mishafrankenstein

[mishafrankenstein]

The Black Creek Gang

I met Hawky and Co’ by the rotten old stump behind Old Man Jenkin’s place. We were somewhere around 14 years old that summer, the year I really got to know those two. They waited for me while I arrived late, like I always did.

Hawky, called that since he always hit his mark with his tomahawk, occupied himself by balancing his hatchet on his chin. He and his dad started blacksmithing out of their garage as a hobby, and they managed to make the thing out of some old wrought iron they salvaged. Proud as hell of it, and always learning new tricks.

Co’, short for Commander - she could get anyone to do anything. There was something terrifying about her which made me more afraid of her disapproval than that of my parents. She was wearing a camera around her neck when I arrived, so I knew she was up to something.

Then there was me, Grub. Called that because I was the new kid, even though that was my third summer with the gang. I didn’t have any special talents other than reading far too many ghost stories, but I ain’t no slouch. I just hadn’t found my real calling yet.

“Bout time,” Co’ said, jumping off a big rock.

Hawky holstered his ‘hawk and crossed his arms, turning his shoulders square to face both Co’ and me.

“What’s up,” I said, greeting the rest of the Black Creek Gang with a nod.

“You’re gonna love this.” Hawky gave me a half grin.

“Oh yeah?” I raised my brows.

“We’re gonna shoot a ghost.” Co’ flashed me a smile and hefted her camera. “Jenkins died last week, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. “You think he’s haunting or something?”

Hawky fidgeted with the button on his hawk holster. “He was a mean sonova bitch. And you was saying last month how angry ghosts stick around.”

“And that big ol’ Scooby Doo mansion of his is sitting vacant,” said Co’. “So we’re gonna do some exploring and a bit of ghost hunting.”

“I’m in,” I stood up straight and broadened my shoulders.

We hiked our way up the goathead-covered hill behind the old man’s house. Co’ was unfazed. Hawky and I did our best to claw our way through behind her, trying not to appear weak.

The house itself was this huge ridiculous gothic thing, like it should be full of Addams’ or maybe a wolfman or a frankenstein. It lorded over us as we crept up to the back door.

Co’ flipped her mom’s credit card out of her pocket and slid it between the door and the frame. With a lot of fiddling and a lot of swearing, she managed to get the door to open, groaning on its rusty hinges as it reluctantly welcomed us in. “Hawky,” she whispered, “you’re first.”

Hawky nodded and carefully unbuttoned the strap on his holster before taking a few timid steps into the darkness.

“Shoulda brought a light,” he hissed as he squinted into the innards. I spotted an old brick half buried in an overgrown planter. I snatched it up and knocked off some of the dirt.

“The hell you doing?” sneered Co’.

“Gonna brick the door open,” I spit back. “He might try and trap us.”

Her face shifted in approval and she followed Hawky without another word, taking the camera from around her neck. The stillness of the air was interrupted by the high pitched whine of the camera flash warming up. I made my way inside after making sure the door was safely propped open.

We picked our way through the house on tiptoes into a large living space. We stopped as soon as we heard humming drift in from the other room. Hawky turned back toward us with his face all twisted up somewhere between confusion and panic. All it took was a few forceful gestures from Co’ to get the gang moving again.

We peeked around the corner like a three headed monster and squinted into the library. In an old wingback chair sat a glowing, transparent figure. The chair was turned away from us, denying a good view of its occupant.

Co’ looked to Hawky and me and gulped. Anyone else might have turned away and escaped but nothing scared Co’ more than being labelled a coward. She crept around the periphery of the library, aiming her camera at the chair. Made it halfway before the figure leapt to his feet, and I swear that old ghost had fangs and claws where most folks would keep their usual teeth and fingers. She yelped, dropped her camera and forced her way past Hawky and me.

Hawky skittered away, losing his hatchet out of his open holster.

“Get out!” bellowed the spirit as I snatched the camera from the ground.

The flash snapped when I released the shutter and the ghost staggered back. I continued to snap photos as I stepped backward toward the open door, slowing the ghost’s pursuit.

I reached the hatchet. With a quick spin, I yanked it off the floor and bolted toward the exit, collapsing on the dry grass at the feet of my companions.

“Jesus,” gasped Hawky. “I didn’t realize you were fearless!”

Co’ slapped me on the back, “you sure are, Mongoose.”

[mishafrankenstein]

A Halloween Story

A man of gray in both face and clothing stood grounded in the swirling mists of the night. His features flattened against the backdrop thanks to the peculiar color of his skin. He stood silently and still as stone, watching a boy struggle with the lock on a door.

A boy, dressed for a cold autumn night, pulled half-heartedly on the stout wooden door. He had been trying for well over an hour now, and no attempt to open the door or to wake his family within had worked. It had started with panic, pounding on the door with his fist and calling out for help but eventually his vigor wore thin and and his confidence waned. He felt the prickling crown of frustration heavy on his brow while the heat of anger flared atop a hearth of fear.

The gray man kept his distance as he watched, taking great care not to appear like he was lurking. Silently, he waited for the right moment to catch the boy’s attention. The air was glacially still, but the man felt a chill wind race up his spine. He clenched his teeth and resisted the shuddering of his body, frustrated at his lack of control.

It was late and the boy was tired. He gave up his attempts at entry and resigned himself to sit on the stoop until morning. He put his back to the door and slumped down to its base, drawing his knees close. He sighed and tried to establish some relative bearing in his mind as to how late it was, based on his memories of the night. It couldn’t have been too late, by his reckon, since he hadn’t gone that far from home. It’d be a long night of waiting and he wished that he had brought along a scarf.

The boy’s eyes tiptoed the path that crept away from his door and out toward the road. A spark of lightning shot down his back when he noticed the man looming at the end of the path. They stared at one another for several moments - neither one dared be the first to breathe.

The man gave in first. He raised his left hand in a greeting and forced a smile. The boy responded by scrambling to his feet and resumed yanking on the door. He pulled with the full weight of his body and called for help from the people who were safely locked inside. He could hear the footsteps of the gray man behind him. They were steady and confident, but they lacked the sound of aggression.

The footsteps stopped.

“You know the living cannot wake until the spirits return to sleep,” said the gray man.

The boy’s blood pounded in his ears as he spun around against the door and looked back at the man behind him. Nothing about the man colored him as a threat, but the boy felt his body go rigid in fear.

“Are— are you a monster?” The boy barely managed a whisper.

“No,” said the man. “I am not one of them. I, too, am like you. Someone who ended up in danger thanks to my curiosity.”

The boy pressed his back harder against the door and prayed. He cursed himself for not having prepared a weapon of some sort.

“Are you aware of the incredible amount of danger that you’re in?” the gray man asked.

The boy swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. “They say tonight a beast will devour you, or worse, a demon will force you into servitude.”

“I am neither beast nor demon,” said the man, “just a dead man who sees a boy making the same mistake that cost him his life.”

“You’re a ghost, then.” The boy felt the air in his lungs grow frigid.

“Something like that,” said the man, “and you can trust that I will not tell you a lie. Just tonight I’ve seen two hounds and they’ll surely claim your soul when they head this way.”

“What do I do?” said the boy, fear clawing its way up his limbs, pulling him down toward the ground.

“The only thing you can do is hide where they cannot find you,” said the gray man. “And I know just the place, if you trust me enough to show you the way. I was on my way there when I spotted you.”

The man turned his back to the boy and took a few steps toward the road.

“You’ll need to decide soon,” said the man. “The longer we linger, the further into danger we drift.”

A sharp howl broke the silence of the night, somewhere distant but far too close for comfort.

The boy took a deep breath and attempted to lessen his trembling. He wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his sleeve and looked up at the gray man who stood at the edge of the road. The man’s face gave away his terror and he shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.

“I don’t know,” said the boy.

“Which risk would you rather take?” said the man as a second set of howls joined the first. “Follow the only other person out tonight or take your luck with them?”

The boy crossed his arms and pressed them against his chest. He felt that either choice would surely end in his death.

“Catch up soon,” the gray man said as he began to leave.“I’m not risking any more of my own time.”

The skin on the boy’s arms prickled into goosebumps as he remembered the howling in the distance. He tried to shrug it from his mind but it clung to his thoughts like a shipwrecked sailor. Figuring that it was probably less horrifying to die by the hands of a human than by the teeth of a hound, he followed after the gray man.

“We must be quiet now,” said the man, quickening his pace as the sound of the boy’s footsteps joined his own.

The boy crammed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and kept his head low, dreading what he might see if he looked around. He walked to the side and slightly behind the gray man, careful to match his pace.

The night was cold and silent, save for the gentle, nervous taps of two sets of shoes that picked their way across the lonely road. The mist swirled around each footstep as it came quickly and carefully to the road’s surface. The longer they walked together, the more desperately the boy wanted to speak. His heart was beating so hard he could barely hear his own footsteps.

He couldn’t take it any more.

“Where are we going?” hissed the boy in a whisper that seemed loud enough to split the darkness in two.

“Cemetery, of course,” replied the gray man in a barely audible whisper. “Please. No more speaking.”

Looking up, the boy could see the gates of the cemetery in the distance. It seemed to exist in its own isolated world, surrounded by the mists and the creeping darkness of the night. They picked up their pace toward the gates and the boy again swallowed the lump in his throat.

More howls began to perforate the darkness as they came upon the gate. They sounded closer now, from an increasing number of directions. The boy tugged on the gate as soon as they arrived. It was locked. He looked up at the gray man with fear in his eyes. The man held a finger to his lips and pulled a large iron key out of his pocket. Quickly, he unlatched the large lock and pulled open the groaning iron gates, only as wide as they needed.

The two figures slipped past the gates and the gray man replaced the lock.

The boy heaved a great sigh and and centered the weight on his shoulders.

“You’re still not safe,” said the gray man. “This way.”

They snaked their way between headstones, weeds, and ancient trees, finding a path to the top of a small hill on which perched a stately stone mausoleum. It was sealed with a heavy iron door. The gray man pulled on a large ring and the door warily opened, hissing on its hinges.

“Down there,” said the gray man. “Go.”

The boy pulled his hands out of his pockets and braced himself against the doorway, peering down the stairs that disappeared into the mausoleum’s depths. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. A tide of dread filled his stomach as he looked into the inky darkness that seeped up the steps.

“Are you sure it’s—” The boy was interrupted by the sudden force of the gray man shoving him down the stairs.

He tumbled down the stone steps, down a distance that seemed impossibly long. Each edge sharper than the last, cutting between his ribs as his bones snapped and he came to a sudden stop.

“I’m sorry.” The gray man’s voice drifted down the stairs mournfully, punctuated by the slamming of the iron door, sealing the boy in the darkness. It stirred, insignificant at first but quickly swelled into a dissonant storm. The confines of the mausoleum were enveloped in a chorus of chittering tones that began to descend upon the boy.

[mishafrankenstein]

Lucius Black

This is the character introduction I read aloud when we started our new Dungeons and Dragons campaign. I usually play silly characters so the point of this one was the pile up the sad stuff as ridiculously as possible.

My name is Lucius Black.

I come from a village far to the north, a place too small and unimportant to ever be mentioned on a map, though I fear it may no longer even exist.

My mother was the apothecary and my father served as the village’s physician. I never managed to gain any sort of proficiency in either craft but my dear sister proved to be rather adept at both. The four of us did our best to administer wellness to the denizens of our tiny community.

Tragedy befell our family when my mother’s corpse was discovered at the base of the sea cliff. It was determined to have been a suicide, which certainly sounds likely to me as she had been complaining for some time about the voices that tormented her at night.

My father couldn’t handle the loss and was discovered by my sister to have hanged himself in our attic within the week.

We did our best to continue to care for our community, my sister and I. She, taking responsibility of care for the townsfolk while I did my best to act as her assistant and to manage the affairs of the practice.

The plagues came and she slipped into melancholy after witnessing the hardship and loss among our friends in the community. Entire families were taken and the ones that remained were fractured beyond hope.

My sister eventually found comfort in the bottom of a bottle, but her life was eventually lost to its poison. When the plague returned I found myself unable to continue the care that my family had been responsible for and most of the people that remained were lost to the plague’s enveloping clutches.

When it came time that I, too, began to feel my mother’s madness, I packed up what little I had and left the few survivors behind, making my way to the city in hope of finding some relief.

These days I make ends meet as a writer, providing stories to local periodicals in exchange for a meager wage. It brings me no satisfaction as no publisher is willing to accept the work of my passion and would rather print the same mindless feel-good pieces each week. Though life here is certainly much more stable, I don’t see how it has been any sort of improvement over my previous circumstances.