stay any longer at that point, tossing the stick aside and sprinting to the nearest phone booth. Fear added the speed as I am not one prone to the current fitness craze, and it drove me madly indeed! But in my initial haste, my feet nearly fell upon something in the sand not far from the body. I know now what that thing was—but not then. I thought it a jelly fish and just narrowly was able to avoid it. I didn’t see where it went off to, but as it turned out, didn’t have to worry about it. They…would find me soon enough—

Pain, more pain.

God, I think it does this to tease me! It has no intentions of killing me just yet, I think. If it had wanted to, it could surely have a long time ago. It’s playing with me, the bastard. I think it wants me to do this.

Anyway, I finally called the cops and gave them all the information they wanted and, naturally, they kept me away from the scene once they got there. They were just as flabbergasted as I was when they found…that hole. But after grilling me for what seemed like weeks, nothing more came of it. I found the incident reported in the papers sometime later, but, curiously so, there was nothing mentioned of the hole in the head. The lack of a brain….

So my life went on as usual for a while and I continued to take my nightly strolls—ever careful to avoid that one particular spot. Glancing at it occasionally from afar, I wondered if the surf from the sea could ever adequately wash the lingering abomination from those sands.

Well, one night, a moonlit one, I found myself walking behind a fairly amorous couple, up ahead from me some hundred feet. There was lots of the usual hugging and handholding, all of which made me surprisingly angry. My divorce was barely a year old and I didn’t need the memories that now flooded my…my mind.

As the lot of us continued up the beach, I noticed the couple suddenly part, the screams from the woman brutally assaulting my ears. I stopped, initially wondering if they were horseplaying, but soon noticed that wasn’t the case. Then the girl turned in my direction and saw my silhouette. Help, she screamed, it’s attacking him, she cried! That’s when fear again made me sprint. I began wondering if maybe I should have gotten caught up in this fitness thing….

When I got up to them I found the girl kicking at the thing that was on her boyfriend.

I stopped in horror, I couldn’t believe what it was I was seeing!

It looked like a gigantic spider, its spindly legs gripping the guy’s back as he thrashed around in the sand. The thing’s body was about the size of a cantaloupe, or melon, and it seemed dark in color, its legs shooting out like unwieldy sticks. It was most horrendous to look at…to touch…to…grab it was unthinkable.

The girl continued screaming and pleading for me to do something, quickly pulling me out of my daze. So I began kicking at it. A few of my kicks missed their mark and I hit her boyfriend, but I’m sure he didn’t mind all that much. Shortly I was able to loosen it and watched it tumble off and roll along the sand, its legs curled up like a spider’s would, but it quickly rolled around and got back up on its legs—and scurried back for the guy. I intercepted it, but it then tried to get me. It was almost like trying to swat an annoying insect buzzing about your head. And the thing seemed ungainly swift for all its awkwardness. Looking for the couple, I saw the girl desperately pulling her boyfriend to his feet and dragging him away. He appeared hurt. The thing had hurt him. That was a mistake, looking away, and before I knew what was happening, the thing was upon me.

It climbed steadily up my legs…my chest…and I became almost as helpless as the man I had been trying to save was!

I felt its spindly legs grappling my body, felt its sustained movement up my body like nausea—then I felt it.

I was closer to it than I had ever wanted to be—and just moments ago I was so afraid of touching it! Now I was fighting for my life, valiantly trying to push all my repulsion aside. I grabbed for the thing and felt its legs fight me. In the moonlight I finally got a good look at it. A good look.

It was no spider.

This thing had implications a mind as mine couldn’t begin to comprehend, let alone want to. It was something worse than any spider I’d ever seen or heard of—it was…it was

(oh, the pain is so terrible!)

a brain.

I’m no anatomy expert, no spider-ologist or whatever the term is, but this thing looked exactly like a human brain, grooves, ridges and all.

Except for the spider legs which transported it.

I think I vomited at that point, but I don’t remember…all I knew was that I had to get this abomination off me!

The couple had long ago run off, and I was left alone to fend for myself, wrestling with this demon-thing. I grabbed it with both my hands….

The feeling was as one would expect from handling a brain, except for its pulsating movements. It was alive in more than the intellectual sense. I could feel life surging through its form, contracting against my hold, fighting. I gripped tighter and tried to pry it from my chest. It was easier to do then I had thought, especially after having had seen such a large amount of horror movies showing things like this as hard to remove. Holding the slimy thing away from my body I took a moment to inspect what this…brain…was. Its legs curled and continuing to fight, the whole of the brain pulsated, but underneath I saw something else. Where this one part of the brain tapers down and has the connection with the spinal cord—I’m not sure what it’s called, the medulla or something—was a scene so utterly horrid and vile I could stand it no longer. This…medulla…was undulating in a most revolting and sickening fashion. The only thing that came to mind was a man’s actions during copulation…and this I know forced more vomit from me. I cast it away from me…the ocean I thought…I had hoped the salt would have an effect on it, a wholly negative one I prayed….

Collapsed and exhausted on the sand, I tried catching my breath.

What manner of beast was that?

What…what could cause a human brain to transform itself into as such a vile nightmare?

I was numb. I momentarily forgot about the thing as I wallowed in my own contempt and vertigo and disgust…became suddenly hateful of life—of myself, of my brain. That that thing could take such a beautiful act of love-making and make a hideous mockery of it—a travesty beyond all description!

That was when I felt it clamp down on my neck from behind.

It had hopped back up on me and lay straddled there, legs wrapped around my neck!

I could feel the horribleness of its pulpy sponginess—like someone had laid a sloppy internal organ on the back of my neck. I could feel the salt water dripping down around my neck and into my chest.

Then I felt it copulating me!

Oh, God, the repulsion!

I felt the forceful insertion of its medulla into the base of my skull as easily as a man inserts his organ into a woman, then felt with shocked, childlike helplessness as I was raped, brain-semen pumped into me. The violation was far too intense for my conscious mind to bear and my body—my mind—was frozen…locked…in fear. I was utterly unable to move. The only thing I was able to do to combat the rape was to close my eyes and try not to think about it.

It seemed to take forever. I lost consciousness before it was over.

 

I woke up early that next morning with an acute migraine, dry heaves my only breakfast.

Rolling over, I felt a crunching sound and spastically pushed myself away. I saw the brain’s legs smashed, its body desiccated and shrunk. Trying to stand, a pain stabbed me in the base of my neck. Managing to get to my feet I looked around me…the world reeled and spun. Bringing my hand to my neck I felt the hole of insertion now closed…remnants of some God forsaken violation still spent about my neck. Its stickiness and repugnance drove me to the sea where I tried to cleanse myself and again and again I vomited dry heaves….

 

I brought myself in to the doctor’s later that day, under the ruse I had been out swimming and was stung by a jelly fish, but all the doctor could say was that I was indeed having migraines and prescribed me medication—which, by the way didn’t even begin to help—and sent me on my way. As he walked out, I noticed how he clenched his teeth and rubbed his own neck.

God, won’t this pain ever stop?

Right now the pain is a dull, throbbing ache deep within my head—my brain. I can feel it trying to get out—it wants out, damn it! It knows what I know, knows it must rally with the others! It is a squeeze worse than any diver’s squeeze I’ve ever experienced, but in the reverse.

I’ve since terminated my nightly walks along the beach…the pain too great…the-the implications too great…not to mention the thought of finding others like what I found terrifying. I don’t know what their purpose is…other than to kill and reproduce…but I do know they are multiplying.

It’s like I can feel them…feel their forces growing….

Maybe there is a psychic link or something between them, maybe they already know I’m on to them…why people are getting migraines…why they are so unbearable. I only wish there was more that I could do! The thought of something coming to life inside my head…trying to get out is unbearable…but the thought that countless other demon spawn are doing the same thing all over this country—maybe the world—is much worse. I don’t know if I have the strength to do what needs to be done, but hope I do. How else will others believe me? These things are somehow growing in strength and they need to be stopped. I don’t know how they’re doing it without most people knowing about it—in people’s sleep maybe—but maybe just by pure out-and-out attacks. Maybe…maybe they’re getting bolder. I have pictures in my mind—

Ahhh….it’s…pushing…harder!

I don’t have…much…time!

Oh, dear God, it hurts!

I-I have pictures in my mind of…multitudes…of these things running loose. They’re…getting smarter. More daring….

It’s time…I can last no longer.

I’m going to let it come, let the world see its coming and hopefully somebody—somebody stronger than I—can put an end to this. To them. Good bye, and…and…God bless. I’m so scared…God bless us, everyone….

 

Doctor Filbert hit “pause.”

“Are you sure you want to see the rest of this?” he asked.

Doctor Stevens “He is clearly having a mental breakdown of some kind…,” she said, unconsciously played with the box the video had come in.

“It’s not a very pretty sight,” Filbert said, with a slight grin. “In fact it’s pretty gross…even for me.”

Tina could’ve sworn there was a slight grin at the corners of his mouth. She never did like the man, but he was a decent surgeon.

If this poor man in the video was telling the truth, she hadn’t any idea what was going to happen next. She again looked to the note that he had left beside the video cam: “If anybody finds me, get this video to the medical authorities as if your life depends on it, for in truth it does. And be careful for your brains. You can’t trust them—especially those of you with migraines. Beware migraines! Beware brains!”

“Okay, here it goes.”

Filbert hit “play” and the screen came back to life.

The man was no longer talking, but crying. Huge tears poured out of his eyes as he struggled and pleaded with an unseen something in his seat.

But he’d done a good job of securing himself with Velcro and rope.

Then he screamed, and Filbert quickly lowered the volume. They were screams unlike any Tina had ever heard, the tortured screams of a dying man. Tina couldn’t turn away.

The man’s tears gave way to blood.

Tina watched as the man’s head bulged and swelled…his voice grew so strained she heard it crack…and finally die, as the man finally slumped.

Out from his head legs sprouted.

The legs were followed by a silent explosion of gore from the side of the head, some of which landed on the camera lens—

And out from the head crawled the brain—his brain—just as the man had described. It scampered down his lifeless form and across the floor somewhere…out of camera view. Filbert shut it off. Tina sat stunned.

“What a show, eh?” Filbert said.

“How—how can that be real?”

“What, you think that’s real? C’mon, Tina, it’s the product of a crazed—”

“I don’t believe so. This was too real. Too intense.”

“Well if you believe that, you’re not much better off than the whack job who made it. I’m trashing it—”

“No! Not until we look into it!”

“Right, who’s going to believe you?”

“Me. And that’s where it all starts. This guy gave his life to get…this…to us and I think we owe him, owe ourselves, no matter how outrageous it must sound, to look into it! How did you get this?”

Filbert looked to her. The lights were still off in the x-ray room where Doctor Filbert had dragged her into, to watch this.

“Thomas, let me ask you something. Why did you show it to me if you don’t believe it then?”

Filbert stood silently for a moment, casually placing the video on the patient slab. He paced the room.

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Because I wanted to get you in here, alone with me. Wanted to share it with someone before I trashed it.”

Tina suddenly realized where the video was and where Filbert was standing. He was by the power panel.

“You wouldn’t.”

He just smiled. “Tell me you wouldn’t—”

“Oops,” he said, smiling, and Tina heard the power switch on just as she got up to snatch the tape. She heard him laughing behind her as the x-rays poured out of the instrument and into the tape.

“Jesus, Tina, it was just a joke I was playing on you, God! I made the whole thing up! It’s a practical joke—you know! I wanted to get you alone so we could go out tonight. What do you say? Date?”

Tina looked up at him from the slab as she leaned over it. Hate filled her eyes.

“Never. In a million years. Would I ever…go out with you.”

Filbert laughed and he continued laughing.

He laughed as she stormed out of the room.

“Oh, I don’t think so, Tina!” he shouted out after her, “I’ll get you, one way or the other, I will get you, Doctor Stevens!”

The door swung in her wake as Filbert went over to the slab and picked up the video.

“Yes, Tina, we will get you,” he said, stuffing an errant leg back into his left ear.

"Mozky" ("Brains"), illustrated by Renatá Fučíková, 1992
“Mozky” (“Brains”), illustrated by Renatá Fučíková, 1992

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Filed Under: Short Story, To Be Human, Writing Tagged With: Aracnids, Brains, Czech Republic, Horror, Ikarie : Měsíčník science fiction, Jan Kantůrek, Night Gallery, Publishing, Renatá Fučíková, Short Stories, writing

Fear

January 15, 2016 by fpdorchak

Never Look Behind You!
Never Look Behind You! (Image by “COS 09,” Licensed under Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons – https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:COS_09.JPG#/media/File:COS_09.JPG)

From whence comes fear?

Darkness?

Evil?

Ourselves?

I suppose there must be all sorts of “papers” written about the subject, but this image came to me one fine day, years and years ago, so I wrote it up.

This is my second publicly published work of fiction. It was published in Tyro #16, on January 6, 1989.

 

Fear

© F. P. Dorchak, 1989

 

It was the Devil’s own pitch

A darkness utterly corrupt and vile.

 

I couldn’t see a thing, couldn’t hear a thing

The silence absolute—except of that internal ringing sound.

 

I turned, slowly.

The only way I could know this

Was by the steps my feet made over each other.

 

That’s when I came face to face with it—

Teeth ripping my face apart.

 

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Filed Under: Short Story, Spooky, To Be Human, Writing Tagged With: Evil, Fear, Night Gallery, Prose Poems, Short Stories, Tales From The Darkside

Cemetery Art

March 28, 2014 by fpdorchak

By Robin from Kraków, Poland (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0 Public domain via Wikimedia Commons)
By Robin from Kraków, Poland (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0 Public domain via Wikimedia Commons)

You know, one might well ask, what the hell, Frank? Why are you so fascinated with cemeteries?

Fair question.

I’m fascinated with life…and life involves transitions. Part of those transitions…is death.

Death…cemeteries.

I posted my query to myself on this same question, in my post Cemetery Dance, where I attempt to answer this question. But, since I’ve gotten onto Pinterest, I found something else that piques my interest about cemeteries: all the really cool cemetery art. Yes, art. The stuff is incredible. It’s art that rarely seems to get the time of day. Sure, some of it is creepy, but to someone, like myself, who’s interested in the paranormal and supernatural, wow, it’s some of the neatest art out there! A real-life Night Gallery of sculptures! And what they reveal in their composition can be quite stunning. The love and caring that went into their creation, the expression of their love for the dear departed over which they now reign can be downright striking.

So, rather than post all kinds of Pinterest photos here (if that’s even legal…), please take a look at some of my collection. I’ve only recently gotten onto Pinterest, so I don’t have a ton of material, but I do add to it kinda frequently, so please, feel free to stop by off and on, during your travels! Hope you find them as fascinating as I do!

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Interview with “Mr. Twilight Zone” and His Gal Friday

September 15, 2013 by fpdorchak

"Five in the Fifth," © Wendy Brydge, 2013
“Five in the Fifth,” © Wendy Brydge, 2013

Paul Gallagher (aka, “Mr. Twilight Zone”) and Wendy Brydge (aka, “Gal Friday”) are two bloggers who explore the works of Rod Serling and his effect upon the Human Condition, with sometimes poignant, often insightful clarity, through their sites, Shadow & Substance and Seeker of Truth. I met them both through Twitter, discovered their blogs, and enjoy their passionate discourse. They have great insight into many aspects of The Twilight Zone, and are quite the enjoyable conversationalists. I frequently reblog their Twilight Zone posts. This is probably my longest interview yet (well, it is actually two interviews in one), but it was great fun working with the both of them, and in getting to know them better. I hope you feel the same! Thanks to Wendy for creating a special work of art just for this post (the “Five in the Fifth” graphic, above). Today, September 15th, is also the 52nd anniversary of the Twilight Zone episode, “Two,” this interview is posted today in honor of that.

Paul and Wendy, could you give us a short bio on yourselves?

Wendy: I’m a freelance commission artist, born, raised, and living in Northern Ontario, Canada. This would explain all of those unnecessary “u”s in my writing! I’m an avid reader (at least I enjoy reading when I have the time), and I’m known for taming the native wildlife: chipmunks, squirrels, a gaggle of chickadees, and a crossfox. I am the self-proclaimed “Seeker of Truth.” Research is my middle name—I study a little bit of everything. I wear my faith as a Christian proudly, often highlighting it through my art. Vampires are my weakness—books, films, lore, history—and when I’m not painting, I’m writing. Or “Gal Fridaying” for Paul!

Paul: I’m in the freelance business as well, albeit on the writing side of things. I’ve had articles appear in most major newspapers and on many websites. I also have a full-time job as an editor for a large non-profit organization in Washington, D.C.—one that has nothing to do with Rod Serling! I’ve lived in the D.C. area all my life and enjoy writing about a variety of topics: history (American Civil War history in particular), films, books, movies and music, both rock and classical. Besides Serling, I have a passion for the music of the Beatles and the films of Alfred Hitchcock, but I’m crazy about most “classic rock” and almost anything from Hollywood’s golden age.

Quite the range and reach, you two! When and how did you both become aware of Rod Serling and/or his work?

Wendy: I can remember watching the Twilight Zone (TZ) when I was very young. My dad’s always been a bit of a fan. He remembered watching it with my grandpa when he was a kid. I wasn’t familiar with any of Serling’s other work until I met Paul. I’m definitely not the über fan that he is, but talking to Paul and learning more about the broad scope of Serling’s work has given me a greater appreciation for Serling, the writer. TZ may be his claim to fame, but everything he touched, he infused with a little piece of his soul. The man was one hell of a writer.

Paul: It was the same for me, though for me the parent who shared my interest in fantasy and science fiction was my mother. I remember discovering TZ in reruns with my brother, who initially was the big fan in the family. He was the one who first had a copy of Marc Scott Zicree’s The Twilight Zone Companion, which I poured through all the time. The first TZ I ever saw was “Five Characters in Search of an Exit”—I can still picture seeing it on the TV at my grandparents’ house—and I was in awe of this weird, wonderful series. It didn’t look like anything else on TV. It still doesn’t.

What drew you both to the Twilight Zone?

Wendy: I don’t know what it is exactly that makes TZ so appealing. I love that it’s in black and white, that just adds a classic creepiness to every episode, and for the most part the picture is so crisp and sharp. The filming was beautiful (and I happen to be a huge fan of the video-taped episodes). My favourite aspect of the show though is that many of the episodes have a great moral lesson in them. It’s not just empty entertainment. It’s stories about people and how they deal with certain situations and circumstances. And while many of the stories could have a similar theme, they were all so very different. You can’t get bored watching. There is much to be learned from this series. The writing was brilliant. Another thing I like is that there’s a variety of endings. There are endings which are designed to make you think (“The Howling Man” and “The Gift”), endings that deliver straight up justice (“Deaths-Head Revisited” and “The Masks”), and there are beautiful, happy endings, too (“The Hunt” and “Night of the Meek”). Serling knew the recipe for creating a show with longevity.

Paul: I agree. The very fact that we’re sitting here talking about it, fifty years after it first aired, is a testament to just how timeless it really is. And it owes a great deal to what Wendy just highlighted—the look of the show, that striking black-and-white photography, and the feature-film quality that is stamped on every episode. Television, then as now, has always been plagued by bean-counters who just want everything done as cheaply as possible, and you can see the result: the vast wasteland that television is rightly accused of being. Serling, though, saw TV’s potential. He once said he wanted to “prove that television can be both commercial and worthwhile.” And God bless him, he fought for it. It shortened his life, it honestly did, but what a rich legacy he left behind. A series for the storyteller, as he said right from the start. And not just any stories, but stories that fired the imagination, and yes, often taught a moral lesson. And if that lesson pricked our conscience, if he had to remind us of the evils of racism or the insanity of the nuclear age, he didn’t flinch. He was fast, prolific, dedicated to quality, and smart enough to employ some of the best people in the business, both in front of and behind the camera. And because people loved and respected him, they really stepped up their game. The result is one of the most memorable shows of all time.

Both your sites have been featured on Word Press’s Freshly Pressed. Your sites are growing in followers. To what do you attribute such success? Why do you think your sites attract such attention and growing followships?

Wendy: I think both Paul and I create very high quality content. We take great care in making sure our posts are error free and smooth reading. And the one thing we both have in common—and what I attribute our growing success to—is passion. There are a lot of great writers out there, but they lack passion in their writing. And a lack of passion can make what you write, no matter how well written, boring. You have to get people excited for what you’re talking about, whether they like the topic or not. If the passion you have for a given subject shines through in what you write, the reader will be drawn in and want to read more. If you’re excited, they’ll be excited. It’s contagious. Also, my blog is not limited to just one topic, I write about anything and everything, from TZ to Poe to painting. My reader base is a wide one, bringing in people from all walks of life.

Paul: Exactly. There’s something about writing about Serling’s work—and despite the fact that TZ takes up most of my oxygen, I do highlight his work throughout his career—that makes you want to do high-quality work. When I sat down to write my post for “Eye of the Beholder” (my personal favorite), I didn’t just tear off a few quick thoughts. I thought, “My God, this was one of Serling’s masterpieces. I owe him my very best work.” That’s my motto on my Twitter page, which preceded the blog by a good nine months. I’m scrupulous about quality. Each quote has to be accurate and interesting. Each fact has to be right. And each blog post has to shine. Serling once said that he wasn’t interested in what anyone would call second-best, and I wholeheartedly agree. That’s why I’m so fortunate to have Wendy assisting me. She’s just as dedicated as I am to making everything as perfect as it can be.

How’d you two meet?

Wendy: William Windom introduced us. No, I’m serious! I found Paul on Twitter one day while searching for anything TZ related. He had written a tweet about William Windom’s roles in TZ/Night Gallery (NG). Now, I wasn’t familiar with NG, and ironically, I’m not a fan of “Five Characters In Search of An Exit,” but I am a fan of “Murder, She Wrote,” which is how I was most familiar with Windom. I thought a TZ quote page was great, so I followed Paul, and replied to his tweet, mentioning that Windom would eventually become my favourite character, Dr. Seth Hazlitt, on “Murder, She Wrote.” Paul followed back, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Paul Gallagher, "Mr. Twilight Zone"
Paul Gallagher, “Mr. Twilight Zone”

Paul: Yes, a toast to Dr. Hazlitt! I had been doing the Twitter page for about a year and half at that point, and suddenly this very pretty girl followed me. What got me, though, was all these clever replies she’d come up with. Most people don’t interact with me much, if at all, and those who do usually don’t have anything all that interesting to say, but Wendy was very witty, very fast, and had a sense of humor that was just like mine. And she kept coming up with these amazing “Follow Friday” tweets for me! Becoming friends with her was very easy. We just clicked from the word “go.”

I’m also a fan of “Murder, She Wrote,” and, since you mentioned William Windom, I used to watch this show as a kid, called “My World and Welcome to It” (yes, I’ve been around a while…). It only lasted one season, but I loved that show.

Paul also writes about The Night Gallery (and you, Wendy, help him with the images), another series Mr. Serling designed. How do you both contrast the two?

Wendy: While I myself haven’t done any writing about Night Gallery, and I haven’t seen many of the episodes, what stands out most for me between the two is Serling’s direct involvement, or lack thereof. Every episode of TZ has Serling’s magic touch. Even the not so great episodes are still better than 95% of what’s on TV today. He had much more control over the content and execution of Twilight Zone than he ever did with Night Gallery, and it’s reflected in the finished product. Now, we can’t really do a direct comparison of the two shows, they aren’t the same beast, nor are they supposed to be. Night Gallery is a bit darker, more horror than suspense. And it lacks the subtle beauty of TZ. I can only comment on what I’ve seen, but all in all, NG comes across as kind of crude compared to TZ. Less refined, less satisfying overall. I don’t think I could call myself a fan of Night Gallery. There’s just not enough Serling in this series to make it as exceptional as TZ.

Paul: I’m a fan of Night Gallery, but I agree with Wendy’s assessment. There’s no question that TZ was the better show, and yes, it was because Serling was the executive producer. When it came to Night Gallery, he passed on this time-consuming job, but still thought that they’d defer to him on major decisions. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. They wanted his name, but not his advice—a huge mistake. And rather than have one story per episode, Night Gallery sometimes had as many as four, and some of them were these odd little sketch comedy pieces that producer Jack Laird loved, and Serling hated. However, the series can’t be written off entirely. They produced many fine segments, including Serling’s “They’re Tearing Down Tim Riley’s Bar” and some other very entertaining stories. And it was surprisingly influential. Director Guillermo del Toro, for example, watched the series as a child and gives Night Gallery a lot of credit for inspiring his interest in horror. And there are two episodes with Vincent Price! What more could you want?

Vincent Price, another wonderfully fun actor to watch!

Wendy, you also write about the Twilight Zone, but as Paul’s much lauded “Gal Friday,” could you also describe how you contribute to his posts?

Wendy: Truth be told, I ghost write all of Paul’s posts, then he just signs his name to them and publishes them on his blog. No, no. I’m just kidding. As Paul’s Gal Friday, I’m basically here for whatever he might need. In the behind the scenes department, he runs ideas by me, or we brainstorm ideas together. Sometimes I’ll go over his early drafts for a piece and offer my opinion on the direction it’s taking. I make recommendations and suggestions, and eventually Paul places the finished piece in my capable hands for my eagle-eye editing. No post is published until I’ve seen it and it receives my “GF Stamp of Approval.” And of course I provide Paul with photos for his posts, as he so kindly credits me with a tag line at the end of each. I’m lucky enough to have a complete set of TZ DVDs, so when there’s a new blog post in the works, I go through the relevant episodes, selecting shots that I think look good, save them, format them, and send them along to Paul, who chooses the ones that work best for the post. I think I do a little bit of everything!

Paul: No kidding! It’s hard to overestimate Wendy’s influence. Before she came along, I was writing some very good posts, but the blog didn’t take off until I began to involve her more and more in their preparation. I look back at some of my early posts, and I just cringe: I would put no pictures, no artwork of any kind! Yes, I made sure the posts were well-written, but they lacked any presentation. Having a best friend who’s an artist par excellence is a huge benefit. And, to my utter delight, she’s a terrific editor, too. She has an eagle eye for typos, she’s very meticulous, very organized, and always has these terrific suggestions. The high-quality screen grabs alone have made a major difference. Rather than just grabbing some poor-quality image off the web, I can say, “I’m planning a post on ‘Night of the Meek.’ Can you give me a few pics?” And Wendy will come back with three dozen or more high-quality images. You know what that means? I can select just the right pic, and put it in just the right spot. That’s a big, big help. I could not do the blog without her. Or I could, but it would be markedly inferior!

What do you think prepared you for your roles in “administering” to the Twilight Zone/Night Gallery legacies? Have you both always had an interest in the Human Condition?

Wendy: Passion, a keen interest in observing, and an overwhelming desire for understanding. I have always been interested in the Human Condition, although I don’t believe I ever really thought about it specifically. But I don’t believe you can be a true TZ fan and not have an interest in it.

Paul: Very true. So much of Serling’s work endures, I believe, because of this palpable interest in, yes, the Human Condition. Think of how many episodes of TZ centered on the forgotten people on life’s periphery: washed-up boxers, innocent prisoners, alcoholic gunmen, sidewalk pitchmen. Ordinary men and women just trying to make their way through life and not get knocked down permanently. And Serling reached out and highlighted their stories. He poked our consciences and needled our sense of justice. I don’t know what, if anything, prepared me for this (though my wonderful parents certainly strove to instill a firm sense of right and wrong in me), but I can tell you that something in Serling’s work has always stirred me deeply. And the more I delve into his writing, the more impressed I am with it, the more touched I am. And therefore the more keen I am on sharing his vision, which I try to do in my own modest way.

Do you both have any far-ranging goals you’d like to share, whether about yourselves or your Serling legacy efforts? We’ve joked about this in tweets, but, might there be a book in the offing…?

Paul: Yes, I’ve had a book in mind for a long time now. One that won’t just be an episode guide, as many previous books have been, but that will explore his work in greater depth by examining the themes that surface time and again, from loneliness to fear of the unknown. At this point, it’s just in the planning stages, but I can tell you that when it appears, it will be a world-class effort that will rely heavily on Wendy’s unique and irreplaceable talents. If I don’t even want to publish a blog post without her help, you can imagine how I feel about publishing a book without her—it’s unthinkable! The final volume will be very much a Paul-Wendy product.

Wendy: Ah, yes. “The Book.” Paul and I have enjoyed many discussions about this. I think I’m even more driven than he is to make this happen. He’s my best friend and this is one of his dreams. And he deserves to be recognized for the amazingly talented writer he is. His dedication is simply unparalleled. The amount of work that goes into his Twitter page and blog? He may do it for fun, and people might think it’s just a “hobby,” but I’ve seen what it takes to do all that Paul does. Make no mistake about it, it’s work. Enjoyable work, but work nonetheless. So my far-ranging goal is definitely to help Paul make this happen. There will be a book.

Do keep us posted on the book! I think we’d all love to see that!

Okay, I know we’ve all posted our favorite TZ/NG lists of episodes, but, right here, right now…name the first one that comes to mind, and why? It doesn’t have to be your “favorite,” per se, we’re just getting Freudian, here. :-]

Wendy: “The Hitchhiker”. It’s almost always the first TZ that comes to mind when someone brings up the series. It did make my top 25 list, but was at the bottom end. This episode has always sat funny with me. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy it, and Inger Stevens is amazing as Nan, but just the whole idea of her running around, thinking that she’s okay, then finding out…uh, nope. Not okay at all. It’s not just a general creepiness that it causes, I think it kind of scares me a little. And that end narration of hers, the realization and acceptance of what happened…wow. It’s a spooky episode, and one that won’t leave your mind any time soon.

Paul: “The After Hours.” It’s one of my favorites, yes, but I selected it in one of my earlier blog posts as the episode that I would show someone who had never seen TZ before. Everything that made TZ a success is there: Serling’s writing, that beautiful black-and-white photography, world-class acting, inventive directing, a terrific musical score. It’s TZ in a nutshell—scary, perceptive, mysterious and thought-provoking. And, most of all, fun.

And now, for my Freudian analysis (our little group of TZ aficionados like to analyze our favorite TZ show choices): Wendy, you think you’re “ok,” but you’re uneasy, searching for something (the “truth”? ;-] )…and feel you’re on a surreal road trip in your personal quest for this Truth, but…you’re Not Alone. Initially this frightened you, but no longer! Paul, you’re tired of the staid “mannequins” of society and are trying to get them to see even a thimble of truth (note that both of you are well-suited to each other, here!)…what lies beyond the musty old attics of their parochial, retail-oriented mindsets! Limit me, will you! No, no,  I’ll never go back!

How’d I do?

Wendy: Oh, you are spot on, Frank! Seriously! All in fun, but still very, very true! Freud himself couldn’t have analyzed me better! Hmm, Paul, are you my hitchhiker?!

Paul: I’m certainly “going your way”! Frank, that’s a very perceptive analysis. All in fun, yes, but I do get that feeling sometimes! I wonder, in fact, if that might have subconsciously motivated me to try and carry Serling’s message to a wider audience. Interesting to ponder!

Thank you! My office hours are 1 a.m. to 2 a.m…in the Twilight Zone….

And, in the spirit of the previous question, which episode—Twilight Zone or Night Gallery—most embodies or “fits” who you each are?

Wendy: Oh, good question! But a difficult one. After much consideration and thought, I’m going to say my favourite TZ episode, “The Howling Man.” My life is a constant search for the Truth (hence my blog name, “Seeker of Truth”) both in a religious and non religious way. This episode illustrates man’s struggle to fight lies with the truth. It’s something I do every day, in every aspect of my life. David Ellington represents our struggle, while Brother Jerome is the fighting spirit. I’m always searching for hope, and to me, that’s what this episode shows us. That even though we struggle and life isn’t easy, there is hope that it can be better. Brother Jerome did capture the Devil. It wasn’t easy, but he showed determination and perseverance. And in doing so, he helped more than just himself.

Wendy Brydge, Gal Friday
Wendy Brydge, Gal Friday

Paul: I don’t know if it embodies me, per se, but I’d say it’s a toss-up, or a tie, between “A Passage for Trumpet” and “The Changing of the Guard“. Both are what I like to call redemptive tales, which for me are the most satisfying episodes. I mean, I’m crazy about episodes like “Perchance to Dream” and “Shadow Play“, both of which are really just there to mess with our minds and give us a little scare, but I have a soft spot for the stories that take a character who thinks he’s a loser, who thinks he hasn’t made a difference, and then—through the magic of the Twilight Zone and Serling’s sensitive writing—learns that he matters, that he’s here for a reason, that things can be better. I want to pick those characters up and help them, so when I see Serling do it, it inspires me to want to do the same.

Huh, so much for my in-depth analysis….

It’s clear you both enjoy blogging. Wendy, I know you do commercial art (and a “fine” job you do at it, too, pardon the pun…), and Paul, I know you’re a writer and editor for non-profit, but are there other forms of expression: a) you’re already doing, and b) you’re not, but would like to do?

Paul: I have a great interest in film and its effect on our perceptions of right and wrong. I’ve been writing a book in my head on that topic for a long time. I’d also like to dive a little deeper into the films of Alfred Hitchcock, another great favorite of mine. I want to do the Serling book first, though, because it’s the one that most wants to come out. I’m also interested in writing screenplays, which hardly makes me unique, but I do have a strong interest in writing at least one story that makes it to the big screen. However, the most near-term “form of expression” I’d like to mention is the Twilight Zone podcast I’ll be doing with Wendy. I view it as the next logical step in my efforts to bring greater attention to Serling’s work and increase appreciation for it. I started with a Twitter page, added a blog, a Facebook page, and a Pinterest page. It’s a good time to start a podcast. And having Wendy as my co-host is key. She already helps me do my best work on the blog, and I’m convinced she’ll do the same for the podcast. We’ll drill down into specific episodes and just have some fun with it. I’m really excited about it!

Wendy: I’m also very excited for the podcast. I hope everyone is ready to hear the Boss and his Gal Friday banter back and forth! Right now art and writing are the only things I’m doing, but I’d really like to combine the two someday. Eventually I too would like to compile a book. I’m interested in so many different things, and I love books with a lot of pictures and tons of information. I’d like to do something maybe even a bit encyclopedic, combining art of all varieties, artists, writers, etc., all together in the same book. I wouldn’t exactly call this a “dream”, but it’s something that interests me. In the shorter term (and blog related, sorry!), in addition to our podcast, Paul and I are currently working on a joint blog post I’ll be featuring soon on Seeker of Truth. He’ll be my first (and only!) guest blogger! It combines TZ and art — my art, to be exact. Very excited to have Paul join in and do this with me!

What do you two like to read, are currently reading?

Wendy: As far as fiction goes, I very much enjoy supernatural-based series. Bring me a book about a vampire and I’ll read it! Anne Rice’s “Vampire Chronicles” were good, and my favourite author Kelley Armstrong’s “Women of the Otherworld” series (which sadly ended last year) was magnificent. I’m currently working my way through Laurell K. Hamilton’s “Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter” series (it’s a long one—more than 20 books), as well as reading your The Uninvited, Frank! I don’t have a lot of time to devote to fiction anymore, but I read a lot of non-fiction in the form of books about history. I study Egyptology, The Crusades/Templars, mythology, artists, etc. I have an amazing library filled with books about anything you’d ever want to learn. And I love my Encyclopedia Britannica set! I’ve had my nose stuck in those since I was about six years old.

Paul: I’m a big fan of the classics. Anything from Poe to Hawthorne to Verne to Dumas, I’m there. I also enjoy reading mysteries and thrillers. I have a growing collection of paperbacks from the “pulp” sci-fi era, ones with stories by Richard Matheson and Charles Beaumont, and I really enjoy those. I’m also a big reader of history and of anything that goes behind the scenes of movies and TV shows that I’m a fan of. My collection of books, both fiction and non-fiction, is prodigious. It’s crazy, how many books I own. I enjoy reading on my Kindle, but there’s nothing like a real book. The feel of it, the smell of it, the look of it.

Thanks for the kind mention, Wendy! Is there anything else burning inside either of you with a need for expression?

Wendy: Oh, there’s always something else that’s burning inside. But the need for expression is very time-sensitive. And for me? It’s just not the right time to share that yet. Spoilers! Ask me again ten, fifteen years down the road.

Paul: You can ask me then as well, actually. I’m such an extrovert that there’s little that goes unexpressed, but some things need to stay private, at least for the time being. There’s a time and a place for everything. Now’s not the time. But thanks for asking.

If you were to each have a gravestone, what would you have engraved upon them?

Wendy: Front: “Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?”

Back: “Next stop…Willoughby.”

Paul: “Be ashamed to die until you have won some victory for humanity.” That’s the inscription on the statue of Horace Mann in TZ’s “The Changing of the Guard.” It’s so easy to just mark time on this earth, when God really intends for each of us to accomplish something important—if we’re willing to listen and work for it. I find that saying to be wonderfully inspirational, so I’d like to share it posthumously with anyone who sees my gravestone.

Thanks for your time, Paul and Wendy!

Paul: And thank you, Frank, for inviting us. It’s been fun!

Wendy: A lot of fun! Thanks, Frank!

Paul and Wendy’s Social Media:

Paul Gallagher’s Twilight Zone blog, Shadow & Substance (http://thenightgallery.wordpress.com/).

Paul Gallagher’s Twilight Zone Twitter page, @TheNightGallery (https://twitter.com/thenightgallery).

Paul Gallagher’s Twilight Zone Facebook page (https://www.facebook.com/ofshadowandsubstance).

Paul Gallagher’s Pinterest page (http://pinterest.com/thenightgallery/).

Wendy Brydge’s Seeker of Truth blog, (http://wendylovesjesus.wordpress.com/).

Wendy Brydge’s Twitter page, @WendyLovesJesus (https://twitter.com/wendylovesjesus).

Wendy Brydge’s Fine Art & Custom Design (http://wendybrydge.wix.com/fineart).

Wendy Brydge’s Pinterest page (http://pinterest.com/wendylovesjesus/).

Filed Under: Just Plain Weird, Paranormal, Philosophical, Space, To Be Human, UFOs Tagged With: Edgar Allan Poe, Marc Scott Zicree, Night Gallery, Paul Gallagher, Rod Serling, Television, Twilight Zone, Wendy Brydge

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