Formax - Halloween Special Issue 2019

Fornax is a fanzine devoted to history, science fiction & gaming as well as other areas where the editor's curiosity goes. It is edited/published by Charles Rector. In the grand tradition of fanzines, it is mostly written by the editor. This is the Halloween Special Issue 2019, published October 2019.

If you want to write for Fornax, please send email submissions to crectorATgmxDOTcom, with a maximum length of 20,000 words. For now, the same length requirement applies to fiction submissions as well. No poetry or artwork please. Any text format is fine. The same goes if you want to submit your work in the form of text in the email or as an attachment. There is no payment other than the exposure that you will get as a writer. Of course, Letters of Comment are always welcome. Material not written or produced by the Editor/Publisher is printed by permission of the various writers and artists and is copyright by them and remains their sole property and reverts to them after publication. If you want to read more by the editor/publisher, then point your browser to: http://omgn.com/blog/cjrector.

FICTION – Short Story

The Thing Which Fell From The Heavens by Gerd Maximovič

(Translation: Isabel Cole)

It was on the 25th of April of the year 1502, near Lorsch on the Rhine, that a curious apparition fell from the heavens. Peasants who had been working in the fields told of a strange blue radiance which appeared in the cloudless sky. The peasant Söderlin related that the blue star had seemed to him like the halo of the Virgin Mary on the high alter of Iffezheim. Another peasant said that the radiance had rapidly grown in intensity and magnitude, and that - and this was the only reason they had noticed it - it had been accompanied by a shrill, whistling noise. The statements, which the Mayor of Lorsch noted, also agreed consistently that for a time, as the radiance had still been at a great height, a veil, pale red, as if burning, had hung about it, trailing away behind like that of the star of Bethlehem.

The apparition had fallen to the earth, far from the observers - they had been scattered within a radius of several hours - in a grove which belonged to the possessions of the Castle Herrenhausen. At the moment when the apparition fell, Peter Schmidt, a swineherd, had been with his herd at the edge of the grove, dozing instead of attending to his charges. He was woken by the roaring which hung in the air, then by the din which the thing sent before it; at last, he had fled before the light and the grinding noise of toppling trees. It was some time - for he was extremely excited and out of breath - after his ears had been boxed more than once for the neglect of his duties, before the people in the farmstead where he had fled understood his initially confused story.

Then a troop of serfs and maids armed with scythes and cudgels set forth, promising that, if the swineherd were merely telling a story, as he had done once before, there would not be much left when they were finished with him. The place where the apparition had landed could be seen even from the meadow which ran up to the grove. The trees which, shortly before, had stood on the summit were toppled far in every direction. Through the remaining trunks which raised their naked, black arms into the air, an enormous breach could be seen, a thin black column of smoke rising over it. Even below the summit, there was a smell of burning, and some already knew, as one could later hear in the village inn, that the smell of sulfur had come from the grove. The miller of Brand, known as the bravest serf in the entire region, was the first to enter the grove.

He made his way with some difficulty, for the trees toppled by the apparition had fallen every which way. As he climbed over the last trunks and stepped out into a wide, bald, black-charred space, he glimpsed, at the center of the hill's summit, a brown damp crater whose inner rim gleamed as if glazed green.

Boldly, now that the rest of the serfs had approached, seeing the miller of Brand before them, he stepped up to the rim of the crater. Here the stench which hung over the hill was so powerful that the bold serf first took the tail of his tunic as a handkerchief. After wiping his eyes, he looked down into the crater, which reached perhaps ten yards into the earth. Its walls were dark green and black and as if made of glass. But it was not this wonder which made the miller of Brand catch his breath. It was the thing which he glimpsed at the bottom of the crater.

At first, the miller of Brand thought what had fallen into the wood was only an intense blue radiance. But then, as he stared down for a while in silence, and the serfs joined him, one after the other, the powerful blue glow began to fade, revealing a brown figure which seemed covered by a milky bell, at first lying completely motionless below, its surface, covered with great cracks and pores, twitching only occasionally. To the miller of Brand, it seemed that the surface of the thing consisted of a kind of leather, like that which one could see in its raw state in the tannery of the nearby town.

Lore, a bold maid, picked up a piece of charred wood from the ground and threw it into the crater at the brown thing. In the same moment, the serfs and maids who stood around the rim of the crater jumped back, for the thing in the hole had begun to move. It seemed that an itch was crossing its leather skin, beginning where its head must have been and ending in back, and making it turn slowly in the hole. At the same time a high, scratchy sound emerged from the hole, so unarticulated, however, that one could not have called it speech.

Again, the thing in the crater moved, this time, as it seemed, upward. Now they could clearly see how it floundered in its hole, which left it little room to maneuver, could see it move back and forth as its skin twitched, and, as it clung to the walls of the crater and grew longer and longer, the last of the blue radiance which had just surrounded it faded. Again, the onlookers, grown uneasy, heard the shrill sound which rose into the still, silent forest. Although it was a fair, warm April day, some now seemed to shiver.

The swineherd was the first to leave the crater, saying that the pigs were now scattered far and wide and that if he did not see to them soon, they would begin to ravage others' land. Striezel, visiting from Saxony, retreated, shaking his head and remarking that there was nothing of this kind in his homeland. A maid declared under her breath that the Devil had fallen from the sky and that he could only be gotten the better off with holy water, which she would fetch from the village church when she warned the pastor. At last a servant from the castle, Jörg Ratgeb, withdrew with the remark that this was a matter for the squire. In the end, the miller of Brand was left alone with his courage and the thing.

At Castle Herrenhausen the servant was met with curses and kicks. Hardly had he stepped through the gate into the inner courtyard, where two lounging knights began to thrash him, when the lord of the castle, Squire Tobias, alerted by a commotion unusual at this hour, appeared at the window of the great banqueting-hall, his face flushed with wine, and looked down at the scene which was playing itself out for the edification of the menials gathered around Ratgeb.

What was going on, the squire called down into the courtyard in a loud voice, and in the windows alongside him appeared several gentlemen with whom he had been holding the midday meal. How did he come to leave his work; to bring Jörg Ratgeb, whose name he knew as that of one of the most refractory servants, back to work he would have to loose the dogs upon him, which indeed, circling Ratgeb with growls and whimpers, had to be restrained by one of the knights.

It was some time before Jörg Ratgeb could make himself understood to the drunken servants. At first, he reaped mockery and further kicks, but as he continued to insist on his story so stubbornly, the squire, who had helped himself to the wine-jug more than once, grew thoughtful.

And from the side windows came the voices of several gentlemen, saying that they had had enough fun with Jörg Ratgeb now, and that, as he was unwilling to yield, there might become truth in his story. The squire said: "If you're lying, I'll have you beaten to a jelly!"

At the prompting of drink and mood the knights galloped straight across the fields, trampled the first sprouting seeds and were unable to compose themselves until they saw the wood before them, where the trees reared up like spears. At the edge of the grove, beneath the hill, they dismounted from their horses and climbed over the fallen trunks.

In the meantime, a crowd of people had gathered on the meadow beneath the hill, and the wildest rumors as to what had happened on the hill spread among them, and in the entire region. And the apparition in the sky, which had been visible far and wide, had brought many people from the entire district streaming to the grove and the hill.

The first thing which the lord of the castle and his servants saw when they entered the clearing was the miller of Brand, lying on his side next to the crater, writhing as if in convulsions. Next to him, the brown thing which Ratgeb had spoken of was visible. As could be seen at first glance, it had crept up out of the crater and lay calmly on its side. It seemed to be touching the miller of Brand with a feeler which it reached from its front. Seen from the edge of the clearing, it was a brown heap, the cracks on its surface gleaming in the sunlight. Above the feelers with which it groped out swaying into the wind, a wreath of gleaming black, button-like eyes could be seen.

When they saw the thing begin to move sluggishly, now creeping across the miller of Brand, who lay utterly still, Squire Tobias and his servants came no closer. Their behavior was also justified by the fact that the aforementioned stench was spreading through the entire clearing like a heavy stinking cloud as if the thing was in a state of decay. Nothing more was to be seen of the thin column of smoke spoken of by the serfs and maids who had been first on the scene.

Now the preacher, Karl Weitling, a righteous, god-fearing man, had arrived at the scene as well. He had brought a pot of holy water with him from the vicarage and, feeling all eyes upon him, stepped out into the clearing, murmuring the Lord's Prayer, and, with reluctant steps, came close enough to the brown thing to sprinkle his holy water over the miller of Brand, who moved no more, and over the thing, across whose skin feverish ripples kept spreading.

At the first drops the thing cried out in a thin, high little voice, and a gray cloud of smoke rose from its skin, causing many of the onlookers and even several of the lords from the castle to cross themselves. Weitling surprised by the success of his efforts, and at the same time certain that his faith would aid him, sprinkled a few more drops and said the Lord's Prayer over the thing, which lay there trembling and piteous, and over the miller of Brand.

In the meantime, sundry people, craftsmen, and journeymen who had come running from their work arrived from Lorsch, and, gaping at the thing in astonishment, they spread the news that a prodigy had been born in Lorsch, precisely at the noonday hour. Gesine, who had given life to seven healthy children, had borne a child with two heads, a child incapable of survival, and now lay in the last agony herself.

This news galvanized the crowd, which had overcome its fear of the motionless being, like a sting. "Kill it! Burn the thing! To the knackery with it!" they cried, and several stones which lay loose on the ground, as well as charred pieces of wood and other material which lay on the summit of the hill, were flung at the thing, which shuddered under the hail which rained down upon it and began to creep back slowly, as if to seek shelter in the hole from which it had climbed.

But that only provoked the rage of the crowd. Serfs and maids who had hung back before now grasped their cudgels firmly and tried to thrash the life out of them - as they said - godless thing, which they immediately maintained was also to blame for the bad harvests of the past two years.

Once the crowd had shouldered him aside, the pastor Karl Weitling had a violent struggle to wage in his breast. God-fearing, he had always preached that God loves all his creatures on earth and that even the lowliest worm has its place near God. He thought of this as several of the men - some of the most ill- famed, whom the preacher had never seen at confession - gave free rein to their fury.

But the matter was first settled in another fashion. For as the thing lay there, no longer able to creep backward, and as a bright fluid, which they, at any rate, took for blood, flowed out of many openings in its armor, Squire Tobias, whom the peasants of the surrounding area knew for his unpredictability and cruelty, stepped forward and held back the serfs and journeymen with a motion of his hand, making them drop their cudgels and stones.

"I say!" the squire cried far and wide, jamming both thumbs into his belt. “Can’t you see, before us lies the archenemy of humanity? It's Satan personified. He is as Bosch portrayed him in his pictures. Now behold him, the Devil, who has finally revealed himself in-person to bring misfortune and disaster in a measure never known before. Is it not so," he cried, as the crowd listened, "that he has earned death thousand times over?" "Yes, yes," the people cried, "he should be hanged on the gallows if there were anywhere to put the noose!"

Removing his thumbs from his belt, the squire lifted his hands in a gesture of aversion. "Has he not," he went on in a loud voice, "ruined our harvest three times in the last five years!" "That is true!" they cried, "those who lost loved ones through hunger know that best of all!" "And is it not so," the squire cried, "that many good women have lost their life in childbed because of him!" And again, the answer came, according to which each knew at least one woman who had not survived her wedding day by a single year. "And is it not so, "the squire cried finally, "that he has scourged us with wars year after year so that the best fall and their wives and children must tarry alone?

"And does he then," cried the squire, the veins standing out on his neck and brow, "deserve to die a thousand times over? What think you? Should we grant him a thousand-fold death?" Then the crowd cried: "Yes, Squire Tobias, yes, he should die a thousand times!" "If it is so," said the squire at last, "lay aside your cudgels and help us to bring him back to Herrenhausen!"

The return to the castle was like a triumphal procession. A cart drawn by four oxen had been sent for, which, as if cursed by Him himself, first stuck in the mud and then, when the thing was driven onto the cart with blazing torches over an improvised ramp, nearly collapsed under the weight, although it was made to carry stones and other heavy loads.

The eyes of the oxen, which lowered their heads, had been blindfolded, and yet strange unrest and fear seemed to germinate in the corners of their bloodshot eyes. Driven by heavy blows of the stick, they went quite calmly, and yet it sometimes seemed as if they were trying to break away, or to fall into a faster pace.

Children ran alongside the cart, touching the wooden plank bed again and again, and giving the impression that, curious and bold, they wanted to stroke the back of the monster, which lay quite calmly - only now and then did they hear a rattle from it. The wounds on its back had closed, and once the cart began to sway with violent movements of the being, and indeed, just as the procession was passing Ahr Pond, the side plank broke, the thing slid and plunged over the edge, pulling the cart with it down the slope to plunge into the pond behind it as the shaft snapped off.

When the thing emerged in the water, the pond, clear and still and partly covered with creepers, harboring many different kinds of fish, began to steam. It seemed as if a very hot mass, a kind of lava, had entered the pond. The thing first sank into the depths like a stone, but then, as the shoals of fish scattered in the wink of an eye, seeking shelter in the reeds and near the shore, great bubbles rose from the vicinity of its head, and it rose sluggishly to float just below the surface, still pouring out smoke, which looked like a bloody flag in the water.

Now the matter was thorny. The people, so bold just now, gathered above the pond, and in their coarse faces the realization that the thing was incalculable, and had extraordinary powers, seemed to dawn. "The Devil it is," someone said, "and woe is me, what misfortune that he had to come to earth in our land, of all places. Couldn't he have come to earth in Flanders or among the Italians or in some other godless place! No, he had to rise out of Hell in our midst, of all things, and now we must see how we may cope with him!"

It was already evening by the time the serfs, with the help of pikes and long poles, managed to drive the thing, which had already capsized two or three boats and dragged a strong lad under water, out of the water and up the slope to another conveyance brought in the greatest of haste, and the oxen, which, in the end, had refused to draw the cart, were also changed.

In the meantime, the squire, a cowardly man in his heart of hearts, had begun to wonder whether, given the circumstances and his own character, he should have embarked on this game in the first place. On the other hand, he wanted to be thought brave, and feared losing the respect, not only of his servants, who mattered nothing to him, but above all the respect of his companions, especially as Herr Weiprecht, to whom he was distantly related, had remarked pointedly that the best way to ward off the unpredictable consequences of the hellish beast would be to relegate it to an uncertain future in the swamp.

At any rate, the number of people accompanying the procession to Castle Herrenhausen in the light of the torches had diminished markedly, and before departing several righteous peasants, hoping to finish their day's work before dusk, murmured that it was wrong to yield to the power of fate in this way, and that God's wisdom had surely foreseen a plan in this case as well; after all, itwas a firmly established order which God had left on earth, and thus, barring all trials, an answer would be also found in the case of the Devil come to earthen the flesh; but not all thought this way.

Thus, of the few people who accompanied the procession - as it grew cold and the people warmed themselves at the torches, while above, from the castle hill, the mild yellow lights of Castle Herrenhausen were already shining through the darkness - there were only a very few who believed, though of this they were unsure, that they heard the thing speaking. The Devil, of course, could be credited with anything. One maid, Anna, thought she heard the thing hiss something about "godlessness". A serf, Franz, insisted that he had distinctly heard the thing murmur something about "a seven-headed she-goat". And once one accused the other of having accosted him with base remarks.

Rüppel was an uncouth fellow who, in the castle, was only good for the worst of jests; now he sat in the seat of the wagon and swung the whip, not only at the oxen but - even though the hairs rose on the back of his neck now and then - also striking out, in rising fury mixed with his wavering fears, at the thing which huddled in the wagon slippery and slimy and still dripping from the pond. He would have been the first to know if the thing were also speaking to him from behind.

Indeed, if we could have looked into his heart, we would have found that something alien was closing in upon him. It was as if he were being poisoned in all his veins, as if a peculiarly devious poison were being breathed into him, nearly paralyzing him for a moment from time to time; then it seemed to him as if he were addressed within by a voice whose origin he could not determine, a voice which spoke to him, threatening and awful, though he could not have said what it really wanted from him.

It was also interesting to watch the dogs which belonged to the squire's retinue. Great, heckling animals whose mouths dripped with foam, and which the squire liked to use to intimidate his peasants, but also his own kind when they knocked on the castle door, they had grown quite still as the retinue approached the castle hill; and they tucked their tails between their legs or even uttered yowling noises as if they were confronted with an enemy who was beyond their reach; the thing on the plank bed, however, was calm, as if it had accepted its fate.

It was already near morning, and the first red rays of the sun had poured over the Rhine valley, when they finally shut the thing up in the castle dungeon, in the hindmost corner, where the dungeon tapered to a point, robbing the unfortunate victim of his last freedom of movement.

They forged it to the wall with great heavy chains, and it must be said that it was much to the credit of the smith, who had been fetched from the village solely for this reason, that he fearlessly laid the chains around the thing's protrusions and feelers or whatever they were; the thing, which now seemed exhausted, bright water flowing from its skin again, suffered this treatment noticeably more apathetically, without offering resistance.

It goes without saying that, the more they felt safe from the thing, the more at ease the gentlemen felt, foremost among them Squire Tobias, and the more their spirits rose. Not only did they play their ugly jests with some of the female servants; of course they had called for one jug of wine after another, and with the increasing degree of their drunkenness their courage swelled again, and they began to brag about what they would do with the thing; and so, early in the morning, when the sun hung full in the sky and illuminated the clouds from below with a yellow light, they sent horsemen to the neighboring squires and lords to summon them to a feast set for the coming weekend, where they meant to give proof of their valor in the face of the Devil.

But when they slept strange dreams haunted them. The squire, a wench in his arms, dreamed of a great spider that crept over the fields, squirting poison from its gonads and destroying the seeds. Once, when he woke from his dreams with a cry and looked at the wench with terrified eyes, it seemed to him as if, behind her yellow, wrinkled back, he could already see the first strands with which the spider wove her web around the castle.

Asgard, a page, had a strange vision in his sleep. With an open mouth, rattling throat, snorting, he stared into the sky. It seemed to him that the stars came closer. He saw the earth turning beneath him. At this, he grew so dizzy that he vomited into the sack of straw which he had spread over him. When he woke he had roared in his ears, and when he stood up, for a while he was only able to stagger about as if he had lost his equilibrium, and thus he was hard put to find the privy above the moat, where he was able to relieve himself at last.

Yet one more dream must be mentioned, that of Lore, whom they had made a whore by taking her away from her betrothed, an honest peasant. It seemed to her that she was striding across a golden field, the ears of grain gleaming as if in yellow light. When she looked about her, hardly believing her eyes, she saw a number of merry folks. Then it seemed to her that a tall comely man took her into his arms and - like Squire Tobias, she said with lowered eyes and trembling voice - made love to her in a golden haystack. Then she was interrupted by the rough, insolent laughter of the listeners and had to go to all ends to regain Tobias' favor.

It was around ten o'clock in the morning, the dogs circled the squire's bed, whimpering, as a great commotion broke out in the courtyard. The squire, with red eyes and a white, puffy face, pushed aside the slut under the pillows at his side, who, fearing his wrath, pulled a blanket over her, and sprang out of bed and, now with a flushed face, bellowed down into the courtyard below, where horses' shoes rung against the paving stones and rude voices asked for Lord Tobias - who were they, and what could they want from him at this ungodly hour?

Then he recognized Lord Leutner, the steward and secretary of Lord Rainaldvon Dassel, the Archbishop of Mainz and Elector, who, his doublet flung open, his hand on the hilt of his flashing sword, stood in the courtyard accompanied by three knights, without dismounting, while several of the larger dogs growled about him wildly. Now, one must know that the squire, although an insignificant figure in comparison with the Elector, was engaged in a kind of feud with that clerical gentleman; they had fought over the tolls and the rights of navigation on the Rhine, and several of their lackeys had nearly come to blows with one another.

This man, then, as the squire appeared above, called in the voice of one who knows that power is on his side, "Lord Tobias, my master has sent me because he has heard reports that you have conspired with the powers of Hell! I demand," he continued, "an explanation of this as well as the surrender of the Devil harbored in your dungeon!"

The squire, who was sobered by these words, and who, though he was a godless fellow, liked to keep himself covered, and also secretly feared that he would not get into Heaven, if it existed, although he had never told anyone of these fears, slammed the window shut, and, hurling aside the wench who tried to cling to him, hurried down the stairs, now followed by three knights, noblemen roused by the commotion at such an unusual hour.

Although on the stairs he had already decided to surrender the Devil, secretly rubbing his hands, before they admitted Leutner into the castle dungeon there were some heated exchanges in which the squire attempted to get some advantages out of it for himself and his people, while the secretary refused him in a cold voice, speaking of his salvation and the possibility that he could be excommunicated, as well as the fact that the Devil, if it were indeed him in persona, belonged before a court of all the world and God, so that he could be condemned in Mainz in due form.

We have already shown what pains were taken to transport the being into the cellar of the castle, and it will easily be understood that it was not easy to heave it onto a ladder-wagon the next day, in an iron cage which was usually used to submerge master bakers in the Main when they measured their bread with the wrong ell; and that it took more than curses and maledictions, or the stones and blows which rained down upon the thing, to achieve this end.

Mention must be made of the bestial stench which reigned in the squire's dungeon once the thing was removed, so that this could be seen as a special punishment for the enemies of the squire, should they happen to fall into his hands; but also the fact that the squire went forth from the castle with two great dogs, where the strange procession, flagged with pennants bearing the insignia of the Elector, carried away the black being under a great veiling cloth along the Rhine valley, while wherever peasants and others met it along the way the people knelt down and crossed themselves and cast each other furtive glances, or, as the squire thought he saw, froze in fear.

But he let broad curses and maledictions resound, passing water over the moat, and laughed a terrible laughter because he was rid of the thing, until he discovered that, wherever they had come from, deep cracks showed in the castle walls, at their foot, where surely the peasants had done shoddy work that summer, the good-for-nothings; under one tower there was an opening as thick as a fist, and on the south side, which was especially strongly reinforced, cracks ran through the walls like spider fingers.

In Mainz, the thing was lifted down from the ladder-wagon to the shouting and whistling of an excited crowd. It was shut into a dried-up well which had once been constructed in the event that the city should be cut off from its water supply; there it lay for three days, and at night, when the executioner tried out his instruments on it, at great inconvenience, its whimpering could be heard, not falling silent until the approach of dawn. And, following the example of Anna, who had tended the thing at Herrenhausen, they threw it fish and stinking pieces of meat, so that it would not be too feeble when the trial began; and, as they could see, it consumed infernal herbs greedily, sucked the red out of the bones, it seemed to give it pleasure to regale itself with blood, and it was also curious, as all those who lived near the well reported, that all vermin, spiders, beetles, rats, even dogs, and cats had vanished suddenly.

The trial was held in the presence of Lord von Dassel, while the thing, the watery liquid still dripping from it, went on lying at the bottom of the good shaft. The judges, two clerics and the mayor of Mainz, Jakob Pfeiffer, soon reached a verdict. Without even appealing to all the scriptural passages which could have been brought in for the purpose, they declared the thing, in which they saw the incarnation of evil, guilty of sundry crimes, among them none more insignificant than the comet which had been seen on Midsummer's Eve a year before, and which had devastated the fields, meadows, and forests and had been followed by terrible, long-smoldering forest fires.

For the creature's execution, a pyre was erected on the marketplace, one such as the city had never witnessed before. It was on a Sunday, after the church-going, when all the bells in the city were rung and one could have thought that the sky itself, which glowed in red conflagrations, meant to give a sign. Among the crowd which milled on the marketplace there was a large number of strangers who did not want to miss the spectacle, and there were some who maintained that a similar kobold had been burned in Bordeaux, almost exactly five years ago, crumbling to blue ash which, when strewn in the Garonne, had brought ruin to the entire district for a long time thereafter.

The crowd fell silent, and it seemed that the thing, lying in its cage, regarded the Archbishop for a long time from its great, button-shaped eyes. The Archbishop, sitting in the place of honor in the box of the stands which had been erected for this procedure, grew pale. It seemed to the Lord of Dassel that the marrow vanished from his bones under this gaze; or that the circulation of his blood was stopped momentarily. He had never seen such a gaze. Accustomed to all kinds of atrocities, these in part under the greatest seal of silence, hard in his heart, feared by his lackeys, believing, on the grounds of his position, that God was well-disposed toward him, to all appearances devoted to the Pope, he was seized with fear. The others sensed the tension which rose within him; saw how he faltered on his elevated chair; how his mind went black.

One should not say that there are any human beings without a conscience. All of us survive only because we were given a minimum of motherly love. This establishes the basis for social behavior, so that we can understand the others, the suffering creatures as well, no matter how hard our hearts; this was also true of the Elector, enveloped by blue veils; it seemed to him as if the thing were pouring pitch into his soul with its gaze; in reality he was challenged fora few seconds, at this crucial moment, to look a great truth in the eye.

It seemed that a light wind rose, that the banners which rose from the flagpoles fluttered more rapidly. The men girded themselves more tightly as the wind blew through their doublets. The women began to hold tightly to their veils and pointed hats. If one had looked around the marketplace one would not have found a single cat or dog; even the birds, it seemed, circled high in the sky, as if they wanted to put a distance between themselves and the earth.

Then the executioner, a rough man whom the sudden mood had escaped, thrust the torch deep into the pyre. In the blink of an eye the wood had caught fire, the flames had spread across the pitch, fed by the wind. It seemed now as if the thing had become larger. Now they saw long black arms, which none had known of before, grow out of its sides and, already agitated, reached for the faggots. Then a gust of wind came from the sky, the fire was one great blaze in which the monster burned still and mute.

Pastor Karl Weitling had already begun to wonder why Anna, who was usually among the most pious, had let four weeks pass before coming to confession again one Sunday. At first, in the confessional, after he had made the sign of the cross over her, she was unable to find the right words, and so he thought, searching for a beginning himself, that both of them, inexplicably to him, were sick at heart, that something significant had happened to both of them.

"Reverend Father," she began at last, "you must think no evil of me. It's rather, I'm unskilled with words, one cannot compare this with the things which learned gentlemen say. Well, it's like this," said Anna, "the fear still lingers in my bones. You know, reverend Father, that the squire chose me to give the thing enough food and drink so that we could keep it at any rate until the planned feast and revelry."

"Go on, my child," said the priest as Anna hesitated.

"Yes," she picked up the thread again, "I don't know how I should describe it. There were others as well who saw it, and one never knows what powers the Devil really has. You know, Father, that some say he spoke to them. He spoke, even though it came from that dark hole, our language.

"Once, when I tried raw fish for his nourishment, of which I knew nothing, he said: 'Your name is Anna, then. You need not take fright. It has taken me a while to learn your language, although I fear it will help me but little.' Reverend Father, I dropped the bowl with the fish and other things, for which Lord Tobias beat me.

"Another time he said: 'Anna, I must speak with some creature. It is so dark here in this dungeon. The place from which I come is so full of light that I just wish that my torments will not last forever in these circumstances.' You know, Father, that people were already afraid even to enter the dungeon. And then there was the stench which the monster had spread. I fainted.

"When I came to myself again, I saw and felt that a long black thing, one such as we saw at the burning, touched my arm; it was pulled back at once; I fled from the cellar; from then on I was unable to feed the thing anymore, and the Squire, seeing the state I was in, ceased insisting. Only one more thing," she said at the end, "when I think of the thing, in my dreams, sometimes I think of a silver, shimmering form, something like our church steeple, only covered with glass in which the rays of the sun reflected. Forgive me, Father, for pouring out my heart to you, but sometimes I think it was a great injustice to burn the thing.

"Twenty years after the thing had come to earth, the great Peasant's War began, in the course of which Herrenhausen, too, was ravaged and Squire Tobias, as well as many of his knights, was slain; the castle was razed to its foundations. All the records in the electoral archives were destroyed in the storming of the peasant uprisings. Peasants who ventured into the crater a short time after the burning told of a silver, melted hull later kept in a storage room of the church which burned down in the great fire of 1580. Weitling and Anna, after he had given her the absolution, were clever enough to hold their tongues about everything they had spoken of. What had burned in Bordeaux was a hunchbacked manikin who had begged for a little love at the wrong time.

THE END

Nvvel Excerpt from The Book of Sakoss by Seth Thomson

Seth Thomson has been actively writing his novel for seven years. Professionally, Seth has had a long career as a Chief Information Officer, and has worked in technology for over twenty years. He also hosted a comic book talk show, Comics Explored, on Chicago cable television for over seven years.

The Fall of Synshen

City of Knowledge, City of Light—O Synshen, you bastion of poets and scholars! For the first in your thousand years you were aflame, the inferno’s roar and the battle cries of Frellanders overwhelming the shouts of your Valkarrian occupiers! What would a passer-by have seen the night you fell? From afar would he have spotted streams of ash seeping from your great northern gate’s silver-studded doors? Or, is it true the heat reflected from the roiling smoke above you melted the finely etched statues of the god of knowledge? And what of Lady Sheil Elkiri, only daughter of Valkarr’s Emperor Argroll? Is it as the histories tell; did your walls’ collapse signal your sacking to her heroic heart? Her journals, after all, say otherwise: according to Princess Sheil herself it was the appearance of her maidservant Kahle— “trembling like a scalded cat in the doorway of the royal bedchamber”—that finally roused the princess from her torpor.

Teetering beneath her immense pack like an ant beneath an oversized crumb, the khieen, Sheil wrote, urged, “Highness, we must leave!” And we might imagine the royal escort’s armour clanking in the hallway beyond, steel plates glowing orange in the reflected firelight. Yet, as she stared at the intricate paisley motifs woven into her bed canopy, it was all Princess Sheil could do to keep her hands from shaking. She pressed one of her silk kerchiefs to her nose and inhaled its lavender perfume to ward off the stench of burning flesh that wafted through the windows on either side of her bed. The entire royal chamber shook with the crack of the city’s walls shattering, the impact knocking a painting of the emperor from the wall. The picture slid down the corner of Sheil’s dresser, tearing a long scar through His Imperial Majesty’s visage. A scream welled from the streets below, followed by a chorus of shouts.

Rising reluctantly, the princess buckled her belt about her waist. Her hands fluttered across her satchel and sheaths as she reassured herself that her bond weapons were in place, and she found her whip-like taldak had already curled both barbed thongs about her bond dagger’s pair of ebony blades.

Then, striding to the bejeweled tripod beside the nearest window, she retrieved a pallid, egg-shaped crystal from the stand’s apex. The sunset refracted through the stone’s smooth surface, forming three concentric circles of light that rotated discretely in the hazy air.

“Mother, forgive me,” the princess whispered as she lifted the crystal from its bronze rest.

Turning back towards Kahle, she noticed her servant’s hazel eyes were fixed in terror. The khieen was so completely petrified that she barely blinked when a ballista bolt flew through the same window where the princess had just stood and embedded itself in the doorframe above her right shoulder. The missile’s shaft was as thick as a man’s arm and nearly as long as a spear. It was a Valkarrian bolt, Sheil realized, and before she could react, two more whistled through the same window, splintering the nearby wardrobe and vanity. Evidently, the Frellanders had taken what remained of the city’s artillery and were firing it inwards. Dropping the crystal into her satchel and tightly fastening the leather clasp, Sheil swept past Kahle into the adjoining hall. Several yards down the corridor, a detachment of Docari guards were squeezed into single-file formation. Some were missing helmets, shields, even their boots. A few in the rear attempted to kneel as Sheil approached, but their clumsy genuflections only made the princess stumble and they quickly scrambled to attention again. The least skilled of Commander Grellir’s men, these Docari were obviously ignorant of wartime protocol. But then, the princess herself was no better. Her brother Ethri having dragged the bulk of their soldiers—and the Elkiri’s greatest champion, Karrok Hern—off on some foolish “expedition” in the Plainswood, Synshen was defended by boys.

Undoubtedly this was why the soldiers’ falchions quivered anxiously, their blades carving accidental arabesques in the walls. The random patterns might have seemed beautiful in their way if Sheil hadn’t spent the entirety of the previous winter designing the corridor’s bas-reliefs with her cousin Tannelle. Before the siege, the yellow and blue braid designs had been a comforting reminder of her girlhood home, transforming the Keep’s plain, white walls into an exact reproduction of the Autumn Palace’s interior.

Of course, now the state of the décor hardly mattered, but Sheil still had to bite her lower lip to quell her frustration at the defacement. Nor did she notice her physical discomfort at this as she strode through the Keep’s winding corridors until she had clenched her teeth so tightly that specks of blood dotted the breast of her chainmail. And then, the pain only manifested itself as a nagging throb when, minutes later, she and her escort paused at the hallway’s junction. Here, she weighed which route to take: to her left, the corridor cut across the Keep’s inner walls to the Great Hall and was wide enough for her Docari to form a proper wedge, but the deep thud of a battering ram echoed off its vaulted ceiling; the alternative, meanwhile, was the spiral staircase the servants took to the kitchen, and though it was quiet, it was markedly narrower. Unsure whether to risk battle or bottleneck, Sheil tarried several minutes, hoping something would happen to make her decision for her.

“Your Highness, if I may,” the ranking Docari officer whispered, “If I lead my men towards the Frellanders it may give you and your khieen time to escape through the servants’ quarters.”

Sheil was struck by the combination of tactical insight and self-sacrifice implicit in the young officer’s suggestion. A mere kestant—judging from the two silver circlets embossed in the right shoulder plate of his armour—he had not only assessed their predicament and found a solution faster than she had; he was also offering up his life. Suddenly ashamed of their situation, of her incompetence at not foreseeing the assault and of the entire Valkarrian occupation’s lack of preparedness, Sheil granted the young man a royal favour, for his bravery and for what they both realized would be his last expression of loyalty: she brushed his straw-blond hair from his forehead, grasped his shoulders and locked eyes with him, tacitly signaling her assent. As she touched this nameless warrior, a mixture of infatuation, mourning and frustration gripped her. Where, she wondered, were the Docari veterans? How could Commander Grellir have agreed to leave Synshen so miserably vulnerable? And why had Crown Prince Falkas granted assent to Prince Ethri’s rash endeavors?

This momentary pause was fleeting, however, for the Frellanders’ battle cries grew louder by the instant. Leaving the kestant’s side, Sheil gripped Kahle’s simple tunic and dragged her towards the servants’ stairs, the princess’s free hand in her hip satchel caressing the crystal there. A pang arced through her fingers, followed by a continuous, faint shock. Her bond knife trembled against her thigh and the twin tails of her taldak twitched as she and Kahle descended the unlit steps. Abruptly, the princess’s senses unfolded so that, through her closed eyelids, she could see her departed escort stolidly marching down the adjacent stairs. All twenty men, including the brave kestant, glowed bright gold, while Kahle’s light was a wan umber. The princess pressed her awareness even farther outwards, but the bright flare of her cousin Tannelle’s aura shocked her from her meditation: the duchess was also on the spiral staircase, but a few bends ahead. Not wanting to waste her crystal’s energy, Sheil almost released the gem, despite needing to know what transpired with the Keep’s defence. “Hold rank!” the young kestant’s orders echoed clearly through the limestone corridors.

Listening, the princess slowed her pace down the narrow, uneven steps, her heels stinging as they chafed against her boots’ stiff, unbroken leather. Kahle remained only a step behind, the khieen’s hand resting on her mistress’s shoulder for guidance. They overtook Tannelle as further sounds of the battle reached them: first, there was the thunderous crack of the Great Hall’s broad, oak doors giving way. Then came the Frellander’s beastly war whoops as they poured in—and several crashes as they overturned the hall’s trestle tables to form barricades.

Sheil ignored Tannelle’s indignant muttering, pushing her cousin ahead of her and squeezing her eyes shut so tightly their lids ached. She could not perceive the tables themselves, but she heard their fine wooden legs splinter as they were dragged across the tiled floor. As for what her inner eye sensed, she was aware of the Frellanders as they teemed into the Hall, their auras forming a wave of dull light like a swarm of grey beetles. The brighter Docari tightened their wedge formation, Grellir’s training snapping them into a living weapon. Even outnumbered, a Docari novice was easily worth three barbarians in combat. The Frellanders grunted, hefting the fifty-yard-long tables in unison and sweeping towards her men.

But suddenly Sheil’s arm was jostled, and her fingers lost their purchase on the crystal. Halting and opening her eyes, she found Tannelle kneeling on the stairs, a small lamp precariously perched on the edge of an upper step. The duchess’s hands flapped furiously as she gathered the bundles of yellow and blue papers she’d dropped.

“Leave them, whatever they are. And extinguish that light!” Sheil hissed. “Soon enough the Frellanders will find our bedchambers empty and discover these stairs.”

“Wait, but Sheil, I need these!” Tannelle whimpered, clutching the papers to her breast as if they were children.

The duchess’s long braids escaped their intricate, woven-copper bands as she scrambled to gather what were apparently—judging from the cloud of perfume wafting from them—love letters. Sheil kicked one of the bundles in disgust, sending several epistles flying into the cloying air. As Tannelle reached for the letters, Sheil grabbed her by her bodice lacing and dragged her around the next bend in the staircase while drawing her bond knife with her free hand.

“Stop it, Sheil! You’re hurting me!” Tannelle shrieked.

“This end is not meant for you, cousin, though perhaps my khieen and I would be better served if I slit your throat,” Sheil muttered hurriedly. “In any event, whoever your paramour is, I would just as soon you left his letters here for the Frellanders. Neither you nor I need my brothers discovering your indiscretions.”

Even in the low light it was obvious Tannelle blushed at this. But, despite her embarrassment, the duchess wrenched her mouth into a pout, wriggled from the princess’s grip, and continued gathering the letters into a pile. Sheil hadn’t the energy to argue the point further. Instead, she stepped past her foolish kinswoman and, clutching her crystal once more, sensed that several Frellanders were congregating near the head of the stairs. Thankfully, they hadn’t yet started their descent, but in her state of heightened awareness, Sheil could smell the lighted oil of their lamps through the flowery reek of Tannelle’s missives. Beyond, the grey auras of several tribesmen crowded the princess’s abandoned bedchamber. They were methodically kneeling under the bed and rifling through the closets and wardrobe. “They are searching for us,” Sheil said, eliciting another whimper from Tannelle as the duchess scrambled even more frantically for her belongings.

Sheil gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes even tighter, extending her senses farther than she’d ever previously dared. Suddenly, she saw a mass of grey sparks pour like a river through what remained of the city’s southern gate, a sea of thousands more feeding the flow from beyond. The courtyard was blanketed with Frellanders. They were quickly overwhelming what few Docari remained and slaughtering any other Valkarrians they found, Khieen farmers and Elkiri nobles falling side by side. One by one, the Docari’s yellow lights flickered out as each battle cry faded into a death rattle.

The princess gasped at the stink of split organs and shit, but pressed her consciousness even further. Her entire body shook with her mind’s effort as her legs simultaneously raced down the stairs before her. Outside the city were four more legions, each easily as large as the Frellanders’ army and each in rectangular formation.

Yet none pressed forwards—none even seemed to move!

They, Sheil realized, were awaiting the slaughter’s conclusion; the generals of the Four Nations would not dirty their hands needlessly when mercenaries could accomplish their ends for them.

But this was as much as Sheil could discover, for then her head began to throb and the grey lights began to wane and vanish from sight. With a final groan, she scanned Synshen until she found her brother Falkas. Bright as any star, the crown prince’s golden aura glowed in the innermost Keep, where he was encircled by the last members of his personal guard. He was still alive, at least, and knowing this, Sheil released her grip on the crystal and wiped the sweat from her face. At once, her senses dulled and she had to squint to see in the darkness. Tannelle and her lamp were now several turns behind, but the princess pressed on anyways, Kahle trailing her wordlessly.

The air became cooler the deeper they descended, and the stone walls about them grew damp. At last finding a heavy oak door at the tower’s base, Sheil shoved her way into the Keep’s kitchen, and glancing about even as her eyes adjusted to the dim torchlight, she found the room’s tables, counters, basins and racks had been hastily pillaged. Everywhere pools of sauces, loose pieces of chopped poultry and greens, and broken pottery shards were scattered across the floor. Worse still, the room stank of its Khieen cooks and washerwomen, who were huddled in the scullery, beyond a mound of uncooked pastry dough. For a moment, the princess considered ordering them to follow her, but she thought better of the idea, for despite the numerous utensils about them—foot-long carving knives, meat cleavers, hog skewers—the staff were unarmed and trembled like saplings in a gale. They would be as useless as Tannelle—whom Sheil was honour-bound to save. In fact, it was just as Sheil was reminding herself of this that the duchess stumbled into the kitchen, bearing an armful of perfume bottles and love notes. Sheil turned and motioned for Kahle to shut the door behind them, then jogged towards the kitchen’s opposite wall.

“Hurry. And say nothing,” Sheil called back. “If either of you fall behind, I’ll leave you.”

At the other end of the kitchen, Sheil knew, the servants’ quarters were secreted behind a false wall. She patted the moist foundation stones until she found the recess leading to the warren-like hallway of candle- lit closets that served as both residences and holding cells for the Khieen. On the far end of this was yet another passage leading to the West Bailey—where she hoped to find Grellir and his men. Signalling for Kahle and Tannelle to follow, she dashed past innumerable pinewood doors, her already racing heart hastened to near-bursting when a scream from the kitchen reached her ears. Crossing the corridor faster than she realized, the princess slammed into the wrought-iron gate separating the servants’ quarters from the catacombs.

Instantly, she slipped backwards and was only saved from losing her footing by gripping the sullied blanket Ethri had ordered hung over the gate to conceal it. Her forehead smarted from the impact and she swooned momentarily, only regaining her balance fully as Kahle and Tannelle caught up with her. Kahle gripped Sheil’s arm to steady her while the princess retrieved what, till then, had been a merely ceremonial skeleton key from her satchel. Finding it beneath her crystal, she prodded the gate with her fingertips and quickly discerned the keyhole. The lock turned over with a voluble clank, and it took the combined effort of all three women to pry the gate open then pull it fast behind them. Nor could they have done so any sooner, for just as Sheil reset the gate’s massive iron bolt, one of their Frellander pursuers barked an alarum from near the entrance to the servants’ hall.

Of course, hearing this the princess’s first instinct was for silence, but she, Kahle and Tannelle quickly fell to coughing amidst the thick cobwebs that had settled on the walls about them. With few and brief exceptions, it had been nearly two years since anyone had entered the passage, and the stale air bore the stench of fungus and rotting vermin. Before the Valkarrian occupation, Synshen’s Catacombs had been abandoned altogether for generations, and it was their discovery by Sheil’s brothers that had made the city vulnerable to attack. Still, once the Valkarrians’ had used the tunnels to infiltrate Synshen, the Catacombs were again forgotten so that whatever had previously made its home beneath the city was once more left to its own devices. Sheil shivered to think what might lie around any given corner, but before she could warn Tannelle and Kahle, the duchess rushed headlong into the darkness, her arms still laden with baubles.

“Light your lamp, Tannelle!” Sheil called after her.

“If only I could! And you can blame yourself for making me drop it on the servants’ stairs.”

Sheil considered slapping her cousin for her impertinence. But, before she could, she felt one of Kahle’s weathered hands clutch her shoulder.

“Don’t fret, Your Highness,” the khieen whispered. “Just keep following the iron rings. That’s the way forward, go on.”

For a moment, at least, the khieen’s matronly counsel was calming, and Sheil felt as if she were again the small girl a much younger Kahle was forever lifting from behind horses’ hooves. Obediently, the princess dragged her fingers along the uncannily smooth, stone wall ahead until her hand brushed one of the ancient iron circlets that, according to Falkas, had been inexplicably welded there. And yet, even as she did so, muffled shouts rang out behind them.

Immediately, Kahle and Sheil quickened their pace down the winding, subterranean corridors. But, just as they were closing on where Falkas had said the Catacombs connected to the basement of the West Bailey Garrison, they were startled to a halt when Tannelle shrieked from some two-hundred yards back.. Following her cousin’s voice and using the last, dimming glint of her crystal to light her way, Sheil soon found Tannelle gathering her trinkets from the ankle-deep silt that covered the tunnel’s floor. Then, just as the gem in the princess’s hand flickered out, Kahle’s voice filled the re-enveloping void: “Your Highness? Your Highness? I think I’ve found a door.” “Wait there,” Sheil replied; then, attempting to heave the duchess to her feet, she said, “Gods grant you eternity in the Iron Halls if you don’t leave it, you simpleton! Maybe you don’t mind being martyred for your sweetheart’s memory, but I won’t be killed over someone else’s love notes.”

Luckily, albeit sobbing as she did so, Tannelle acquiesced so that, dragging the duchess by the arm, Sheil quickly reached the faint beam of light trickling into the section of tunnel where she’d left Kahle. Indeed, the khieen had found the door connecting the Catacombs to the West Bailey, and spotting her maidservant within the Garrison’s basement, the princess hauled herself and her still-sniffling cousin through the portal and blocked it with a dust-cloaked crate. Then, quickly passing prison cells whose inmates had been killed at the start of the Frellanders’ assault, the women directly climbed the several flights connecting the three-story dungeon to the Garrison’s billet and mess hall.

Meanwhile, as the sounds of battle reverberating through the walls grew louder, Sheil found the silence that prevailed about her unnerving. Any other day, the barracks would have brimmed with soldiers eating, drilling and praying. Now, however, the deserted rooms were as quiet as a tomb. In the mess hall abandoned plates of breads, meats and cheeses lay scattered across the tables, and the benches were toppled or sat askew like rows of overturned gravestones. Nor was stepping into the alley separating the garrison and armory the slightest improvement, for as the three women sped through puddles of grey muck and ducked behind an offal cart, the Frellanders’ roar became so loud Sheil thought she might go deaf.

Raising her kerchief to her nose so as not to retch, Sheil wended her way about the reeking cart to the edge of the alley where, peeking around the armory’s wall, she spied a thinned line of Docari in spear- wall formation several paces from the West Bailey’s gate. Before them several sappers were hastily planting sharpened staves in a pike wall to absorb the initial attack. This makeshift defence would not hold long, though, and it was evident to Sheil that the Docari mounting it had already been so decimated that they could not withstand the slightest onslaught more than a few minutes.

Certain that the otherwise doomed men would be of more use as an escort, the princess strode from her cover to the side of the detachment’s officer—who, by the looks of him, was another kestant pressed into command. The man did not notice her at first, his attention was so trained on the gate and its cracking timbers, and in the eerie stillness Sheil appraised his soft eyes and smooth cheeks for some sign that he was equal to the ill-fated defence to which he’d committed his men. To her surprise, his kind face looked familiar, and she realized he wasn't ready to die. She decided the best course was to dissuade him if possible. If she didn’t, she knew, his head would soon be mounted on a Frellander’s spear.

“Kestant?” she yelled.

Jumping as if stung, the man’s eyes darted towards her, and he stiffened.

“Your Highness!” he panted, his voice quivering. “This is no place for you. You must hide at once.”

“It is I who determines where I must go, Docar. Give me your name.”

“Jarl Sorn, My lady.”

“And the name of your father?”

He knitted his eyebrows. “Estin Sorn of the Silver Brigade.” Sheil recognized the name straight away: one of Grellir’s most trusted captains, Estin had been responsible for singlehandedly locating Synshen’s catacombs, and his shrewd tactics had saved thousands of Docari lives. If, in the years since, Estin had explained anything to his son, perhaps the Goddess still smiled on Sheil.

“Focus on my words, Kestant! This stand you’re planning is suicidal. We must reach the rest of Commander Grellir’s forces.”

“I’m sorry, My Lady,” Jarl blanched. “I must stay. His Royal Highness himself commanded me to hold the West Bailey.”

“Is my eldest brother beside you now, Kestant?”

“No, Your Highness, but—”

“Then forget your prior orders. As your ranking officer and a member of the royal family, I expect you to obey my every command. If I order you to capture the moon, you shall either do it or perish in the undertaking. Do you understand?”

“Yes, My Lady.”

“Good. Now, leave a skeleton force behind to guard this gate, and have the rest of your men follow me.”

His brow no longer furrowed in reluctance; the young officer stared at the ground acquiescently. Before he could comply with Sheil’s commands, however, the Frellanders’ battering ram ruptured the gate’s centre beam, sending splinters the size of a man’s leg into the Valkarrians’ ranks. Sheil ordered several men to the breach as Frellanders armed with enormous axes began chopping at the door’s battens, but this too was in vain: no sooner had these barbarians been skewered on Docari halberds than their fellows again took up the battering ram and brought the remnants of the door down. The screams of the Docari trapped beneath the gate’s thick oak beams were made all the more sickening by the sound of their bones snapping as the onrushing Frellanders trampled them. Shirtless to their waists, the attackers were all sinew and tattooed muscle, and the beads in their braided hair rattled ominously as they charged. Behind the Docari, Sheil glanced at young Jarl Sorn to see him swallow hard. He drew his falchion just as Sheil’s vision became hazy. All she would later recall of the onslaught’s first few seconds was the iron clasp on the kestant’s cloak, with its die-cast image of a man on a rack crossed by three vertical bars. The princess fixed her gaze on this symbol of the Captured One, pulling her taldak and bond knife free from her belt. God of Death and Despair, she thought, guide my hand.

The next she could remember, Sheil was in the centre of the fray, her taldak’s thongs rearing and snapping, one wrapping a Frellander’s neck while the other plunged through another’s eye. Half of Jarl’s men lay dead at her feet, while the other half were trying to encircle her, more concerned with defending their princess than with their own lives. Kestant Sorn, meanwhile, had become separated from them. Some distance across the courtyard, he was attempting to parry the axe blows of a massive Frellander covered in a network of crisscrossing scars and angular, black tattoos.

“Leave me! Protect the kestant!” Sheil cried, lunging for a break in the barbarian throng.

She ducked one man’s sword and used her taldak to tear what might have been a pitchfork from another. Then, she feinted left towards a man with a barbed club before careering between two others with knives on her right. Reaching the brief gap between the bulk of the attackers and the isolated kestant, she realized she was too late: in one blow, the behemoth Frellander’s axe knocked the kestant’s sword from his hand and, cutting crosswise, split the smaller man’s midsection so the upper half slid free and toppled to the ground. Gore spilled from Jarl’s torso as he screamed. Enraged, Sheil hurtled onto the barbarian’s back and slashed into his left shoulder with her bond dagger. The two-bladed knife slipped from her hand and darted through the Frellander’s flesh like a startled fish. Almost instantly, it tore from the man’s stomach, and he crumbled forwards. At the same time, the princess leapt free, and landing, barely had time to open her fingers before her bond knife whisked back into her palm.

Immediately, though, Sheil realized she was the last Valkarrian alive in the courtyard. The few men surrounding her when she’d broken for the kestant had apparently been slaughtered without her aid, and now she had no choice but call upon the weapon Grellir had warned her she couldn’t control. Yet, caught between death and the chance of death, what else could she do? With a line of barbarians bearing down on her, there was no time to consider alternatives. Spreading her feet wide and raising her trembling bond dagger before her, she gripped the blade’s hilt with both hands. Its raging force jarred her arms from their sockets as she closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. Then, she released her grip, and in the still moment that followed, the double-bladed knife sped into the charging barbarians like a lightning bolt, flashing in a flurry of blinding streaks.

Within seconds, it had sliced through the foremost Frellanders. Some it disembowelled; others it decapitated. The effect was shocking, even to Sheil, who had never before witnessed a bond weapon’s full frenzy. Like waves breaking against a reef, column upon column pressed forwards and instantly dropped into piles of shrieking flesh.

This sequence of wanton carnage repeated over and over, and Sheil hardly had the presence of mind to count how many fell before the attackers’ back ranks broke for the gate. But, as they did so, she bounded up the escarpment of a stone buttress to her right and scrambled through one of the abandoned guardhouse’s windows. Then, without thinking, she found the portcullis winch and released its pawl. The loosened chain seemed to cackle as it unwound, and the steel lattice struck the gate’s flagstones with such force that it nearly bowled Sheil over. Moments later, hundreds of shrill, terrified cries filled her ears.

The princess didn’t have the stomach to watch the massacre through the guardhouse’s arrow slits. Instead, she huddled behind an empty bow rack and waited for the cries to stop. When they did, the silence in the courtyard was as sinister as the hush she’d confronted in the abandoned barracks, and she became aware of how distant the sounds of battle now seemed. Relieved, she stood and, still clutching her taldak, descended the guardhouse steps to ground level, where she had to kick open the door to clear the dead piled in the gate’s embrasure. The slaughter, she found, had been complete, with not a Frellander left breathing. Having cut every man down, her bond dagger had not been satisfied with mere incapacitation but had also gouged the throats of the wounded to a man.

As she stepped over the severed limbs and heads surrounding her, she cringed at the sight of several cleanly decapitated Docari. The bond knife’s devastation had been indiscriminate, butchering wounded Valkarrians, too. Her heart beat wildly as she staggered through the knee-high mass of corpses, wondering if the blood-crazed blade would unexpectedly separate her own head from her body. This had, after all, happened before, and Grellir had been sure to mention during her training the few occasions when Elkiri warriors who had released their bond weapons had lost their lives in the process. Luckily, though, the princess soon spotted the knife lying on an empty, gore-slick flagstone and, after a moment’s hesitation, grasped its hilt.

Glistening with blood, the blade was warm and wet and exuded a darkness so complete it seemed like a tear in the world, a portal into the Iron Halls themselves. But it trembled no more as she returned it to its sheath, and gazing about her, dazed with catharsis, the princess could think of nothing else now but finding Tannelle and Kahle. Making her way back to the alley, she rounded the offal cart only to discover the two women were missing. Pushing into the abandoned mess hall, she shouted their names so loudly her voice reverberated throughout the barracks, and dashing back to the gate, she forced herself to inspect each body more closely. Yet, even having wrapped her scarf about her mouth and rooted amongst countless corpses, she found herself smeared to the elbows with blood to no avail. She tried to remember if she’d heard women’s screams in the midst of the massacre. But this was like grasping at the wind, and before long, she was exhausted and overwhelmed with hopelessness. Then, glancing up from the mass of severed limbs at her feet, her eyes met those of a lone Frellander just beyond the gate’s portcullis.

“Their princess!” he shouted in his thick, garbled tongue before speeding south, presumably to alert his comrades.

Forced to abandon her search, Sheil knew she must flee again. But, with the West Bailey abutting Synshen’s west wall and its only egress an inward-facing gate, her options were to try her luck in the streets or backtrack through the Catacombs—where, by now, the Frellanders who had chased her, Tannelle and Kahle would surely be awaiting her.. Then, looking skywards, she noticed the West Bailey’s ramparts were abandoned. As Grellir had often told her, “there is always another choice,” and she was relieved at the opportunity to put his training to use.

Quickly slipping up the guardhouse steps, she raced along the walkway, ducking behind each embrasure. After fifty or so yard of this, she finally gained the wall’s northeast turret, and springing up its outer steps, she leapt through a crenel towards the roof of an adjacent house. The houses had been built so close to the fortress that not even a cat might have squeezed through the crevices between them, and the roof was, at most, two stories below the battlements. But Sheil had been so quick to jump towards the easy concealment of the building’s centre ridge that she hadn’t noticed how rotten its thatching was: though her right foot landed on one of the truss timbers, her left plunged through the straw, while, simultaneously, the truss gave way with a sickly crack.

Before she could catch her balance or even find a handhold, she tumbled backwards into empty air and instantaneously felt the attic’s floor buckle as her body dropped through its musty floorboards. Down she fell, through joists and crossbeams, down through whatever hard something was hanging from the ceiling below.

Then, the small of her back collided with some wooden furnishing. There was a nauseating thud, a ringing, reverberating, deadening thump, and a warmth spread from the base of her skull through her core. Looking up, she watched the fast-shrinking sky over the gap in the roof press in and engulf her senses.

HORROR NOVELLA:

In What Remains Behind by Michael Saadd

SPRINGTIME – WESTMORELAND SOUTH – CREST LAKE

In the woods next to his parents’ camp, Wilson swung his curved stick like a sword. “Whoosh, take that.” He called out. He liked the whistling sound it made as he brought the stick down on the bad guys that were storming his make-believe castle.

“Come back over here, Willy,” his mother called to him from their camp. She had a pot of beans simmering over the firepit, stirring them so they wouldn’t burn. “You’re too far into the forest. You’ll go missing like all those people who’ve gotten lost out here over the years.”

“Yeah, bud, remember we talked about that, staying out of the trees.” His dad stood at the tailgate of their truck, getting the wieners and ketchup from the cooler. Balancing an armful of cookout supplies and hot dog condiments, he headed toward the fire. “Time to come in and wash-up at the basin. It’s suppertime.”

“Whoosh, whoosh,” Wilson repeated. An independent seven-year-old with a wild imagination, he continued to swing his imaginary sword. “You thugs will never take my moat. I’m the Knight of Roudoir, and I’ll fight you to the death.”

Jacen crouched in the high grass ten meters from the camp and noticed with annoyance the upturned soil where the boy dug up his stick. Just get over to your damn parents and wash your hands, you little bastard and bloody well leave everything where you found it.

“Okay, Mom.” Willy ran out of the forest to the grassy area of their camp. Much to Jacen’s fury, the kid still carried the stick to show her. “What’s for supper?”

“Open your eyes, kid.” Jacen muttered. Your mother is cooking pork n’ beans over the fire, and your dad has an armful of hot dog links, roasting forks, a bag of tube buns, and squeeze bottles of ketchup and mustard. What the hell do you think you’re having? Three-cheese, spinach lasagna? Christ, kid. He clearly had no patience for this, but he didn’t dare reveal himself now. Jacen had been stalking this family since they made camp in the area last night. Watching them on and off for the past twenty-four hours, he kept his distance, but as soon as the little boy entered the wooded area, Jacen kept round-the- clock surveillance on them. He monitored every piece of firewood they collected, homed in on every conversation they had, and followed them to the bramble on the other side of their camp that they used as a makeshift toilet. It was the boy that Jacen was especially concerned about, and for good reason.

“Hey Bud, what’s that stick you got there?” His father said, setting the food down on the portable picnic table they had set up next to the fire. “Got a funny curve to it. Looks broken.”

“It’s my sword,” the kid said. “I found it in the dirt over there.”

“Come here, show mommy.” His mother motioned him over. She took the stick in her hands and studied it. Bow-shaped, it was a dirty-tan color with a rust-like hue to it. “Oh gross, I think it’s a bone. Sean, what do you think?” She held it up for her husband to see.

Willy’s dad looked over his shoulder as he threaded two wieners on a roasting rod and squinted. “Hmm? Yeah, I don’t know. Could be a stick, could be a bone. Maybe something a coyote brought into the woods. They say there are a bunch of old Indian graves in the area, or it could be from an animal they killed a long time ago. You found that buried in the dirt, Bud?”

“Yes.” “Yuck Willy,” His mother said, “you don’t need that while we’re eating.” She tossed it into the bush.

“Aw mom,” Wilson complained.

“C’mon, Bud, don’t worry about it – it’s just a stick. We don’t want you swinging that thing around your sister anyways. Now go wash up.”

“Okay.” Wilson walked over to the basin, head down, defeated.

Jacen clenched a fist as he watched behind a tall poplar whose leaves were showing the first sign of fall, with brown, dry patches starting to discolor their green tips. The first problem, you idiots, is that’s no Goddamn stick.

Wanting to bite his fist as a swell of resentment flushed over him, it took every ounce of Jacen’s being not to storm into that camp and bash that mother’s head in. But he refrained, though he would have to go into the camp later that evening, when they were all asleep in their tent, and make his move, because that was no curved stick dug, and certainly not some child’s plaything to be haphazardly thrown into the bushes like a banana peel that would decompose into the soil.

No, you stupid bastards, he lashed out in his head. It is a bone, the rib bone of my deceased girlfriend – Elena Gladstone, the love of my life. And I come up here every summer, every year, to protect this site from hobnob city folk like you, too blissfully unaware in your big ass trucks and high-priced gear that you are camping on the site of her murder, six years and sixteen days ago. A day that tortures me to no end. The day I swore to high heaven that I would never let anyone disturb her final resting place.

And you just threw her into the bush like a piece of trash, you stupid bitch. Jacen clenched his fist, writhing in the bramble where he lay. He would strike tonight, when then they were sound asleep in the pitch-black darkness of their tent, and make them all pay.

***

THREE YEARS LATER – SPRINGTIME – WESTMORELAND SOUTH – CREST LAKE

“Rock on, everyone.” The stupid, drunk, piece-of-crap teenager roared from the back of the pick- up truck that barged its way into the edge of the clearing. He was half-naked, with his shirt off, and flabby, hairy, belly hanging over his hockey-themed boxer shorts.

“Right on, Billy.” The girl with the high-pitched voice screeched in her drunken stupor. “Show us your stuff, stud-muffin.”

“Whohooo.” Billy took off his boxers, as two other idiots shook their beer cans and started spraying him with the fizz. Buck naked, he leapt off of the back of the pick-up and streaked into the woods.

My woods - Elena’s woods. Jacen seethed, watching the party balloon out of control. The second he saw the teenagers pull up in the overloaded pick-up, he braced himself. “Stay the hell away from her,” he muttered, seething. He was crouched behind a tree at the other end of the woods, watching from a distance. This wasn’t the first party he’d seen in the clearing, but these kids were wild, having driven their pick-up right into the forest edge, close to where his beloved lay.

“Rock on baby.” Billy the idiot plowed into the woods, as the others – two boys and four girls, chased him into the trees. The driver of the pick-up pulled forward and started doing donuts in the clearing, tearing up dirt and grass in chunks, but Jacen’s eyes remained fixed on the runners.

“Get back,” he seethed, watching Billy run around in circles on the spot just in front of Elena’s resting place. The kid’s love-handles juggled like water balloons as he kicked his knees higher, stomping on the soft dirt. He was inches away from the overgrown dirt-pile where that little Wilson kid had dug up Elena’s rib awhile back.

“Yeah, Billy, hot stuff, hon.” One girl shouted, and took out her camera to take his picture. To the left of them, Jacen noticed a boy and a girl slip off to the side of the woods, kissing heavily. The boy had his hands down the back of her pants and was squeezing. He could see the girl’s pants drop to the bottom of her hips, exposing her panties, which themselves were so thin they didn’t even conceal her buttocks.

Sickening. Jacen thought, his anger boiling. That was no way to act out in a forest, around other people. Around my Elena’s resting space.

Hey handsome, brighten up. The words, and the soft, feminine tone that had said them, popped into his mind like a butterfly that hovered into his line of sight and landed on his hand. A sense of surprise, and arousal, overtook him, quelling his anger. Those words, that sensation, they were familiar to him, like a soothing remembrance from the past. Closing his eyes and remaining still, he focused on retaining the memory, appreciating it as though it were the butterfly itself, where any wrong move would cause it to jolt and flutter away, out of his reach forever.

It was when I met her, he thought, keeping his eyes closed. I mean, really met her. Yes, I remember now. The forest, and the annoying kids, dissolved from his mind.

“Hey handsome, brighten up.” A distinctly feminine voice whispered from behind into his right ear, startling him at his seat in the study area of the university library basement.

“Wha-.” Jacen jolted. Twenty years old again, he was back in time, to his third year of university, where his face had been buried in his cultural anthropology textbook. He had been hogging the table, a variety of academic books and journals for his research paper were spread in front of him.

The pretty brunette girl with the wavy hair poked him in the ribs, creating a ticklish sensation that reverberated up his sides, making him shiver. He shot up to his feet and spun around to face her. His annoyance dissipated once he saw it was her.

“Whoa, easy boy,” she said, laughing. Her name was Elena. She was a student who shelved books in the library, and on occasion, worked the front desk as a sign-out clerk. That was where Jacen had first met her, one month earlier, when he signed out the first two of the half-dozen journals he had strewn about on the table. “Just wanted to make sure you were alive down here.”

Jacen glanced at the floor, then looked at her sheepishly. “Oh yes, you mean from my research, yes.” He was bumbling. He was never good with women, which had suited him perfectly fine through high school and his freshmen year of university, but ever since the start of this semester, when he first set eyes on this bubbly, tantalizing, intelligent second-year transfer-student, he was enamored. He had encountered attractive women before – that was nothing new – but what made Elena Gladstone different from all the others was the game-changing prerequisite that she liked him too.

“You work too hard.” She laughed. Her soft eyes, dimpled chin, round face lit up the room, and made the musty, cement-walled university library basement brighten up like an outdoor Las Vegas spa in the summertime. “You need to take a night off. Have some fun.” She poked him in the belly with her finger – a playful gesture that turned his stomach inside out. He had never had a girl touch him before, much less one he found alluring.

“Oh, well, it’s just that I-” he stammered, “I have to complete this paper – it’s on the worldviews of the Sherpa people of the Khumbu Valley, and those of…well… a place called the Karnali…it’s in Nepal, I mean…that’s what I’m writing about…” Oh God, I’m horrible at this. He braced for the look of bewilderment on her face.

“So…you’re doing a comparative study between the Sherpa of the past century who’ve been immersed with the Western climbers of Mount Everest and those who have not. That’s interesting. I would imagine the hardest part of that project is finding anything not related to the Sherpa of Everest – that, and finding authentic Sherpa translations – difficult, considering the Sherpa don’t really write anything down.”

Jacen’s eyes popped out of his sockets. “Oh…uh, you know about this stuff?” He couldn’t finish his sentence without letting his dumbfound surprise take over.

“I’m a Geography major, following in my dad’s footsteps. Grew up listening to his theories on George Mallory’s whereabouts on Everest, as well as his issues with Sir Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay – oh God, don’t get my Dad talking about who really were the first men to scale the summit of that mountain. My dad did his own climb when I was a teenager – spent a fortune, but didn’t summit. Had to cop out at Camp III – altitude sickness, but he was okay with it. Said he gave it his best shot but came up short – at least he tried, and that was good enough for him.”

“Wow.” Jacen sat on the table, listening intently. “Good for him. That’s incredible.”

They talked about Everest, the Sherpa, their hopes, dreams of the future. At least an hour went by – she didn’t shelve a single book in that time, and he didn’t do a stitch of research. They were in the bowels of the library and no one cared, least of all them.

She glanced at her watch. “Oh dear, a half hour until closing. I’m not going to win employee of the month.” She said, touching his hand, a coy expression on her face. “It was fun chatting with you. I think you should take me up on my offer to have a little fun. You around on Friday night? There’s a Cabaret at the uni-pub, if you want to go.”

Oh my paper, was his first thought. Working on a Friday night would put him ahead of schedule on his semester plan to get his assignments done a full week before they were due, to maximize his time spent studying for finals.

It took him all of about 13 seconds to dismiss that.

“I’d love to go,” he said, trying to hold his bursting heart in. “What time should I pick you up?”

“PARTY LIKE ITS 2005, YOU FUCKING HOSERS. WHOOOOOO.” The whiny, pitchy, debauched voice of Billy ripped him back into reality, away from the memory of that wonderful, sweet moment when he had fallen in love with Elena. The kid shook another can and sprayed it into the air, sending a sticky mess of beer over the others heads and, worse yet, onto the leaves, trees, and soil around him.

The partiers – they were all over the place now, running around the woods yammering about the weekend, sloshing beer around, beaking incessantly. The male and female were on the ground groping one another – both their pants down to their knees, the boy’s hands up her shirt, grabbing her breasts. A couple of the kids were cheering them on, laughing, taking pictures of them wrangling on the grass.

The youth today – no regards for nature, for common human decency, Jacen thought, slumping against the tree he was hiding behind. It was all so shameful. God, what is this world coming to? This area had been rumored to be a little-known site of indigenous settlements so long ago, but no tribe had claimed it, and this level of ignorance and disrespect shown by this newer generation of young people incensed him to the core. He just wanted to get away from it all, go back home. What the hell was he doing out here anyway?

“Hey, stop you guys, I gotta take a leak.” Billy slurred, heading for the interior of the woods.

“Hey Dude, don’t get lost in there.” One of the boys said, throwing an acorn at him. “The Indian ghosts will get you. Billy will be one of the ‘missing of Westmoreland.’ Scarrrry, scary stuff,” the boy finished, in a very bad Vincent Price imitation.

“Shut up,” Billy stuttered. “There’s no ghosts in these woods, that’s stupid. My Dad says it’s just a buncha dumb, granola hippies who get lost out here. They didn’t know where they were going and died. Got eaten by wolves or something.” He stumbled for the hedge grass surrounding the two spruce trees that brushed up against each other, as though God himself had made them stand like angry watchmen to guard the untouched forest beyond them. Billy walked to the edge of the bramble and spread his legs, ready to urinate.

At the very site where Elena lay buried.

Jacen shot up. Incensed.

“No.” He charged out from behind the tree, directly at the boy, forgetting any dejection that had befallen him. Any regress within him transformed into pure, unbridled fury.

“DON’T YOU DARE.” He screamed in a full, angry sprint. Billy assumed the pissing stance. His eyes shot wide and he jolted backwards at what he saw.

“GET AWAY FROM HER.” Jacen set himself on the boy, and lunged like a wild, malicious carnivore and tore into the drunken sod. How dare this punk desecrate her grave. His Elena.

“Rahhhhhhh.” Billy shrieked. He turned to run, arms and legs flailing as he did so. “HELP ME.” His panic surged through the air. In the distance, one of the girls shouted ‘Oh my God.’ in response. The other kids screamed. But it didn’t matter.

Nothing on earth was going to help them now.

FIVE YEARS LATER – SUMMERTIME – WESTMORELAND SOUTH – CREST LAKE The cool morning lay a blanket of soft mist that interwove through the forest canopy, settling along the branches of the trees as though it were cotton batten. The air was crisp and moist – it was a calm milieu in the woods, and it was times like these Jacen savored. Feeling secluded by the haze, he could stand among it and not have to hide behind thicket or in the hedge grass. He could even walk – the dampness of the air felt heavy. He liked how it pressed against his face, made him feel whole, at peace.

For the briefest of moments, it made him forget about Elena, and then the guilt would return. He could go home if he wanted, rest in relative warmth and comfort, while Elena lay underneath the dirt, rotting and frigid. The nights were always raw and biting in the forest.

She’s gone, you idiot. He berated himself. The dead don’t feel the cold.

Then she’s lonely then. Yes, that’s it. She’s all alone, and you should feel horrible because of that.

And his chastisement continued.

The morning sun, unimpeded by cloud cover, lifted the fog by late morning. His heart settled upon seeing the light blue, six-person tent pop up on the clearing. The campsite was neat and orderly, all food sealed tight in coolers, and garbage stored high in trees with a nifty pulley system to keep the smell away from bears and other wildlife. There was no litter anywhere.

The two ladies, Clarissa and June, were avid campers and outdoor enthusiasts, with a genuine appreciation of nature. They were young, in their mid-twenties – attractive, intelligent. They had been out a month earlier, scouting out the location – Jacen had watched them with suspicion at first, but learned the ladies were only there to get away from the bustle of city life. Clarissa was a professional photographer of sorts, who loved taking pictures of waterfowl – ducks, geese, and the odd water crane that scavenged along the lake. She was incredibly patient and would nestle over a log or rock along the shoreline of Crest Lake to get her shot. Jacen had even followed them to the lake their first night and watched from the distance as she took some beautiful sunset shots of a Redhead drake and hen flickering along the glistening, still-water underneath a pumpkin orange sky. It had taken him almost two hours before he realized how far he had strayed away from Elena – he immediately headed back, risking himself getting exposed by the two women, especially June, who was slightly older, and more suspicious of the world around her.

“I want to go back to the lake,” Clarissa said, as she brewed a pot of coffee over the open fire. “See if we can photograph that drake in the daytime. I could turn it into a mosaic – ‘Redhead Drake in the Morning, Noon, and Evening.”

“Anything to keep your mind off of men,” June said, smirking across the pit. She was preparing bacon-and-eggs in a paper bag, to grill on the edge of the fire.

Men, Jacen thought. That word, more particularly the way she said it, bothered him. He dismissed the thought, and watched June layer the bacon on the bottom of the bag, then drop a dollop of butter on top. She then cracked the eggs and put the whites and yolks on the inside, scrunching up the top of the bags before setting them on the outside perimeter of the grill.

The way she bunches up the bags before putting them on the fire, Jacen thought. Elena did that too. He watched them in near hypnotic fascination as they prepared their breakfast and ate it. The sight of them triggered a flood of nostalgia, of familiarity, but the specific memories, long since past, were becoming more difficult to conceptualize. Too much time spent out in the wilderness alone, he knew, watching over Elena’s grave. The experience had done something to his mind, his psyche – it isolated him from his peers, family.. None of it mattered because he needed to be out here. And then he realized it, listening to their conversation about Clarissa’s ex-boyfriend, a control freak who had left her for another girl, apparently a work colleague of hers, then wanted her back - and June’s response to her about it.

“Girl, you need to forget about that loser.” June told her. “Men like him get in the way. You can focus on your photography now, come out here and find yourself. Challenge your irrational thinking. He just tied you down, tried to rule your life, then hurt you when you tried to speak up for yourself. Forget about him and focus on what you need to do, want to do, and the rest will take care of itself.”

“I know, thanks Hon,” Clarissa said, skimming through the pictures that appeared on the back of her camera. Jacen noticed the way Clarissa listened to her friend, flipping through her photographs, being sociable, but also having that clear, calculated focus. And the advice June had given, about being independent, not letting anything tie you down, being afraid of no obstacle, was sincere and heartfelt.

Both girls had different remnants of Elena in their personalities.

“Yes, that’s it.” He said under his breath. They were very much like Elena. Both of them. They would have been like our daughters, had we got married and had children. The thought saddened, but also invigorated, him.

“They’re my girls.” He finished. Saying those words soothed him, put him at peace. He felt the sudden inclination to go home, lie down and sleep, something he hadn’t done in ages. The girls finished breakfast, repacked their gear, and left the campsite for the lake. He decided not to follow them – instead, it was time to rest up, collect his thoughts, come back later in the week and check in on them, or maybe just leave them alone and, heaven forbid, allow himself the serenity to get on with his life.

And then he spotted it. Jutting out amongst the weeds a few feet away from where he was hiding. Something abnormal.

What the hell is that? He thought. It looked like a thick weed. It certainly blended in amongst the foxtail and yellow pine grass spread out along the woodland floor that he knew so well. He walked over and knelt down to get a closer look at it. It was some sort of cable, carefully laid to avoid detection. The cable itself had been painted a tan yellow, intended to be hidden, camouflaged. It ran along the ground towards the forest.. Why had he not seen this before?

It had to have been recently placed, he realized. When I was gone home. When I left my guard down.

He followed the cable, hidden in the ground, with loose dirt and leaves having been placed over it, but it wouldn’t fool him. It led to a thick, thinned out spruce tree on the outer edge of the forest, about twenty feet from the girls’ camp. The cable ran up the base of the tree, where Jacen noticed it had been threaded underneath a chunk of bark to a small box, a plastic case painted in brown camouflage that had been fastened to the trunk. Jacen squinted at the contraption, studying it. He had never seen anything like it before, but he knew exactly what it was.

A camera, Jacen thought. A video camera. The cable that ran to it is a microphone. His heart sank, understanding that once again, the second he left his guard down, bad things would happen in the forest, to the people that he cared about. Underneath the device was a strange carving into the wood, one that looked like an old First Nations hieroglyph – there had been a couple of similar ones inscribed in the trees around the area but it seemed this one served as a marker for whomever placed the camera. Someone is watching the girls. Jacen looked around suspiciously. Spying on them - for whatever reason, though it couldn’t be a good one. It was being done without their permission, which in-and-of- itself suggested sinister motives. Whoever was doing it had seen him now too, and he couldn’t allow that. He retreated into the woods and crouched low onto the forest floor, scanning every corner of the surrounding area. It didn’t take him long to find the culprit.

Hidden 300 feet away from the campsite, Jacen spotted the man, dressed in tan camouflage lying in behind a clump of buckbrush on the slope of a rolling hill that looked over the camp clearing. He was well- built, stocky, with a dark, full beard and long hair tied into a bun that tucked out from behind the camouflage toque that he wore.

I see you, you rat, Jacen thought to himself, nobody knows these woods better than me. He snuck around the crest of the hill, and hunched in the high hedge grass behind the man, and watched him from about 40 meters away. The spy watching the spy. The man did not detect or hear Jacen, who had become a master of watching others unaware – there was no way this fool-hardy amateur was going to spot him. The mysterious man was lying on his belly in the grass, nibbling on a fruit energy bar, sipping out of a thermos and using a small, black tablet - a mini-computer of some kind. At times he was playing some kind of arcade game on the screen, at others he glared at the girls camp through the set of binoculars that hung around his neck.

You bastard, Jacen thought. Fury percolated inside him. He had every inclination to attack the man then and there.

I don’t know what you’re doing buddy, Jacen thought. But if you think of harming my girls, I will end you. He snapped a stick on the ground as a subtle warning to the man.

The man spun around, his head over his shoulder. He had heard it, and stared into nothingness behind him. The man squinted, and appeared nervous at the sound.

That’s right Buddy, you keep on your toes, Jacen thought, smirking as he retreated down the hill. You’re going to need to be with me, because I’m watching you, you son-of-a-bitch.

I’m watching.

***

Later that afternoon, Jacen watched the man pack up and leave the area, when the girls ventured back to the lake. On the man’s computer tablet, Jacen had noticed some sort of profile page with a white letter ‘F’ on it that had a photo of Clarissa on the south path into Crest Lake, presumably taken by June. The area was quiet, save except for the sound of the girls at the camp, discussing their day. Clarissa had apparently fallen in the lake trying to set up a shot of the drake. The man did not take the camera with him. Jacen kept his distance from it, lest the girls spot him and accuse him of stalking their camp with it. At sunset, Jacen propped up under the branches of a nearby spruce tree to guard their site. Their giddy, playful laughter brought him back to the past, when he first set eyes on Crest Lake.

“Come on scaredy cat,” Elena said, dragging him by the arm to the end of the dock. “Jump in.”

“No, we can’t.” Jacen replied, flustered. Elena was dressed in a white, buttoned blouse and jean shorts. Her hair was braided into a bun and she wore flip-flop sandals. He was in a blue, long-sleeved flannel shirt, khaki pants, New Balance 999 sneakers, and had his glasses on, without which he couldn’t see a thing.

“Yes, you can.” She pulled him towards her, pressing him up against her body, her face, her breasts. Nervousness still flittered inside him, two months after making their courtship official. Now she had him out to Crest Lake, one of her families’ many vacation spots in the Westmoreland region of the province.

It had all started the night he took her to the university cabaret she invited him to. They drank and danced, then spent the early morning hours sitting on the edge of the lounge patio that overlooked the university campus, talking about everything from their childhood, their families, to what they wanted out of life. Far and away it was the most fun he had ever had. It took until four in the morning, and a long walk underneath the breezeway arch and through the campus parkway before he finally had the guts to kiss her, even though she had given him more than enough cues to do so.

“I’m trying to be a gentleman,” he told her, standing on the dock. It was the same thing he had told her in the university breezeway, seconds before they kissed. The truth was he didn’t want to screw this up, so he went slow. Far slower, apparently, than she wanted to.

“I know, I love that about you,” she whispered to him, and undoing the buttons on his shirt. He grabbed his hand to stop her. “It’s just a little swim. We have this entire lake to ourselves.”

“Do we?” He asked, looking around them. Crest Lake was an isolated lake, un-commercialized and accessible only by hiking. It was used only for fishing and even then, only if you were willing to haul your rowboat or canoe through the brush on the narrow, winding trail that led to it. A couple of fishermen had built the dock in the 1970s for spin-casting – it had become warped and needed some boards replaced, but it was still buoyant.

She nodded, and wrestled her hand free, kissing him, and went back to undoing his shirt. His heart froze but his loins stirred. His nervousness turned into a paralyzing terror.

“I…I’m just… jittery, that’s all.” He said, trying to calm himself. The whole camping experience was new to him. It was the May long weekend and she had driven him out, just the two of them, to this place called Crest Lake that her father had taken her as a little girl. Jacen had driven two hours on his own to get to her place, never having camped before, over-packing his two-door hatchback with camping gear paid for with the last of his Spring semester cash, meaning he would have to figure out how he’d cover next month’s rent later. If he was serious about being an anthropology major, he supposed, then camping was going to be an important part of his fieldwork so he would ultimately need the equipment, but if camping was this strange to him, having a tantalizing girl undressing him may as well have placed him in another universe.

“You’re so tense,” she said, laughing – his shirt open, her hands running over his chest and grazing his nipples.

“How do I know your Dad isn’t in those bushes behind us?” He said, his voice wavering. “Spying on us with binoculars, brandishing his shotgun, just waiting for me to take advantage of you?”

“Ha-ha – he’s not. But that thought did cross my mind. I sort-of lied and told him we were going to Bevel Canyon, three hours north from here, but technically still in Westmoreland, so it wasn’t really a lie. That way, if he’s in the bushes with his binoculars at Crest Lake, he’s only going to find drunk high schoolers and back-to-nature-types to curse at.” “You’re devious.” Jacen chuckled. “Way more creative than what I told my parents – which was nothing. I’m gone for the weekend, bye.” He looked behind him once more.

“Hey,” she said, grabbing his shirt and tearing the rest of it open. “Enough of what’s behind you. Eyes on me.” She immediately went for his pants.

Focus on the here and now, you fool. He chastised himself. Who cares if anyone is watching you? This is a beautiful woman who wants you naked in the water with her.

“Okay, now you’re really, really devious.” He grabbed her buttocks and lifted her up.

“Thatta boy,” she said. She pulled off her blouse and quickly undid her bra, kissing him passionately as she did so. Within seconds she was completely topless in his arms.

Let the world watch, let her Dad watch, who cares? Jacen remembered thinking.

“Okay here we go.” He yelled, hugged her tight, and bolted off the end of the dock. She screamed happily as he leapt. The cold water engulfed them, sending a shock through their bodies. He laughed as he came up for air. She forgave him, laughing and kissing him, pulling his head down to return the kisses to his neck and chest.

Live Jacen, just live. He had told himself, and was repeating it now, as he stood alone in the cold forest, reminiscing. It was the time of his life, but he remembered, even then, in that moment of pure, unbridled passion, that he couldn’t quite shake the feeling, the eerie sensation, that they were being watched by someone. Something. He just couldn’t remember what. It was eluding him.

Forget about it Jacen, he told himself, standing underneath the starlight in the woods over the spot where Elena lay buried. Just remember the moment and savor it. That’s all you can do now. That and protect her.

***

ONE YEAR LATER – SUMMERTIME - WESTMORELAND NORTH – BEVEL CANYON

“Bevel Canyon is beautiful. Why haven’t we been to this part of Westmoreland before?” Clarissa asked, standing on a large, black rock in the middle of the creek, as the last remnants of sunlight peeked through the lush, green leaves and pine needles of the forest. A chorus of chirping birds, intermingling with the rustling flow, made it a picturesque scene but Jacen could tell that Clarissa was antsy. And he knew the reason why. She wanted to take pictures, but June wanted to talk.

“I kept telling you we needed to come.” June said, walking through two trees that stood like towers along the edge of the bank, itself a veritable ecosystem of moss, lichen, frogs, worms, and any other life form she could spot. She had collected a jar full of dirt, bugs, rocks, and grass.

Jacen suspected she was a botanist, but wasn’t 100% certain – she was definitely an environmental scientist of some kind. “Hey, are you even listening to me over there?” “I’m here,” Clarissa said, taking one last picture of the stream flow, “and yes, you’re right, we should have been here ages ago. I should have been here ages ago.”

June smiled. “Good, I’m glad you’re finally over that loser, Hon. It only took a year. And I’m happy to see you finally enjoying yourself, instead of wondering where he is, what’s he’s doing, checking Facebook on that phone constantly, like you did last summer at Crest Lake. I wanted to take that thing and throw it off the wharf.”

Jacen had a hard time following their conversation but he was finally starting to piece it together. Had it really been a year since he last saw the girls? Knowing that it was, everything seemed like a blur to him. He knew he had settled out here, through the Fall, the harsh winter, and back into the Spring months, his mind never far from his beloved’s remains, but the girls’ return this summer caught his attention and he wound up, unbeknownst to them, following Clarissa and June up to Bevel Canyon, sending him for the first time ever outside of the Crest Lake forest, and over three hours away from where Elena lay.

What the hell am I doing out here? He chastised himself, hiding in the middle of a thick, berry bush, about twenty feet away from the ladies. Neither one of the ladies could see him, he had carefully intermingled amongst the branches, keeping hidden behind the densest part of the leaves and flowers, and listened to them talk. He hoped June wouldn’t catch the urge to go berry picking.

She didn’t. June was more interested in Clarissa, who was more into the stream. They talked about Clarissa’s ex–boyfriend, whose name was Horace, who June continued to badmouth, trying to ensure once-and-for-all that Clarissa wouldn’t go back to him. If Jacen didn’t know any better, it seemed that June had more than a vested interest in keeping Clarissa away from men, all men.

That doesn’t matter right now. Jacen told himself, looking around the steam, trying to place himself and remember the spur of the moment decision he made to follow the women here. To let himself wander so far away from Elena.

“I wanna go back to the camp. I’m starved.” Clarissa said, taking one last look around the stream. “Do we really have this whole place to ourselves?”

“We do Sweetie.” June gave her a playful swat on the behind. “I brought some venison and potato pockets we can grill over the fire. How does that sound?”

“Yummy,” Clarissa took her hand and the two girls went into the woods. Their camp wasn’t far, only about forty feet into the forest, near a rock face that offered protection and higher ground against wild animals if they needed it. The close proximity to the creek gave them water to boil, and a spot for morning fishing, but they were deep in the forest this time around.

Jacen waited for them to get to their camp before he wrestled his way out of the bush, careful not to snap any branches or cause too much rustling that would draw their attention. He crawled out the bottom of the bush on his forearms and knees, moving like a turtle.

He inched his way over to the crest of the incline they were on to watch them. He looked around their camp – they had a campfire lit and tin foil spread out on their portable picnic table. From transparent plastic containers, June set out strips of slightly charred, cooked venison with sliced potato, onion, and mushrooms and placed them onto the foil. She put a nice dollop of oil over top of them, a sprinkle of seasoning, and folded it all into a tight, little packets. Jacen could feel his stomach rumbling. I haven’t eaten in ages, he thought. The sight of the food aroused him. Maybe he should eat something. He started to look around. He would need to get out of here, back to the main road. Head back into town – go to a restaurant. The sight of the sliced venison made him crave a stir-fry, just like Elena used to make him, with fresh beans, water-chestnuts, sliced strips of sirloin steak -

And then he saw it.

It was the box he noticed first. It was about 30 meters away from their camp, affixed to the tree with a brown tie, the lens aimed directly at the ladies and their tent. Camouflaged, to blend in with the tree bark. It was darker than he remembered it. He crawled over to it through the grass while the ladies were busy with their supper. There didn’t appear to be a cord anywhere this time, but there was a strange symbol on it – a black dot, with three curved, black lines on top of it, with each line longer than the one below it. It looked as though it were some sort of transmitter signal, but Jacen couldn’t make any sense of it. He didn’t need to. Carved in the bark underneath the box was yet another hieroglyph symbol. Jacen knew full well what this was.

“I see you. I know what you’re doing.” Jacen hissed into the camera. “Watching my girls. Well guess what? They’re mine.”

He looked around to see if the girls heard him. They didn’t. He could hear Carissa laughing. They appeared to be viewing some sort of movie by the fire as they were eating. Little did they know they were being watched – by the same sicko who had been spying on them last year at Crest Lake. The creep was definitely more than a mere voyeur. This had to be a twisted obsession, and this time he was deep enough in the woods that whoever this loon was, he could potentially harm them.

Not on my watch, Jacen thought. He looked around – it was too dark to see. The perp could be anywhere with this technology, but they had been warned. He hoped whoever it was could hear his message, and know that if they were going to stalk these girls, someone would be stalking them.

And I will take you out, you sons-of-a-bitch.

And just like that, Jacen forgot about food. Forgot about everything. He had a mission.

***

The next morning, he started early. Just before sunrise. It was cold and with a hint of frost. Perfect conditions for him to track his prey. The girls had been up late, and were still sleeping in their tent. Jacen kept a close eye on them the entire night, sitting on the ground underneath the camera. The first glimmer of light got him up and scurrying through the bush – through the thicket and the pine trees for any sign of the perpetrators. He was about 40 yards away from the girls’ camp last year. Jacen expected them to be roughly the same distance this time around. He doubted the perp would be on the road – vehicles only complicated matters of surveillance. Jacen had abandoned his own car quite a ways up the road in Westmoreland – he couldn’t remember where. The thought stumped him for a second…

No matter, not important right now. He spotted the perp in the brush, this time in green camouflage to blend in with the forest. He was quite a distance away from the girls’ camp and had no way of watching them through the thick brush that separated their two locales – the only way he could was through his camera. The man had a tiny two person tent, itself camouflaged and low to the ground so he couldn’t be made out. As careful as the man was, he was still no match for Jacen, who watched him from a distance. At first glance, it didn’t look like the same man as last year – this one appeared older, had a thick, square jaw covered by scruffy brown stubble, and short, cropped brown hair that hid under a camo toque. He appeared engrossed with his tablet – he had headphones in his ears and was watching the night footage from the camera that showed the girls tent, zipped up for the night. A very boring thing to watch, Jacen surmised, but the man appeared to be studying it thoroughly, rewinding the tape with his finger so that he could watch the footage over again. Every so often he typed into the tablet, then hit a button to make his writing disappear, as though he were sending a message into thin air.

Like electronic mail, Jacen thought.. Emails were still a new thing back when he was in university. He vaguely remembered them, but they were only done on computers that were connected through telephone lines. There were certainly no phone lines around here. Had technology evolved that much over the years?

What the hell are you doing? Jacen cursed in his head at the man. You come all the way out here to stare at the girls camp and type on your flat computer screen?

Jacen inched closer to the man, trying to get a better look at the screen, to read what the man was typing. Crawling on his belly through the grass, he slithered like a snake until he was about 10 feet away, dangerously close but the man was so engrossed in his tablet he didn’t notice Jacen literally staring at the soles of his boots.

The man typed into his tablet. Jacen craned his head but could only read the second half of the paragraph the man wrote. It was definitely some sort of message, addressed to someone named ‘Bif,’ whose name appeared on the top of the tablet screen.

They will be here for week. Location is secured. Come ASAP. The words were part of a larger message that Jacen couldn’t make out, but it was enough.

Whatever it is you’re planning, it is sinister and evil, Jacen thought aloud, wanting to strike the man then and there, but decided to bide his time. He felt too weak right now, and it was disturbingly clear to Jacen as he now had a closer look at what was lying inside the man’s open tent, and around his waist made him a dangerous man – bear spray, knives, a rifle that lay next to him in the grass, and rope. Whatever he was planning, and whoever he was planning this with, it wasn’t going to bode well for his girls. Jacen would have to protect them, even if it meant risking his life in the process.

Friggin’ psychopaths. Jacen spat out in his mind. I will do whatever it takes to protect my girls, you bastards. You hear me?

Whatever it takes.

He waited in the tall grass and knapweed. The air got warmer. After a while, his mind drifted back into the past.

***

“I got you now.” Jacen picked Elena up under her hips and cradled her against him. She laughed, kissing his face as he spun her around. “Don’t drop me in the fire.” She whispered into his ear, then nibbled at it. Jacen was aroused but kept his cool. They were both drying off from their evening skirmish in the water. They had both been topless in the lake. Jacen had touched her breasts, something he never in a million years thought he would ever do with a girl, especially one he had feelings for.

Love. I love her. The thought suddenly entered his mind. He wanted to tell her.

She let go of his ear. “What is it?” She asked, sensing his unease. He was that obvious.

“Nothing.” He said, thinking he shouldn’t say it. It was too soon. It would freak her out.

She dropped down to her feet. He let her go.

“What?” She poked him in the ribs.

“Nothing.” He said. “Tonight, was incredible.”

“I’ll moon you if you tell me.”

“No, no,” he said, looking at their dome tent. It was a four-person tent, but they were going to share it tonight. “I was just trying to think how I was going to keep my hands off of you sleeping in that tent tonight.”

“Who says we’re going to be sleeping?” She pulled him over.

He chuckled but the headlights that emerged through the clearing caught his attention, and he tensed up.

“Who’s that?” Elena asked.

“Don’t know.” Jacen said. The lights had blinded him. Whoever it was, they were coming towards their camp. As the vehicle got closer, Jacen could see that it was a truck with a siren on top of it.

“I think it’s the warden,” he said, and had her stand behind him. Great way to ruin a moment, he thought miserably.

The vehicle stopped and the headlights were shut off. A fish-and-wildlife officer came out of the driver’s side and held his hand up to them.

“You folks just camping for tonight?” The officer asked. He was young, late 20s, straw blond hair, with a matty beard, glasses, and a brown Stetson with a government crest on it that matched the one on his tan shirt. He carried a sidearm, which Jacen noticed before anything else.

“Yes, officer.” Jacen answered. “We have a camping permit.” He lied, and hoped the officer wouldn’t ask for it.

“Don’t need it if you’re only tenting.” The officer looked at their camp. “Looks like you’re keeping your campsite clean, and not mucking anything up in the woods. There’s unmarked Native American graves out there, so we appreciate you keeping to your site. Any alcohol or firearms in your possession?”

“No sir,” Jacen said. That was the truth. “Well, you look like responsible campers to me. I see you have a water jug next to your fire. Great stuff. Just wanted to let you know there’s been some black bear reported in this area this past week. Please keep your food and garbage locked in your vehicle, especially in the evening.”

“You got it, Sir.” Jacen said. “Can never be too careful. Thanks very much.”

“Black bear can be aggressive if they’re hungry.” The officer said. “Or if they have cubs. Best thing to do is stay in your tent for the evening, and you’ll be fine. We may do a night patrol in the later evening, so if you see headlights any time after midnight, it will just be one of our officers, or me. Thought I’d give you a heads up on that.”

“Hey, great officer, thanks.” That made Jacen relieved. Seeing lights though his tent in the middle of the night would have freaked him out.

“Pleasure talking to ya..” The officer gave them a wave, then pulled away in his truck.

Jacen stood quietly with Elena as they watched him drive off, then out of the blue, she poked him in on both sides of his ribs, the same way she did in the library five months earlier, jolting him.

“Hey.” He said.

“Now tell me what you were thinking.” She demanded playfully.

I never did tell her. Jacen realized, jarring himself once again back to the present. I remember the officer coming to talk with us. The memory felt fresh to him, but was not sure what triggered it. He recalled the relief he felt at the officer’s words, telling them that he or his colleagues would be doing a night patrol.

Yeah but it didn’t help. The thought entered Jacen’s head as he watched June cast off into the stream. There was still danger.

Jacen couldn’t remember. He suspected that the trauma of the memory had compounded so much over the past ten years or so that everything about Elena’s death, those horrible moments, had just become a blur in his mind, a shock so great he couldn’t conjure up the details. But they were there – he knew that much. He just needed the right trigger for them.

But I don’t want that trigger right now, he decided. Clarissa and June are in danger right now, here in the present. I can’t rely on some warden or anybody else to help them. It has to be me.

***

“Hey Sweets,” Clarissa called out to June from the camp. “We have company. Come visit.”

Jacen sat on the bank in the brush as June was halfway in the creek, trolling. Clarissa’s call prompted both her and Jacen – the two of them turned to attention. June immediately headed out of the water. Jacen, careful not to trigger June’s attention, sat on guard, letting her get out of the creek and up the slope to camp. He crouched along the ground, inching behind the trees, and followed her up. An older man dressed in a checkered jacket, a dark camouflage hat, a thick, leathery face and a hunting rifle slung around his shoulder was chatting with Clarissa by the fire. Jacen could tell right away he wasn’t one of the men who were spying on them. He was quite friendly, and was making Clarissa laugh, which instantly set Jacen and June at ease.

“This gentleman was just out hunting.” Clarissa said to June as she walked over and shook the man’s hand. “His name is Willard. This is June.”

“Pleasure.” The man said. “Not too often I see folk out this deep in Westmoreland. Anyways, I saw your camp and just thought I’d pop in and say hello. You been out here a couple days it looks like.”

“We’re here for two more,” Clarissa said. “This is our quiet place, our escape zone from the outside world.” June gave her a glare.

“Gotcha.” The man said. “Warden hasn’t come to talk to ya, about camping out here in hunting territory, hey?”

“We’re all right here.” June was quick to interject. “This management unit is off zone, as I’m sure you know.”

“Oh yeah, I know. Still though, you get some yahoo kids out here, or the tourists who don’t know the map as well as us locals do. Wanabee hunters the whole lot of them – the type to shoot first if they see something then look at regulations later. Always best to be on alert, is all I’m saying.”

“That’s sound advice.” Clarissa laughed. She had obviously taken well to the man. “We appreciate you coming out to warn us. Would you like some of our fish? We were about to sear some up in foil packets for lunch.”

Jacen once again noticed June’s glare at her friend. He was getting the read that Clarissa was more carefree than her older friend. Jacen appreciated June’s caution, but the real threat was elsewhere, eighty feet away from their camp, watching them with their camouflaged video camera.

You should be shouting out to this man. Jacen’s lashed out at himself. He’s armed with a gun. Get him to protect these women. He can protect them. You can’t.

Shut up. Jacen fought with the inner voices in his head. They’re my girls. My responsibility. I can protect them. I will protect them. He dropped his face into his hand, fighting the anxious doubt that festered inside his head, and the guilt that came along with it.

“Good thing is that the warden does day patrols out here.” Willard continued. “Night ones too. So, if you see lights come on in the night, don’t get all in a tither about it. Just the warden, making sure campers are in their sites, safe and sound, and not doing any loud partying or anything. There’s some unmarked First Nations graves out in these parts, nice to show a sign of respect to ’em.”

You couldn’t even keep Elena safe. Jacen yelled at himself in his mind, punching the bark of the tree he was hiding behind. What the hell do you know about protecting these girls? Protecting anyone? Those guys with the camera have weapons, guns. Shout to this man now, before they make their move.

“No.” Jacen said, perhaps a little too loudly. He broke a piece of bark off of the tree, sending a sharp snap through the forest. The sound jolted the three at the camp – both Clarissa and June turned to the forest. Jacen slumped to the ground, his face pressed against the dirt. You Goddamn idiot. Did they hear you? Did they see you?

“I garner you girls get jumpy in this forest.” Willard chuckled. “Probably just deadfall dropping through some branches. No need to panic. Maybe it’s a good thing the Warden does those patrols. You never know when there’s a bear loose around here. Black bear are bad in this area this time of year, especially being so close to the creek. Berry crop isn’t too good which brings them down for the fish.”

Tell him. You idiot. Warn them. Those guys are watching them now. This minute.

Stop it. Jacen fought back the urge to sob. God, he was losing it, wasn’t he? Too long up here in the forest, trying to protect Elena. Ostracizing yourself from everyone in his life who ever mattered. Friends, family, people who could have supported him, given him somebody to talk to…

“What the hell is wrong with you, girl?” June said, jarring Jacen’s attention. Her tone was sarcastic and angry. “Oh, strange-man-hunting-out-of-zone-with-a-rifle, we’re here for two more nights. And while you’re busy stopping-by, making your sexist quips and creeping us out for no apparent reason, why don’t you sit down and sear some fish with us for lunch. I mean, come on, girl.”

“Oh, God, take a chill pill,” Clarissa responded. “He was a harmless, old dude. He reminded me of my dad. Just a nice guy, trying to make conversation.”

“There you go again. Naïve little princess, thinking all men are nice, and that, deep down, are the genuine sweethearts they pretend to be. No, no girl - that guy was just like the rest of the men in your life – sweet-talking the pretty girl, offering up the role of protector, all in express hope of one day getting in those pants of yours.”

“Okay, now who’s the naïve one?” Clarissa snapped back. “Miss, I-hate-everything that-even- resembles-male-genitalia, offering me advice on men and what they want. That’s real rich, coming from someone who’s had never had a boyfriend in her life.”

June responded with the same sarcastic tone. “And you don’t think I have my reasons for that? Tell me something sweetheart, how has the man thing worked out for you? All I’ve heard about the past three years is ‘Horace wants to run my life.’ ‘Horace uses me for sex but wants no intimacy.’ ‘Horace’s leaving me.’ ‘Horace wants me back.’ ‘Horace is jealous of my male co-workers.’ Girl, hanging around you has just confirmed my decision not to have men in my life.”

Where did the hunter go? Jacen looked around. The girls were fighting, it didn’t take much to realize that but, at some point, the hunter left.

Yeah, he left while you babbled on about how you could protect these girls. The nasty voice in his head returned. Once again you failed to protect the people important to you. You should have told the hunter. Just like with Elena – you didn’t do what needed to be done.

I didn’t tell Elena I loved her. The thought froze him for a second.

I didn’t, did I? He tried to remember, but couldn’t. Oh God, I didn’t, did I?

No, the harsh voice nipped at him. No, you sure as to hell didn’t. And now she’s dead. The girls continued arguing, then recoiled into silence, not speaking to the other. Clarissa went for a walk around the creek with her camera, while June sulked around the fire. Both ladies agreed they were both being “toxic” and needed to be apart for a while.

Jacen remained propped against the tree. He could see Clarissa through the bramble, but there was no way she could spot him. He was well concealed behind the tree, angled perfectly so that neither June, or the creepo could see him. He glanced over to the camera. The spy would have witnessed the entire argument.

You have to snap out of this funk now, buddy. Jacen told himself. Those two are going to make their move as soon as possible. He had made the conscious choice not to warn the hunter with the rifle about the two creepos. It would all fall onto him now to protect Clarissa and June.

Time to redeem myself. Jacen thought resolutely.

***

The tension around the fire was so thick he would need a backsaw to cut through it.

Christ, these girls are going to kill each other. Jacen thought, angling himself behind a rotted log.. He was dangerously close to their camp, closer than he’d ever been to these two ladies. They’re so busy sassing one another I could probably sit right next to them and it would be 20 minutes before either of them would know I was there.

For now they sat quietly, staring at the flames. Neither spoke. After fighting incessantly about Clarissa’s naiveté and June’s boorishness, accusations that made Jacen wonder why the two of them ever considered each other friends, they simply sat in uncomfortable silence.

The sky was black and it was close to midnight. The air had a sting to it. Clarissa was the first to move – she yawned, then rose from her fold-up beach chair.

“I’m going in the tent.” She said. “Good night.”

“Good night,” June responded, not taking her eyes off of the fire. It was startling to dwindle underneath a log that looked more like charcoal than wood.

“Are you coming to bed soon?”

“Maybe.” June answered. “We’ll see.” She didn’t make eye contact with Clarissa. Instead she reached over to stroke the fire with the blade of her axe, which she kept embedded in a log next to her, right alongside her loaded rifle, which was zipped up in the black carrying case she normally kept in the tent. It was clear to Jacen she had no intent of sleeping next to Clarissa anytime soon tonight.

“Whatever.” Clarissa muttered. She went over to their dome tent, unzipped it, and crawled inside.

June settled into her chair. Poured herself a cup of coffee from her thermos and poured a pinch of Irish cream into it, stirring it up with the blade of her jackknife. She wrapped her thinly-covered legs into her brown, zoo-animal blanket and resumed staring at the fire. These girls aren’t going to make it until the weekend. Jacen thought, watching June. Clarissa had the light off in the tent. They had kept this fight up all afternoon and evening, since the hunter left. If anything, he supposed, that would be a good thing. If they left early tomorrow morning, for instance, he wouldn’t have to worry about the two perps getting them this week. The girls would go their separate ways, and the sickos would have to figure out some other way to get at them. The man in the grass, however, did message the other that they should make their move as soon as possible.

Jacen wound up staring at the fire with June. He envied her, watching her sip the alcohol laden coffee from her thermos cup. He hadn’t had coffee, or booze, in ages – oh, how he was craving either now. He watched the flames flickering – their quiet, slow sparkle was almost hypnotic. As June begin to slump with her head down, he noticed the air was colder. She wrapped herself tighter in her blanket. The mood was perfect to be entranced by the fire, by sleep…

“Gaak.” Was the only noise June made before the man in the oversize, night-vision goggles and black, half-skull, biker’s mask charged out of the trees and wrapped the duct tape directly over her mouth. She tried a second, muffled scream, but the man had the tape completely pressed against her mouth. He quickly banded another wrap of it over her mouth and around her head, over her hair and came across with a second wrap over her eyes. He caught June asleep. She leapt forward from the chair, but the man pulled her back and hit her over the left temple with her own, metal thermos. She crumpled to the ground.

“Holy shit.” Jacen lifted his head from the log, where he, too, had been asleep, and jumped over it, tripping and landing flat on his face. Holy Shit, no, Godammit, no.

I told you, you couldn’t do this. The voice yelled at him inside his head. He struggled to get to his feet. You fell asleep, and this is when they strike.

The man-in-the-skull-mask tied June’s hands behind her back with some kind of tie. She was still awake, sobbing through the duct tape, but she couldn’t scream. Jacen could see a large welt on the side of her face. She was trying to crawl towards the tent but the man was directly over top of her, layering one more strand of tape over her eyes, and part of her nose.

“No, she won’t be able to breathe.” Jacen tried yelling, but no voice came. He did nothing but wheeze. Unable to catch his breath, he felt as though an elephant was lying on his back.

Skull-man took June’s blanket and cast it aside. He grabbed her left leg, pulled down her yoga pants to her knees, flipping her upside down as he did so, causing her head to smack on the ground. Taking out a plastic zip-tie, he fastened her left knee to the inside brace of her lounger, threading it tight, purposefully cutting off circulation to her foot.

The bastard doesn’t want her to run. He’s keeping her tied to the ground so she can’t even stand.

All because you failed. He lashed out at himself. You couldn’t save her, you Goddamn idiot.

With June secured on the ground, Skull-man looked straight at the tent and marched to it. He pulled out a hunting knife and started slicing into the top of the tent.

“What the fuck?” Clarissa shouted. The rest was the sound of her blood-curdling scream.

“No.” Jacen forced himself to his feet and charged the man, who shredded off the rainfly, sending its flayed pieces in all kinds of directions. The segmented frame broke in several places and collapsed on Clarissa. She tried to crawl out but was tangled in her sleeping bag. The man grabbed Clarissa by the hair, as she tried to claw at his arms, but he wore a thick, black coat with his cuffs cinched tight, making his arm impenetrable to her sharp nails.

“Let go of me.” She screamed, grabbing his hand, scrambling to free herself. She couldn’t. He pulled her up by the hair and punched her in the mouth, snapping her head to the side.

“Let go of her.” Jacen yelled, grabbing the man from behind, but the attacker kept his footing. He made another punching motion – Jacen tried to grab his arm, pull him away, but the man was too strong. He struck Clarissa across her brow.

“Stop it.” Jacen shouted. “Stop it, you Skull bastard.” Jacen pummeled him with punches, tried gouging the man’s face, attempting to pull off his goggles. The man reacted and knocked Jacen into the bushes. Feeling the bramble scratch his face as he fell, Jacen landed hard on his right wrist.

Goddamn it. Jacen spun around, trying to ignore the pain. Skull-man pulled Clarissa’s sweatshirt over her head, tangling up her arms so she couldn’t see or fight back. She wouldn’t quit fighting though, and tried kicking at his feet. Skull yanked her hard out of the tent canvas, pulling her by the bra and by her hair, not allowing her to get any footing.

You failed, you idiot. Jacen yelled at himself. I knew you couldn’t do this. Why in hell you ever thought you could. The second you let your guard down, they came, just like last time.

Last time. The sudden thought of those two words froze Jacen. They rang true for him, catapulted him backwards, into an inkling of harrowing familiarity. Recognition.

It was a memory. The memory.

The one he had tried so hard to forget.

***

“Hey you stud muffin,” Elena said as she hovered over him in the tent. She, too, was in her bra, sitting on top of him.

Jacen had been grabbing her, running his hands up and down the side of her skin. Once again, he had tried to be forthright with her, tried to be a gentleman, tried to keep on his side of their tent, but once again she persisted, and he couldn’t control it. He ran his hands over her chest and cleavage, then pulled her down to his face and they kissed. He nuzzled her neck, went under her dark-brown hair, to her ear.

I love you Elena, he wanted to say. She was kissing him back, on the side of his face, under his chin. He had her by herself in a tent in the middle of the woods, where no one else was around. And she wanted to be there with him, doing this. He knew that if he didn’t take off her bra, she soon would do so on her own.

She loves me too, he understood, in that moment of picture-perfect clarity.

“Elena, I…” He started to say. She stopped to look at him. The bright lights that shot through the nylon of their tent gave him pause. It was a vehicle. They could hear it running a short distance away, then it turned off.

“Oh God,” Elena said. “Was that…?”

“Yeah, it’s just the warden.” Jacen whispered. The warden had mentioned he might come in the middle of the night and do a quick check in for animals. Jacen felt a sense of relief because he didn’t feel confident in his ability to protect her if a wild animal came into their camp, or stalked them.

The lights had given them pause. Another mood kill. He looked at her and chuckled. She laughed too, trying to stifle the sound. He could see her smile amongst the darkness they were engulfed in. Oh God, he was going to tell her, wasn’t he?

The sound of thumping on the ground came towards their tent. It was just enough to catch their attention when it stopped at the tent entranceway, and Jacen could see the shadow of a man on the other side. The shadow held up his left hand, and in it was the outline of a long, serrated knife.

Oh-no, Jacen thought.

“Jacen.” Elena jumped up in the tent.

“Raaahhh.” Jacen remembered shouting, scrambling to kick himself out of his sleeping bag when the knife tore through their flysheet. He saw something. A face that peered through the hole, as the person on the other side tore through the top and looked in, slicing at the canvas, not at all worried about his blade or what it was going to hit.

“Hey, God, oh shit.” Jacen freaked out, tossing his pillow upwards.

Elena shrieked.

It was a mask – a beige colored mask of some kind of demon, monster, with a shriveled face and black hair. It was pure evil, that was its intent, and it was all Jacen could see before the entire tent structure collapsed down on them, poles, canvas, and the weight of the man who was attacking them.

“Help.” Jacen screamed, swatting at the sheet, scrambling around. The canvas pressed against his mouth. At one point he got a knee right in the nose – it felt like he was hit by a truck. He scrambled to fight for his life. He thought he could hear Elena struggling with her attacker, that was good, he could get his hands free, get out of there. Oh God, he was going to die. He couldn’t breathe. He needed to escape, this man was attacking them.

Jacen cleared out of the tent and ran. He thought he could hear Elena. She was screaming, but she was running, wasn’t she? Yes, she was running. She had gotten away too.

At some point Jacen stumbled onto the road. He thought he could hear Elena screaming still. His brain felt numb, dizzy.. If Elena could keep making noise, he could recoup and then go to help her. Stumbling onto his knees, he gagged, then threw up liquid on the side of the road.

Elena’s safe right? He realized he was hyperventilating, feeling like he was going to spit his heart out of his mouth. Stop it, get a hold of yourself. He shouted in his mind. Calm down, you idiot. Get control. Where is Elena?

***

“I left her.” Jacen said out loud, on his knees, back to the present. He watched the man in the night-goggles and half-skull mask hold up Clarissa, and slap her in the face. He kept hitting her. She had fought him so valiantly, so resolutely, so unlike the naïve meek girl June accused her of being. But he was too strong, had snuck up on them, ambushed them when they were most vulnerable. He had Clarissa on her knees, she was barely conscious. He pulled her sweatshirt and bra completely off and cast it aside, and began binding her hands together with the duct tape.

Oh God, I left Elena. Jacen understood, remembering himself standing on that road. This would have been her fate. Being beaten by the man in the demon mask, beaten the way Skull man was beating Clarissa now. And Elena was screaming, while Jacen had ran away to the road. He thought back to that moment, when he calmed himself enough to realize that she was still out there, alone with that monster. He had to go back after her. He had to save Elena.

***

It was in that horrible, fateful moment on the road, back in the distant past, as he fled his and Elena’s campsite, that Jacen saw the headlights of the vehicle round the corner and towards him.

The lights. He could see them on top of the truck. Enforcement lights. It was the warden. Excitement roared through him. He had a chance, a chance to save Elena.

Bolting towards the truck, he ran directly into the path of its lights. The vehicle stopped the second the driver spotted him. Jacen remembered the sensation of running in quicksand; he couldn’t get to the driver fast enough. It sounded like he was trotting on hollow rubber.

***

He heard that same hollow sound vibrate on the ground by his ear. He was back in the present, looked up – the monster had both girls’ arms, faces and legs wrapped up with duct tape. Both ladies were squirming on the ground, June remained tied to her lounger.

You have to make your move now, Jacen told himself. Raise up any kind of fight you can, you Goddamn fool. You let Elena die this way, you’re all that stands between the girls and death. Do it even if you die trying.

Do it for Elena.

Jacen stood to face the man, who didn’t notice him. Jacen marched forward. “You m-may k-kill me.” He said, voice wavering. “B-but I’m n-n-not gonna let you do th-this.”

The man in the night-vision goggles and half-skull mask looked up and fronted Jacen directly. There was no way to discern the face behind the mask, and above all else, the man was prepared, dressed in a bulky, black jacket and combat pants.

“I-I’m n-not backing d-down.” Jacen said, forcing himself to press forward, right up to the man, and reached out to grab him. The attacker remained still, looked straight at him, then gave Jacen the most peculiar response. He tilted his head as though Jacen was a walking tree, talking out loud.

“Argghhh.” Jacen lunged, grabbing the man’s jacket.

Skull-man didn’t move. To his left, Jacen heard the loud thumping. So, too, did Skull-man, who promptly turned to his right, just in time to get a hand up, before a second man, dressed in a green camouflaged jacket, charged at them both with a flashlight in his hands. This camo-dressed man tackled Skull dead-center in the chest, knocking all three of them into smoldering firepit. Skull fell backwards, and the camouflaged man and Jacen tumbled over top of him.

“Whoa?” Jacen muttered, landing on the attacker’s right arm. “What the-?”

He scrambled to see the camo man, but was blinded by his flashlight. The camo-man landed next to Jacen, directly onto the Skull’s chest, his left shoulder pressed squarely into the Skull’s sternum. A pile of ash and sparks from the firepit blew up under them, getting in their faces.

“Arghh, God.” Jacen yelled, brushing the cinders away from his face. Camo-man shifted on top of Skull, grabbed his flashlight, and brought it down fully lit onto the Skull’s night goggles, bending the right eye-socket tubule and knocking the left straight off. A sharp, hollow pop burst through the air, followed by a pained snort from the attacker. The plastic cap of the flashlight broke off, but its lit bulb remained intact next to the men.

“What the hell?” Jacen asked. He rolled off the assailant and crouched into a defensive position on the ground, getting a better look at the second man. His bushy beard and think man-bun behind his toque made him instantly recognizable. Camo-man was the original perpetrator Jacen caught spying on the girls one year earlier at Crest Lake. What was going on?

“You psycho motherfucker.” Camo-man screamed, as he raised his fist and brought it down hard across Skull’s mouth, which was covered by his biker mask. “Who the fuck do you think you are, huh?” A hollow ‘thok’ sound cut through the air the second he made contact.

“Ow, Jesus.” Camo-man shouted, clutching the fingers of his fist. He struck Skull in the mask, which Jacen could see was made of a hard, ceramic material.

Camo-man rolled off, clutching his middle and ring fingers. Jacen could see the blood on Camo’s knuckles, his ring finger was bent backwards at an awkward angle. He crawled into the camp. Skull-man stirred underneath, and began to writhe.

Camo-man shouted behind Jacen. “Clarissa. I’m here. I’m coming baby.”

You’re Horace, Jacen suddenly understood. This was Clarissa’s desperate ex-boyfriend. He had been stalking the girls’ camp – he had watched them last year, and was spying on them again this year. When June was attacked, he must have been close-by, either hearing June’s muffled scream or spotting Skull in the forest creeping out their camp. Either way, he saw June being attacked and sprinted to try and stop him.

Oh shit, Jacen reacted as he saw Skull sit up from the ground, stirring up embers underneath him. The heat of the pit appeared to do nothing to faze him. He tore off his broken goggles, revealing fierce, unhinged eyes. A mop of wild, curly black hair covered his head but the darkness shrouded any other distinguishable feature of his face. He turned to Horace, who lumbered his way towards June.

“Clarissa, honey are you all right?” Horace’s voice was in a mad panic. With his bad hand, he unsheathed a hunting knife from his belt, and cut the zip-ties binding Clarissa’s hands. He quickly did the same for June. “Get the fuck out of here girls, run.”

Like a pouncing cougar, Skull lunged towards Horace, whose back was against the attacker. In a mad panic Jacen raced ahead of Skull to shout in Horace’s ear.

“Look out.” Jacen screamed.

“Hey, what the fuck?” Horace turned towards Jacen, startled. He took a wild swing but didn’t strike Jacen. He appeared confused, but turned and saw Skull on his feet and charging towards him. “Oh, shit.”

“It’s all right, girls.” Jacen craned around Horace to shout at the two girls, who were scrambling away from the site they were attacked, their clothes in hand. “You’re safe now. Get out of here, hurry.”

“Argghhhh.” Horace yelled as the attacker grabbed his throat. Using both of his arms, including his injured hand, Horace tried to pry apart Skull’s grip, but the attacker was more powerful.

“No.” Jacen lunged back towards the fray, seizing Skull’s arm, trying to pull it away to no avail. The attacker shot up to his feet and tossed Horace into a bush.

“No, I said.” Jacen jumped onto Skull’s back, trying to scratch the man’s face. It was clear that the attacker was infuriated that the two girls were about to get away. The girls had both fully re-dressed themselves, and loosened the duct tape wraps around their eyes and mouth. Jacen could see the bits of their eyes – Clarissa was petrified, but June was enraged. She went straight to skull-man and screamed into his face through the tape.

“You son of a bitch, you think you can do this to us.” Skull shot forward and knocked her to the ground with a hard slap to the side of the head.

“June.” Horace hollered, returning to his feet then lunging forward, hitting the attacker low under the ribs, knocking him off balance. Jacen could feel Horace gasp, however, and see his strength deflate from the pain. Horace crumbled to his knees, clutching his broken hand.

“Clarissa…” Horace managed to belt out, just before Skull kicked him in the chest, knocking him backwards into the dirt.

June scrambled for her rifle, still in the black carry case next to her broken lawn chair. She zipped the case open, but couldn’t wrestle it out of the bag. Skull charged at her.

“Shit.” June yelled, trying to pull out the stock which was caught in the bag strap. She stepped backwards from the massive force coming towards her, dropping the case and the gun. “I said stop.” Jacen screamed into the attacker’s ear. Skull stopped, turned his head, and swatted at Jacen, who ducked away from his blow.

“Oh, you gonna listen to me, now, bastard.” Jacen shouted as he dodged the second of Skull’s swats.

Horace got the time he needed and hit the attacker with a burst of pepper spray he had in his holster. Jacen also received a face full of the yellow mist, which could be seen even in the darkness.

Both Skull and Jacen screeched in agony.

Jacen fell to his knees, grasping at his face. The air left him, but the sheer terror forced him to spin around, to see what was happening through the pain. The attacker staggered backwards, ripped the remainder of his mask off, revealing a thick, pock-marked face Jacen didn’t recognize. Horace lurched upward and kicked Skull in the groin. He hit Skull with another blast of pepper spray but Skull lunged and seized the can, pulling Horace towards him, and crumbling him with a fist to the nose. Horace tried to yank Skull down with him, but his broken hand buckled and he turtled in pain.

Standing over Horace, Skull started hammering him with punches. Horace shielded his head, but the blows came down like large hail, striking him in the arms, neck, and shoulders.

Jacen wanted to shout, but his eyes and face stung from the spray, and his muscles froze.

All he could do was watch.

“No,” he said.

“Arghhhh, BASTARD.” June suddenly emerged from nowhere, with the axe she had used to cut wood and with a heavy lunge, caught Skull-man straight on the side of his head, along his right temple. Blood, hair, and tissue splattered Jacen in the face as he watched Skull’s head snap 90 degrees, then his body fall to his knees. His right scalp torn off, Skull fell forward with his head landing awkwardly onto the dirt, with his mangled face positioned so that it looked directly at Jacen. Horace recoiled on the ground, rolling out from between the man’s legs.

“Omigod, omigod.” June dropped the axe, looking at the lifeless body. She fought to pull the tape off of her face, but it was stuck to her hair. She pulled it off frantically anyways, taking large clumps of hair along with it.

“You son of a bitch.” She screamed, throwing the clumps of tape at the attacker’s dead body.

“Y-you’re okay,” Horace said, wheezing. He was hunched over, cradling his right hand.

“Clarissa, honey.” June ignored him and went to Clarissa, who was pacing wildly, peeling the tape off her own face. She was in shock, her face swollen and her front teeth red from blood.

“Oh God, honey,” June said, helping her pull off the rest of the tape. She gave her a hug.

Horace struggled to his feet, his beard sopping red from nose blood. His eyes peered over the distance.

“Wha’s that?” He looked to the hill east of them. A set of headlights emerged into the camp. A truck had pulled up to the top of the incline.

“It’s help.” Horace said, his voice hoarse. “It’s the con-conservation officer.” He motioned to the hill where the truck sat. “We gotta get his help.”

Everyone’s eyes turned up to the hill. Jacen squinted through the lights.

“Hey,” Horace shouted, waving his hands, once again, if only momentarily, forgetting the pain of his broken fingers. “Hey over here. My girl needs help.”

Jacen could make out the truck. There were sirens on the top of it.

“Oh, God, it’s the warden.” June shouted, herself waving at the headlights. “Warden, help us.”

Both Horace and June ran towards the vehicle. A man emerged from the truck, dressed in a brown uniform.

“It’s a fish and game officer,” Jacen said, himself feeling a twinge of relief. A twinge that sparked something – a jolt, an urgency - through his system. He looked up at the lights.

The headlights. Yes, Jacen thought.

I looked into those lights before, he remembered.

And then it hit him…

“No wait, stop.” He screamed, stumbling to follow Horace and June, who started clambering up the hill, towards the truck. He went back to the past now, to that fateful, horrible realization.

***

“Warden, warden.” Jacen had shouted as the man got out of the truck on the quiet, muddy road Jacen had ran on. All Jacen could see was the officer’s faint outline.

The warden stepped out of the lights. It was the same man he and Elena talked to earlier in the afternoon. He recognized his square jaw, and wispy hair tucked behind his green ball cap.

“Some crazy guy - my girlfriend and I – we were attacked.” Jacen belted out. “Please, I think he’s got her in the forest by our camp. Please, if we go now, I think we can-“

Jacen squinted in the lights. The warden brought up something from his waist. Jacen tried to make out what it was.

“Please, sir, we haveta go right now-.”

And all Jacen could remember was the blast of white. It was loud, sudden, stark. “What the –” Jacen remembered saying, or thinking. He couldn’t recall. But he ran, he remembered running away. Where did he actually run to?

***

“No,” Jacen returned to the present, clambering up the hill behind Horace and June, who were shouting at the warden for his assistance. The officer stood as a shadow against his headlamps. His vehicle parked above the overhang, too close to the edge, as if he was trying to…

Blind them.

“NO.” Jacen shouted, and lunged for Horace, slapping at his shoulder.

Horace responded, turned his head, then screamed.

“Heyyy. Fuck.” He dropped to the ground; his face mortified as he looked up at Jacen. “Who the hell are you?”

“What?” June turned. Her eyes wild and chaotic underneath the bright light of the headlamps. She looked down at Horace, then up at Jacen.

“You gotta get here.” Jacen shouted. “Go back down, away from the truck.”

June stopped, then plopped backwards onto the trail, on her backside. Her eyes wide, she screamed, and began sliding up the hill, away from Jacen.

“Hey.” The Warden called down to them. “What the hell are you two doing down there?” He appeared to be holding something. It was so hard to see against the blinding headlights of his vehicle.

“Get away from me.” June shouted. She turned and started clawing up the hill, pushing herself up with her hands into the dirt like a badger. She called out to the warden, pleading to him as though she were drowning in a pond full of piranhas, and he was in a lifeboat. “Please help me. Get me away from them.”

“Don’t go up that hill.” Jacen tried to chase her, but once again his feet felt like they were in deep mud. He couldn’t reach her – it was just like before…with Elena…

“No.” He yelled. He saw the Warden raise a stick.

“Stop it right there.” The Warden shouted at June. He aimed it at her.

“It’s a rifle.” Jacen said, his eyes met Horace’s, who nodded at Jacen, then leapt to his feet and scrambled up to June. “No wait, June, stop.” Horace lunged forward and grabbed the back waistband of her sweat pants with his good hand and pulled her towards him, sliding her backwards down the hill. Falling onto his side onto the pathway they had just scrambled up, Horace cushioned the fall for June, who landed atop him, shrieking.

“I said stop.” The warden yelled. And fired his rifle, the sound cracked the night air, piercing it like a knife through a balloon.

The bullet sizzled over June’s head. It would have struck her in the forehead had Horace not pulled her towards him. The warden expelled his shell and jumped onto their trail after them.

June’s voice went high. “What the hell. Did he just shoot at me?”

“Get down.” Horace yelled, heaving her down the rest of the hill.

The warden scampered after them, and aimed his gun directly at the back of June’s head.

“No, stop.” Jacen yelled. He charged in front of the warden, directly in front of the man’s line of sight. Jacen recognized him – it was the same man – the hunter - that was talking to the girls earlier in the morning. The warden stopped and looked up from his sight.

“Wha- the hell?” Was all the warden said, then his chest caved in, and a spray of blood shot from his back, as if someone struck him with a sledgehammer in the center of his body. The momentum knocked him backwards on the hill, falling as though someone severed his head from his shoulders. The sound, the moment - startled Jacen – he felt a dizzying sensation drift through him. The warden convulsed on the ground in a pained spasm, gurgling at the mouth. With his eyes rolling back into his head, he drew two short, raspy breaths before his body went still. Jacen saw the small, bloody bullet hole in the center of the warden’s shirt. “Oh,” was all Jacen could say, as the vertigo clogged his thinking. He dropped to his knees, and dove into a bush, off the trail and to his right. He turned to look behind him.

“Oh God, baby,” June cried out, edging herself to the bottom of the hill, where she stood up to face Clarissa, standing at the camp with June’s rifle. She had untangled the stock from the bag. Smoke could be seen at the end of the barrel.

“Clary, baby, what did you do?” June said, hugging Clarissa, who dropped the rifle at her side and went limp, making no effort to hug her friend in return. Jacen could see why by watching her eyes.

“The warden shot at you.” Clarissa said, her words indicating severe shock. She had just killed the man. “Why did the warden fire at you? He was going to kill you.”

“I know, Baby,” June said in a consoling, wavering voice. “But he didn’t, thanks to you.”

Jacen crawled over to the man. Take 15 years off of his face, minus the scruffy beard and straighten out his wrinkled eyes and pocked face, it was the same man – the same warden - who refused to help him so many years ago.

“You son of a bitch.” Jacen yelled, everything coming to a head right then and there. “It was you. You Goddamn bastard.” Jacen attacked the man, pummeling him with his fists. Jacen had tried to get the warden to help him stop the killer who attacked his and Elena’s tent. Instead the warden did nothing, sending Jacen into the woods where he ran for his life, though the bush, helpless. Where he would spend the last umpteen years of his life, protecting her remains. It was all he could do. “No, no, no.” Jacen sobbed. No matter how much he attacked the man’s dead body, it didn’t matter. “I’m sorry Elena.” It was all coming back to him now. He had failed her. He remembered huddling in the woods at the burial site – terrified, helpless, frozen – watching the two men dismember her body with hacksaws, mixing it with the cut-up carcass from some animal, burying it between the two Spruce trees, then transplanting a bush overtop of the site. They methodically cleaned up their camp, picking up every shred that was left of their tent, stuffing it all into Elena’s car, then driving off, presumably to torch it somewhere. At no point did Jacen stand up to them – he couldn’t. He was too frightened. All his life he was sheltered in books, in academia – couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag, as the bullies used to say. And when the time came to fight for his girlfriend, he ran and hid like a coward, seething in remorse while the Earth degraded her body for years afterward. He watched the men leave, and it was at that point, Jacen vowed he would never let anyone desecrate her site. Protecting her final resting ground, he would sacrifice everything – the rest of his life, to do exactly that. It would be the least he could do for her memory.

“God,” he sniffled, slapping the warden’s face one last time. The man’s blank eyes stared back at him and a pool of blood began emanating from the dirt behind his neck.

‘No,” Jacen sensed someone coming back up the hill, and scurried to the side to watch. It was a bloodied Horace, who approached cautiously, like a crow approaching roadkill. He glossed over the warden’s body, oblivious to Jacen’s location.

“He’s dead,” Horace yelled back at the two girls. He raced back down the hill. June eased a stunned looking Clarissa to the site of the fire, a few feet away from Skull’s dead body. She tried to get Clarissa to sit, but she wouldn’t.

“Clarissa, baby,” Horace said, trying to hug her. She put her hands up, not wanting him near her. “I’m sorry for coming out here,” he pleaded, “I was just wanting to make sure you were safe.”

“Never mind that right now,” June said, her voice high and loud. She motioned over to Skull’s dead body, and picking up her rifle. “I’ll watch him. Make sure he’s dead. What happened to the third guy? Where is he?”

Horace looked at Clarissa, realizing he wasn’t going to get what he wanted. He glanced around the camp. “I don’t know. I’m not sure.”

Clarissa, who could only breathe in shallow breaths, heard the question. “W-what other guy?”

Horace gave her a faltering look, then turned back to June. “Listen, I was able to get cell phone reception back at my camp.” He squinted up the hill against the glaring headlights of the warden’s truck, at one point his eyes skimmed over the very bush Jacen was huddled in. “I have no idea where that guy would have gone. If he comes after you, blow his brains out.”

Jacen watched them, calculating his next move based on their conversation. The lights of the vehicle still settled down on them from the top of the hill, and he needed to use them to his advantage. He stood up, next to the prone corpse of the warden. He scowled at it, then crawled up the hill under the headlight glare, and towards the idling truck. He just needed to get away.

TWO MONTHS LATER – AUTUMN - WESTMORELAND SOUTH – CREST LAKE

The mist of Crest Lake crept into the forest, the way it often did on cold mornings. The sun was starting to peek over the Eastern horizon, but the sky was overcast – probably would be most of the day, and what was left of the fading stars offered only faint illumination to the surrounding area.

“It’s difficult coming back here again, Mr. Greyline.” June said to the man next to her, her words floated on the icy breath that hovered from her mouth. Jacen had recognized her after she and the man arrived together in a Jeep Wrangler and made their way into the forest. As soon as he spotted them, he crept low in the grass, and followed them to the tree where the first camera was hidden.

“I know,” Greyline answered. He was a stocky man in about his early 20s, with a square jaw, dirty blond hair, and clean-shaven face. He was dressed in a dark blue and gold windbreaker, and carried some sort of scanning device. “I appreciate you returning here with me. There are still unanswered questions the police have about the attack, and what happened that night.”

“There’s still unanswered questions Clarissa and I have,” June said, touching the tree where the camera had been affixed, marked by the peculiar First Nations carving underneath it. Jacen could see subtle signs of bruising on her face. “Like why the hell those two psychos went after us in the first place.”

“The evidence we’re collecting suggests that the two men that attacked you – Edmund Delarude and Harold Borgum – may indeed be responsible for a number of disappearances in Westmoreland, spanning the past three decades.”

June’s shivered, likely not from the cold. “You mean ‘The Missing of Westmoreland’ that people keep talking about? I thought they said those people got lost, went too deep into the woods, were possessed by the Indian spirits in the forest, and all that shit. Now you think they were all murdered?”

Greyline nodded. Jacen studied the man’s reaction. It seemed as though he didn’t want to say too much, but had no choice.

“It may be why they got away with it for so long,” Greyline said. “The victims’ bodies were never recovered. Borgum was a popular fish and wildlife officer in Westmoreland, worked in the area for 25 years, knew the terrain well. Delarude was a hermit, we still don’t know their connection to each other, but it appears they stalked their victims with trail cameras and surveillance equipment, sometimes for months or years on end, then ambushed them. It may be that bodies are buried deep in the canyon, under bushes, or intermixed with wildlife bones, or perhaps even the remains of the ancient First Nations gravesites in the area.”

They are.. Jacen thought bitterly. That’s where you’ll find Elena.

Borgum and Delarude - to finally hear those two names, the names of Elena’s killers, spoken out loud shook him with fury.

“That’s enough,” June held up her hand. “To think that we had all kinds of creeps stalking us that weekend.” She put her hands to her face. “Suspected serial killers, crazy ex-boyfriends, mystery-man who pops out of nowhere to help us then disappears. How the hell we came out of that alive is beyond me.”

“How are Clarissa and Horace doing?” Greyline asked. “They’re fine physically, but mentally Clarissa’s a wreck. She has nightmares and won’t leave the house. Thankfully, she wants nothing more to do with Horace.” She withdrew her hands from her face, fighting the urge to tear up. “I mean, he’s terrible for her – she knows that. He never could justify why he followed us up to Bevel Canyon and stalked our campsite. It’s just hard…you know? On one hand he was an obsessive, controlling ex-boyfriend, while on the other … he probably saved our life.”

He was also stalking you a year earlier in Crest Lake, Jacen wanted to shout out, but didn’t. He had heard enough about Horace to know that he was too possessive for Clarissa, regardless of his role in protecting them from Delarude and Borgum.

Those names disgust me. Jacen chastised himself. Don’t say them anymore, call them the animals. They don’t deserve to have names.

“It’s that mystery-man I wanted to talk to you about,” Greyline said. “The police have no idea who he is, have no evidence of him being on site the night of the attack, and yet both you and Horace swear he warned you of your attackers.”

June rubbed her forehead. “I don’t know what I saw, Mr. Greyline, everything was happening so fast, I think I was in shock.” She paused, shaking her head. “But I’m absolutely certain I saw it.”

“Right,” Greyline said, holding up his scanner device. He appeared to turn it on. The screen at the top of it emanated a sky blue. “As we talked about earlier, the RCMP have hired me as a consultant to investigate this angle. I believe your story. Like yourself, the police have no idea who, or what, it was that you saw.”

“Wait a minute,” June said. “What do you mean when you say ‘what I saw’?”

“Let’s just say I’m somewhat of an ‘outside the box’ consultant.” Greyline replied. “The RCMP hire me to look into … paranormal possibilities they prefer not to bring up to the general public.”

“Hold on,” June said with a sarcastic laugh. “Are you suggesting that Horace and I were warned by some kind of ‘corporeal being?’”

“What I think,” Greyline spoke with a serious, calculating tone, “is that both you and Clarissa were followed by said ‘being’ during your two trips to Westmoreland. I think the ‘being’ was fixated on the two of you – obsessed even - although not quite in the same way Horace was with Clarissa.”

June slapped her forehead. “I’m sorry – I can’t even fathom this right now.”

From his pocket, Greyline took out a tiny tablet device. “I want to play for you an audio clip we discovered from the footage of Borgum and Delarude’s trail camera, which they caught while filming your camp, right here in this very spot in Crest Lake, one year ago.” He pressed a button on the screen and played the clip – it was 10 seconds of dead air until a ragged whisper could be heard from the mini-tablet’s speakers.

“Yes, that’s it.” The strange voice said. “They’re my girls.”

“Omigod.” June’s voice dropped. “No, no, no. No way. I don’t believe it.”

“We’ve confirmed the voice isn’t Horace’s,” Greyline insisted, “and there’s no way it was the two attackers. What I can tell you is that we know of at least two other incidents in the past ten years where people out here in Westmoreland have stated they were threatened by someone they couldn’t see. One was a young family whose tent was upended while they were in it, and the other was a teenager, partying in this very area who said someone lunged at him out of thin air, chasing him and his friends from the forest. I think the ‘being’ we’re talking about is protecting someone out here – a victim of Delarude and Borgum would be my guess - and someway, somehow it became transfixed on you and Clarissa, wanting to protect you from the same danger that affected it. That danger being Delarude and Borgum, which the entity would have sensed were present in the area.”

STOP SAYING THEIR NAMES. Jacen lashed out, squirming on the spot where he huddled. These are all painful memories you’re bringing up, Mr. Greyline, but you’re wrong – you too, sweet June. I am here, and I stayed out here this long to protect the love of my life, and I DID follow you girls to Bevel Canyon to keep YOU safe too. That’s what protectors do. That’s what I DO. The thought of anyone implying he couldn’t or didn’t do that made his BLOOD BOIL.

“Now as to who this ‘being’ may be, or may have been, we have no clue, but -” Greyline’s explanation was interrupted by a loud, sudden beep emanating from his scanner. His device beeped two more times, and a flashing red light could be seen on the left corner of the blue screen. Glancing back at the device, he spun around, looking wide-eyed and frantic.

Straight in Jacen’s direction. To the very spot he was crouched in.

“No,” Jacen whimpered. His heart ignited like a jet engine, and his body went into full panic mode.

“Negative ion concentration, rapidly escalating.” Greyline’s voice raised, his eyes shifting back and forth from the monitor to the spot where Jacen lay. “I think the ‘being’ is here, with us right now.” He lunged forward, holding up his device. Towards Jacen.

NO. Jacen immediately shot backwards, crawling on his hands and knees. He turned around and crawled away from the site like a frenzied, desperate animal spooked by a predator.

“Wait, what the hell are you saying?” June’s voice could be heard in the background. “You think it’s with us? Right now?”

“Hello, friend.” Greyline called out, ignoring June. “Please I know you’re there, don’t go.”

Only one shot at this. Jacen realized. Turning to his side, he rolled like a log through the brush. He could feel it scraping his skin, tearing into his clothes. All he could think of, all that mattered in the universe, was getting away from these two. To never be seen. To not get caught.

“No wait.” Greyline’s voice jarred. He still headed straight, led by his device, the beeping beginning to grow fainter. Jacen scurried to the left and angled himself behind some tall hedge grass he had just tumbled over.

“Arggh, I lost him,” Greyline said through gritted teeth. June came up behind him, winded.

“What, dude, are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. The signal’s dying...” A final beep, then silence. “And … it’s dead. Crap.. Just let me go walk a few more paces, there’s a chance I can re-catch its ion signature” “Look I need to get out of here.” June’s tone indicating her annoyance. “It’s friggin’ freezing. I’m going to wait in the jeep.”

Watching Greyline trudge into the forest, Jacen felt relieved that the investigator was heading in the opposite direction of his location, and on the wrong path from Elena’s grave. Greyline’s weird contraption was steering him wrong, which suited Jacen just fine. There was no more danger of getting spotted, and Jacen needed to get away. He had pressed his luck, and the two almost caught him.

“The keys are still in the ignition.” June hollered to the investigator. He stood at the jeep, watching Greyline saunter through the brush. “I’m going to turn on the heater. I appreciate all of your help, Clarissa and I both do, but if you’re not back here in five minutes, I’m driving out without you.”

I’ll climb up to the hill, Jacen thought, and keep an eye on them from afar, until they leave. He watched as June entered the driver’s side of the jeep, started it up and sat inside the cab, while Greyline jaunted into the woods with his reader, ignoring her completely.

***

Jacen was unsure what time of day it was. He sat alone in the spot where his love lay buried. It was cold, dank, and overcast, but the weather didn’t bother him. Come to think of it, it never really did.

He stared at nothing. Lost in concentration, he was having trouble recalling the past few months – the quieter the area was, the more he lost his train of thought, as well as the passage of time. There was a vague memory in his head of the man called Greyline, who never did find what he was looking for. The man came close, but never found Jacen, or anything else he was searching for. Jacen also recalled the two girls he had been trying to protect. Their names escaped him – he remembered one whose name was Jane, or Joan. He had helped saved them, together with some man named Harold - he remembered that much, and clawing the face of the park ranger who had ruined his camping weekend, so many years – or was it decades - ago? Regardless, Jacen reveled in the moment, the thought of attacking that son- of-a-bitch was so satisfying, something that brought him that feeling of vengeance, of vindication, he had so badly yearned for.

“Jacen?”

“Who’s there?” He spun around and, in the open clearing, there she was. His heart fluttered, a mixture of warmth and shock overtook him.

Elena looked upon him with wide, sympathetic eyes. Her face pale, her hair unkempt, she looked as though she had been outside for as long as he had. She wore the same clothes as their camping trip.

He stood up, and immediately went to her. Feeling like he was floating, he said, “My darling, you’re alive. What the hell?”

“Jacen,” she held her hand to his face. Everything felt surreal. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to be here anymore.” Her face appeared sad, almost pitiful.

“Darling,” he said, touching the side of her face, brushing his hands on her neck. Tears welled up in his eyes. “Where – where have you been all these years? My God, I thought you were buried in the dirt. I-I thought they murdered you.” She looked at him strangely, trying to process what he was saying. Her eyes were sad, pitiful. “You…you really don’t know, do you?”

He grabbed her and hugged her tight. She was limp, almost frightened, but he gripped her hard. Her face was pale and gaunt, but she was every bit as beautiful as they day she poked him in the ribs when he was studying in the university library, when he finally cued in that she liked him.

“Know?” He asked, staring back in her face. “Know what? All I know is that I love you - so much, in fact, that I absolutely needed to be here. My God, I can’t believe you’re alive.” He should have felt angry with her – furious that she had kept him waiting for so long, sitting out in the forest.

He had sacrificed so much for her, trying to protect her grave – her grave with no body. None of it made any sense, but it didn’t matter. She was here. “How did you get away from them? I tried to get help but I –”

“Jacen, no, don’t my love.” She said, hushing him, holding her finger to his lips. “Don’t do this. I’ve wondered so much about you. What happened to you. But it doesn’t matter anymore, you can come with me, come home.”

“Yes, of course, my sweetheart,” he said, enchanted by her eyes, and the tears that welled up in them. This would be his happy moment, the moment he thought he would never experience again in his life. He would not screw this up. “Anywhere I am with you is home.”

She smiled and took his hand. “Then let’s go. We don’t need to be here anymore. You helped those ladies. I saw you do it. You saved them, Jacen. You can come with me now.” Her eyes were sad, but she was happy too. He could see it.

He scrunched her hand, and together they walked out of the forest, towards the light of the cloudy sky and into the clearing.

Short-Short Story:

The Long Fall

By Ara Hone

Farley’s red and yellow tie-dyed Solar Escape coveralls snap and pop in the wind. He’s a speck against the gray mountain. It’s a brooding goliath—part faux rock, half steel, every centimeter sum’bitch. He scooters the ass-sized steel plate over double maintenance tracks up, up creaking rails. The roller- coaster peaks a kilometer above the park’s rust’in ground. His nasal mask digs in below his eyes. He sucks air like it’s free. Clank clank clank goes the ass board. Don’t look down. Assist the stranded marks, get out alive. Might have been a sauna inside his work gloves.

The Escape’s riders pay a year’s wages to glide the rails. Physics and guts—the adventure-junkie’s ultimate joy ride. Marks sign death clause waivers. Only a mark’d be so dumb.

If they’re marks, then he’s a dupe. Talk about a go-no-where job. Naw—the job looks good on the resume. Makes him more attractive to the deep space rescue service trolling for emergency jocks. He’ll be accepted. Maybe he’ll snag the Angel of Mercy—no, the Glorious Survivors. It’s year 3365. Waiting on the service’s antiquated Special Individual Delivery Message—the fragging SIDM—is a killer. Space rescue raises his fine hairs. It’s the real deal. Not this freak show.

He snugs his helmet and tugs the board’s safety strap. It’s connected to the steel plate. He’s coastr- rescue certified—got the ass blisters in the simulations to prove it. Got raw eardrums, too, from Ms. I- watched-the-bots-break-ground. That ain’t nothing to brag on. The park is old as moon craters. His managers got serious equip-mance—always blathering about claws and straps and minding safety protocols. Where’s she when it counts?

“Shagging her white-headed wonder man,” he mutters. “Tossing back amber? Hot-snogging in the virtuals?” Places old farts and do-nothings burn company time while AIs run things to shit.

The park is big as a city and notoriously understaffed. Three humans supervise today. While everybody but him gets their fun on, he’ll race to the rescue. Because the upshot is there’s been a mishap. Management says to call smash-ups mishaps, but marks know a death clause is included in the waiver for a reason.

Ain’t nobody com’in to save their asses except him.

He’s at the top. He’s never been to the top cause there’s never been a mishap before. Not on his shift. His mouth is dry. He clacks around the bend, around the faux crumbling mountain pass and tumbling water, and there—

Twelve shining steel monorails should disappear inside the mountain’s darkened mouth. But twelve rails are twisted and crumpled—damn! —his bones go soft—he stops scootering.

Fragging frag—bent steel—big hulking smashed vertical coastr cars—blue, green, pink, silver, black— they’re all over—sheered in half, in pieces—smoke rising—ticking—how? —there’s moaning.

And awful silence.

He sucks the biggest air gulp yet—the meter chimes a warning in his ear.

The wind, the awful wind. It moans through a wall breach at the sharpest point of the curve. Like a sucking chest wound. He scooters to the outside edge.

Crumbling, tumbling rocks, small fires. What’s that—is that? The wind worries and picks at a coastr stuck like a piece of meat in the mountain wall’s gap. Coastr twenty-two is autumn gold with brown stripes. He remembers it—he fitted it for a Kantavan girl with a gaze of indigo. She measures two meters tall, tops him by culture and all kinds of beautiful. Coastr Girl mouths help me and presses fingers of pink froth against a spiderwebbing canopy. The wind jiggle-jiggles and she’s gone—

—no! —

Her coastr cabling jerks at the balled tip of mangled steel and swings into free air like a pendulum, like the great hauls of gear he’ll load into cargo holds when he’s crewing a deep space rescue ship.

The girl’s gaze bleeds hope.

He reaches—

“Stop!” A scratchy voice cracks over his comm.

His ass vaults into his throat. Rez scooters up behind him. “You’re one dumb rook. Don’t move.”

Forget about the rescue service. He’ll never launch into deep space on mercy missions—not if events spin out as he imagines. He’ll be the prick on trial for letting a mark die. He’ll go down for woman slaughter or something grisly-sounding like that. All because his old, do-nothing manager finally shows up and orders stop.

He cranks his head. She’s faded blue lightning against the ride’s mountain carnage, but her custom helmet frames eyes the temperature of electrodarts—fiery like the ones in the game she plays.

“Frag, Rez! Some ten-minute break. Left your dude puffing a ciggy?”

“Shut it.”

“Naw—leave it to the rook to save the marks.”

She jams a hand beneath his ass board. Air hisses. His board snugs down tight as a screw to a wall. He’s suddenly loosey-goosey.

“Didn’t activate the high-altitude safety claws.” She’s in equip-mance mode. “You and pretty girl could’ve speed dated on the long fall.”

Adrenaline shudders through him. He’s clanked a klik above the world glory-dreaming about the service and mud-slinging Old Rez. Check her out. The old do-nothing’s chill.

She slaps something into his glove.

The SIDM activates, reading: Jingo, Farley. Acceptance into Deep Space Rescue Service. Repair aboard Glorious Survivors immediately—

“When—”

“Just now.” A pause. “Always wanted in myself, but I’m not—well—” She shrugs. “By-gones and all that. Good on you, Farley.”

“Rez, I’m—” An ass board. “Bots are inbound. Go on. I’ll direct rescue and clean-up. Don’t get yourself—you know. Pay attention to safety briefs.”

He sees himself—his gaps—and he’s butt-naked. Doesn’t like it, not a bit. Better just to git on, but if not for Old Rez, he’d be a technicolor ground splash. He cuts to Coastr girl. Rez is who trained him to save lives—not the deep space guys. One life hangs in the balance, and right now, hers is all that matters. The service has made him wait.

Frag’em—he’ll return the favor.

END

Bio

Ara Hone writes speculative fiction drawing on her chameleon DNA of war-fighter, sales manager, and nonprofit novice. Her fiction appears in Flash Fiction Magazine, Silver Blade Magazine, Love Across the Universe, and other publications, and is coming soon to Bewildering Stories. She lives in SoCal. Please visit at her fledgling site, www.arahone.com.

BOOK REVIEWS:

Monster Mash: The Creepy, Kooky Monster Craze In America 1957-1972 by Mark Voger

According to author Mark Voger, the years 1957-1972 constituted what he calls the "Monster Craze" in American popular culture.

Voger recounted some of the relevant events in his recent coffee table book, Monster Mash: The Creepy, Kooky Monster Craze In America 1957-1972. This is a work of both great nostalgia and makes for a whole of fun reading.

This is a book that's written from a fan's perspective, not from that of a cultural historian. This is a book by a self-described "Monster Kid" that's written for others who have warm nostalgia for times gone by.

Voger's contention is that the monster craze began with Universal releases their Shock Theatre package of 52 movies to local TV stations. Oddly enough, many of these films were not monster flicks. This was about three decades before home video. To go along with this package, many TV stations created programs with horror hosts that were based around the movies. This success inspired both Forrest J. Ackerman and James Warren to create Famous Monsters of Filmland magazine that was an instant hit. This success led to even more monster movie magazines.

The monster craze involved more than movies and magazines. There was an explosion of monster related goodies including books, games, toys and TV shows. There were even monster breakfast cereals. There was even a number of black and white comic books that did well for nearly two decades.

This is a book that would make the perfect Christmas present for anyone with an interest in monster movies. Likewise, if you have an interest in pulp fiction, this is a very good book for you and others of your tastes to read.

One drawback to this book is the fact that it fails to even so much as mention a significant part of monster magazine publishing. For instance, he gives Eerie Publications short shrift even though its creations are highly sought after by collectors. There is absolutely no mention of the Skywald horror comic books even though they are widely considered as being among the very best publications of their kind. Similarly, there is no mention of the Atlas/Seaboard magazines despite the excellence of their publications.

Another drawback is Voger's failure to provide much coverage to monster movie magazines outside of Famous Monsters of Filmland. Of these, only Calvin T. Beck's Castle of Frankenstein, that originally began publication of the one-shot Journal of Frankenstein, much more than a bare mention despite the fact that Beck's magazine was widely regarded as the very best of all the monster movie magazines. Only two other magazines, Fantastic Monsters of the Films and For Monsters Only received more than a mention. Many other monster magazines were only mentioned in passing. These included Modern Monsters, Monster Mania, Monster Parade, Shriek! and World Famous Creatures.

One significant problem with this book is the fact that ignores the fact that long before the Shock Theatre TV package, monster movies had been popular. There was already as sub-culture in place before Shock Theatre with its own fanzines. Additionally, fanzines played a major role during the monster craze that Voger writes about. Despite this, the word "fanzine" is not even so much as mentioned in Voger's book. What this does is deprive the reader of a look at a significant and vital part of monster movie fandom, one that is still going on today, both in print and more lately on the Internet as well.

Perhaps the best aspect of this book is the number of interviews that Voger did with the leading figures of the Monster Craze. And there was no more important person connected with that craze than its godfather, the legendary editor of Famous Monsters of Filmland for 190 golden issues, Forrest J. Ackerman. Voger's interview with Ackerman may one of the best interviews with the grand old man of monster movie media ever conducted. It is certainly the very best one that this writer has ever seen.

It is so good and so informative that it is easily worth the price of this book to read. Other important persons relating to monster movies whose interviews with Voger were published in this book included Jonathan Frid, Al Lewis, and James Warren among others.

However, outside of the interviews, this book is unfortunately scant in depth and you really do not learn much about the subjects that are not covered by the interviews. For better or for worse, this book is written from the perspective of a true fan of monster movies and the attendant subculture instead fo an historian. After reading this book, you should read "The Monster Show" by David J. Skal for a more in- depth historical treatment of the Monster Craze..

One aspect of the monster craze that Voger failed to even notice, much less discuss, is how much its coming owed to the bad old days when there were so few TV channels available over the air. Back then, most cities had no more than 3 TV commercial stations, all of which were network affiliates. You had to watch what those few stations offered irregardless if their content matched your personal tastes. Nowadays, there are so many options available to you, ranging from the Internet to cable TV that its impossible for the tastemakers to impose their personal whims on people like the way that they could back during the 1950's and 1960's before the likes of Richard Nixon, Ronald Reagan and Ted Turner were able to open things up to competition and put an end to the times when owning a TV station was a license to print money.

This is an exceptionally well written book that this writer, who was not born until 1964, was given an appreciation of the monster fan culture that had largely expired by the time I became a teenager. As one who grew up in a rural area, none of the local newsstands ever carried any of the monster movie magazines or the horror comic books. Despite some clear deficiencies, it comes well recommended.

MOVIE REVIEWS:

The Vampire (1957)

The 1957 horror flick The Vampire is a classic example of a misnamed movie. It is not a vampire movie at all, but instead an adaptation of the classic gothic tale "The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde," by Robert Louis Stevenson except that none of the characters are named either Jekyll or Hyde. This movie has very little to do with regular movie vampires.

The Vampire is also a good example of a cult movie. Cult movies are generally flicks that, because they are offbeat movies, fail to score at the box office. However, once they hit TV they gain a whole new audience from viewers who can appreciate the aspects that made them different from the kind of run of the mill motion pictures that do well at theaters. When the home video market developed, cult movies generally did better than the movies that beat them at the theatrical box office and still do today.

Because cult movies fare poorly at the box office, they have a detrimental impact on the careers of the actors and other Hollywood professionals who worked on them. As a result, cult movies stand out because their casts are loaded with acting talent whose names are unfamiliar to the young people who make up most of the TV viewing audience. In fact, part of the appeal of these movies is the fact that their actors and actresses are so unfamiliar to the audience that getting to see these otherwise obscure Hollywood professionals help make the cult movie experience seem all the more special.

The film opens as pet shop delivery boy Tommy (Brad Morrow) enters the unlocked house/laboratory of research scientist Dr. Matt Campbell (Wood Romoff) and finds the scientist in serious medical condition. Campbell dies and as a result, Dr. Paul Beecher (John Beal) takes over running the laboratory. Before Campbell passed away, he gave Beecher some experimental pills.

Beecher takes the pills home without doing to mark their container as being any different from other pills. What happens is that Dr. Beecher is both overworked and suffering from migraines and he askes his annoying adolescent daughter, Betsy (Lydia Reed), to get him some headache pills and she gets the experimental pills instead. It turns out that these pills are derived from an extract of serum from vampire bats that both turns people into vampires and are highly addictive.

It should be clear at this point that this movie has little to do with conventional movie vampires. There are no capes, crosses or other regular vampire trappings. Instead what we have here is a science fictional take on the vampire legend. Another difference is the fact that before he took the vampire pills, Dr. Beecher was a man who was totally devoted to his profession and he has little personal interest in his pretty nurse Carolyn Butler (Coleen Gray). After he takes the pills, Beecher becomes, not a handsome sort with fangs, but instead a hideous creature that grunts and growls.

The vampire in this movie is not the typical movie vampire who is handsome, charming and who sucks the blood out of a lady's neck. This particular vampire is a hairy, ugly, clumsy beast who ambles aimlessly after his targets. He sucks the blood out of any part of the human body, including male body parts. This unique vampire is so well done that it makes the movie look great despite, or perhaps even because of the limited production budget. Adding to the movie's strengths is the fact that there are several veteran actors and actresses of other monster movies in this film including Paul Brinegar (How To Make A Monster), Coleen Gray (The Leech Woman) and an uncredited cameo by Louise Lewis (I Was A Teenage Werewolf; Blood Of Dracula). Best of all was the performance of Kenneth Tobey whose very name is synonymous with monster movies ranging from The Thing from Another World (1951) through The Naked Monster (2005).

The striking thing about this movie is that despite, or perhaps because, the fact that it had a low budget if offers the viewer solid suspense throughout the movie. The characters in this film are all quite believable, a testament to the quality of the acting.

The Vampire is an exceptionally good mixture of the horror and science fiction genres. As such it is very well recommended.

The Return of Dracula (1958)

The 1958 production of The Return of Dracula is a pretty suspenseful thriller complete with a highly memorable ending. Because it was released in 1958, the same year as the release of the Hammer Production The Horror of Dracula starring Christopher Lee in the title role, this flick has become forgotten by all but the hardest core fans of vampire films.

This is unfortunate since the suave Francis Lederer makes for a particularly effective Count Dracula. In addition, the music score by Gerald Fried is especially eerie and adds to the suspense and thrill factor in the film. As such, this movie is an underrated masterpiece.

Although largely forgotten today, Francis Lederer made for a particularly effective Count Dracula. His performance was of the kind that inspires nightmares when you are trying to sleep. This is a vampire performance for the ages, one that is far more memorable than most other vampire performances by much better-known actors. It's because of Lederer's performance that The Return of Dracula has so much more suspense and tension than most other 1950's horror flicks.

Surprisingly, The Return of Dracula's plot bears a strong resemblance to the plot of the 1943 Alfred Hitchcock film Shadow of a Doubt. However, that does not prevent this take on Bram Stoker's classic vampire character from being a great movie. Having a stalwart actor such as Francis Lederer in the title role delivering what may have been his all-time greatest performance really makes up for the filmmakers' lack of originality.

What's most significant about this Dracula endeavor is the way that it ditches the original novel's 19th Century setting in favor of a contemporary one in a 1950's small town in California. Here, Count Dracula is being pursued in his native Eastern Europe by vampire hunters so he gets on a train, finds a man who bears an uncanny resemblance to him, murders him and then assumes his identity.

The surprising thing about this movie is the fact that it was made more like a thriller than as a horror flick. The fact this Dracula is not nearly as charismatic as the Dracula in other movies actually makes the Francis Lederer version of the character seem even more believable.

Another surprising aspect of this movie is just how well it creates a small town atmosphere. This was achieved by the small town characterizations by the cast, most of whom were character actors. Director Paul Landres and considerable experience making movies about small towns.

What's not so surprising is that this movie lost money at the box office. There were two reasons for this. First, The Return of Dracula was released to theaters as a double bill with a movie called The Flame Barrier that has a reputation as being really bad. The other reason is that shortly after this movie was released, the Hammer flick, The Horror of Dracula starring Christopher Lee was released in Technicolor and won the love of both critics and fans alike.

The Return of Dracula is a stylish, atmospheric and effective B Movie from the days when the big studios in Hollywood were phasing out their B Movie divisions. The overall level of the acting and directing is very good. The screenplay is well above average. The music really adds to the suspense. Traditional Hollywood vampire movies have not been very good, but this one was nothing short of outstanding. This was definitely the single best vampire film of the 1950's. The Return of Dracula is well recommended especially to fans of classy black and white movies.

American Gothic (1987)

One of the most tasteless plots that is used in all too many horror flicks involves the idea that folks who live in rural areas are all sick, demented murderous types. This goes extra for rural families who are religious. These horror movies tend to be made by urban dwellers who look down on country folk as being "backward." One such horror flick is 1987’s American Gothic. The fact that this movie was made in 1987 alone is an indication of just how bad this movie was. 1987 was an unusually poor year for movies. Additionally, the 1980’s had a certifiable super surplus of awful horror flicks. Although American Gothic did poorly at the box office, it somehow endured at the video shops to the point that this movie is more widely available today than most other failed feature flicks from the 1980’s. The beginning of American Gothic is all too familiar for flicks of this sort with the usual faltering airplane forced to land on the usual strangely unmapped island. Exploring, the passengers find the usual isolated rural family that is completely demented. This time around, the heads of the family are portrayed by fairly talented players in the form of Yvonne De Carlo & Rod Steiger. Unfortunately, the rest of the cast is the usual bunch of has beens and hacks. American Gothic is also a good example of an alleged horror flick that is hardly scary. There are only a few scenes that are even mildly scary and/or has any real suspense. Its a movie with one of those all too familiar plots that you have seen many times before and will doubtless see many times again before you die owing to the general lack of originality amongst horror filmmakers. To be sure, there are some redeeming aspects to American Gothic. It has a quite creepy atmosphere and uneven camera angles and a picture that is often off center. The movie also presents the forest in an unusually scary way and the trees themselves look like dark figures. However, these features are unable to overcome the generally poor level of acting combined with bad, overused not to mention demeaning to rural folks plot points and a poorly written script. Unless you get a special kick out of watching unimaginative horror flicks, American Gothic is a movie to avoid.

The Baby (1973)

Ever since its inception during the 1960’s, the movie rating system used by the Motion Picture Alliance of America (MPAA) has been under more or less constant criticism. One perennial theme of this criticism is that the rating system is haphazardly utilized with the result that one movie can be R rated while another one can get a PG-13 rating for the essentially same level of morality. Additionally, the rating system has been criticized for giving all too many perverted productions PG or PG-13 ratings with the result that children are unnecessarily exposed to filth & perversion. One classic example of a movie that received an unjustifiably family friendly rating of PG is the 1973 flick The Baby. The Baby is one of those horror movies involving a sicko mom who has kept her child in a state of perpetual infancy, treating him as if he were still a baby even though he is really all grown up. This is a plot that has been used time and again and never to good effect. This is because this plot shatters the suspension of disbelief that is essential to enjoying a motion picture. After all, why would a mother even want to keep her son in such an emotional and mental state that would render him a burden to her forever? In any event, the movie begins when a beautiful but dull witted social worker named Ann Gentry (Anjanette Comer) is assigned to the case of the Wadsworth family. The Wadsworths are a screwed-up bunch. Momma (Ruth Roman) is an evil, conniving hag while her children consist of a pair of sluts named Jermaine and Alba and an overgrown "Baby." The Baby is a 19 year old man, but he acts and talks like an infant who can only engage in baby talk, babble, crawl, cry and drink from a baby bottle. However, he is adept in violence against unsuspecting babysitters. As social worker Gentry investigates the Wadsworths, she increasingly realizes that Baby, despite what Momma Wadsworth says, is not mentally handicapped. Baby is what he is because his mother, in conjunction with the rest of her brood, purposely raised him to be a perpetual infant. The raising of Baby involves use of electronic shocks to keep him in line. The 2 sisters especially love shocking Baby. Increasingly, Gentry comes to the conclusion that unusual measures are called for in dealing with the Wadsworths. The Baby is a horror flick with a cliché plot combined with garbage to form a bad movie. It involves incest between Baby and his 2 sicko sisters, bloody wounds and slit throat, lesbianism and wholesale violence. It is not a movie that deserved any rating better than X or R and it is certainly not recommended here.

The Bad Seed (1956)

Whenever people think of 1950’s horror films, they often come up with such things as patently unconvincing monsters. "Schlock" is one word that often comes to most folks’ minds as to what they think of 1950’s horror flicks in general. This may be the reason why the 1956 horror movie The Bad Seed has never gotten its due with fans of cinematic horror. During the last two decades or so, there have been many horror movies about killer kids. Likewise, there have been many cases of such killer children in real life. Many of the best movies of this ilk have been based on these real-life cases. None of the recent movies of this kind really measure up to The Bad Seed in terms of overall quality. There are two reasons why this is the case: (A) The Bad Seed is in black and white that seems to help with the spookiness of the overall flick and (B) the antagonist seems to be what Oliver Stone would have called a "natural born killer" even though we never see committing even so much as a single crime. The antagonistic main character is the 8 year old Rhoda Penmark (Patty McCormack) is a child from a wealthy and privileged background. Her family is considered "good" in practically every respect. She seems to have the perfect background. However, she also has a strange smile and can cast a menacing glare from piercing eyes. Little Rhoda also has a penchant for committing heinous deeds. When her complacent mother, Christine Penmark (Nancy Kelly), learns of these acts, then mommy’s perfect world goes up in smoke. The Bad Seed is a horror film that packs a real wallop. One reason why it is not well remembered today is the fact that it has a ridiculously artificial happy ending.

This ending did not connect well to the rest of the movie and it robbed The Bad Seed of much of its impact. This ending is easily one of the worst endings to a horror motion picture of all time. However, that should not dampen your appreciation of this groundbreaking horror production too much. Despite its low standing among horror flick fans today, The Bad Seed ihas been a most influential motion picture. Literally scores of evil children movies have been made since. The Omen with Gregory Peck is one such film along with lesser productions such as the various and sundry high school massacre flicks. There have also been some rip offs made with The Good Son being the most notable. However, these later productions generally lack that what made The Bad Seed such an interesting show. Namely that there are no outside supernatural influences acting upon the little girl that made her kill. Instead, her killer kid tendencies came from within her, her very own inner evil.

The Body Snatcher (1945)

Almost always, horror movies and stories are invented out of whole cloth. Very rarely are horror movies and stories based on events in real life. One rare exception is the short story by Robert Louis Stevenson entitled “The Body Snatcher.” This story was inspired by the real life exploits of William Burke and William Hare who carried out a murder spree in Edinburgh, Scotland during 1827-1828. These murders were carried out so that Burke & Hare could sell the corpses to a Dr. Robert Knox who used the corpses for teaching medical students. In 1945, “The Body Snatcher” was made into a movie by producer Val Lewton. The movie version of “The Body Snatcher” is one of those movie adaptations where the movie starts out the same as the original story, but eventually branches out in their own scenarios. In the hands of most producers this is a bad thing since most Hollywood types cannot get beyond the familiar and comfortable cookie cutter formulas that have helped Hollywood get into the creative and financial rut that it is now in. However, Val Lewton was not your typical flick producer and the result is a literate and intelligent horror film that Robert Louis Stevenson likely would have approved. The movie begins with Dr. Wolfe ‘Toddy’ MacFarlane (Henry Daniell) fretting over the lack of cadavers that are available for both medical research and for training medical students such as his protege Donald Fettes (Russell Wade). He meets up with the sinister Cabman John Gray (Boris Karloff) and arranges for Gray to supply him with corpses that Gray presumably would obtain either by finding dead bodies on the streets before the authorities do, by breaking into the morgue, or even worse grave robbing or as it is referred to in this movie, “body snatching.” However, Gray has other ideas and embarks on a murder spree to bring the doctor the nice, fresh corpses that the doctor so desires. John Gray turns out to be a most efficient murderer despite the fact that he is often drunk. One of the most chilling scenes in this movie involves Gray’s killing a little girl who likes to sing in the streets. The girl is shown walking down the street singing and without any cuts, Gray’s horse and coach enters the frame, slowly following the child. Suddenly, the girl’s song ends with a squeak. This is a much more moving moment than what would be the case in recently made movies where there would be multiple onscreen slashings and gore filled effects. Sometimes less is more. The Body Snatcher is a masterfully produced horror film. It explains to the audience how changes in the law greatly reduced the number of cadavers available for medical study. This, combined with the opening of new medical schools, made the shortage acute and caused physicians to resort to illicit means such as body snatching to acquire the needed bodies. This is a genuinely creepy and well plotted flick that keeps the audience in suspense. The acting of both Daniell and Karloff add much to this movie. If you ever find The Body Snatcher at your local video store, make sure to snatch it right up.

Death Race (2008)

The makers of the 2008 flick Death Race would like you to think that it is a remake of the 1975 movie Death Race 2000. Actually, there is not all that much resemblance between the two movies despite the name and a somewhat similar plot. Basically, the 1975 original took a clever idea and turned it into an original piece of futuristic cinema. This remake is just simply an ugly cliché ridden piece of garbage. The 1975 original was about a nationwide cross-country race in which the race car drivers got points for running pedestrians over with their cars of death and destruction that included long barbs sticking out of the front of the cars.

Some of the pedestrians were crazed fans who willingly threw themselves in front of the cars so that their favorite drivers could gain in the competition. These drivers had original names such as Herman the German, Matilda the Hun, Nero the Hero, Thomasina Paine, Calamity Jane and Frankenstein. Death Race 2000 also featured some very good performances from David Carradine, Fred Grandy & Sylvester Stallone. There is also John Landis, who would later become famous as a movie director, portraying a mechanic. One of the drivers begins to be plagued with self-doubts about participating in what is essentially organized hit and run driving. Meanwhile, there is a conspiracy in the federal government aimed at curtailing the death race and it has infiltrated an operative posing as a navigator into the race itself. The original Death Race 2000 was a very well-done thriller that has proved to be a most memorable work of cinema. On the other hand, Death Race took a preposterous idea and pushed it to the max with the result that the audience's suspension of disbelief is shattered. For starters while the original movie was directed by the capable, if unglamorous, Paul Bartel, this alleged remake was helmed by Paul W.S. Anderson who has been responsible for more than his fair share of bad movies (AVP: Alien vs. Predator, Mortal Kombat & Resident Evil). Anderson also threw in numerous Hollywood clichés concerning innocent men behind bars and made a movie that more resembles a video game than anything else. The plot of Death Race is poorly thought out. The movie is set at a prison, which like all prisons, is run by a corporation strictly for profit. Jensen Ames (Jason Statham) is a prisoner who has been framed for murdering his wife. The prison warden, Hennessey (Joan Allen) makes a deal with Ames that she will set him free if he will first represent the prison in the "Death Race" that is run by prisoners in a nationally televised race to the death. Setting a convicted murderer free for driving a car? Yeah right. While the plot is poorly thought out, the cinematography is even worse. Poor editing and zoom shots mess up racing sequences that were generally repetitive and boring. Poor production values make it difficult to discern just which race car is in the lead. Given how so many previous car race movies have excellent photography, it makes you wonder just what was going through Paul W.S. Anderson's head when he was making this poor excuse for a motion picture. Another problem with this movie is that it is set too near in the future. Death Race 2000 was set 25 years in the future while in Death Race the American economy collapses in 2012 and the events in the movie come just a few years later. It seems unlikely that American society could change so much in less than a decade from now. In the end, Death Race is just a glorified video game on celluloid. It is a movie chock full of stock characters all of whom are made of cardboard. The cinematography is horrible as is the acting, directing and script. Unless you happen to like horrible movies, this is a flick to stay away from.

The Fall of the House of Usher (1960)

The Fall of the House of Usher was the very first movie directed and produced by Roger Corman that starred Vincent Price. The Corman/Price duo worked together to create a series of eight movies that defined what horror movies were during the 1960’s. These movies were made without any gore and excessive sex/violence. Instead, they focus on atmosphere and well-defined characters not to mention good scripts and quality creepy/chilling music to produce a scary mood. The Fall of the House of Usher opens with Philip Winthrop (Mark Damon) riding to the home of Madeline Usher (Myrna Fahey) to whom he is supposed be married to. He does not know what the circumstances that she lives in are like. He is about to find out to his chagrin that all of his preconceptions of her being a happy beauty in a good family are false for Madeline is more than a little bit crazy and her paternalistic brother Roderick Usher (Vincent Price) is even crazier. Basically, both Madeline and Roderick have been stricken with serious illnesses. The senses of Roderick Usher have become seriously acute. Meanwhile, Madeline has become catatonic. On the evening of Philip Winthrop’s arrival, Roderick informs him of the Usher family curse in which when there are more than one Usher child, all of the Usher family siblings have gone insane and suffered horrible deaths. Naturally, this bothers Philip very much and he becomes all the more concerned for Madeline’s wellbeing. As Philip stays at the Usher family home, it becomes increasingly clear that there is something wrong going on here.

There really does appear to be some sort of curse as evidenced by Madeline’s loud screaming’s and wailings that echo throughout the house. Meanwhile, Roderick is not exactly a model of sanity either. Roderick is basically an eternally tortured soul and the effects of the curse are becoming manifestly clearer with each passing day. The Fall of the House of Usher was both a commercial and a critical success. Filmed on a budget of $270,000, the movie was a huge hit on the B Movie theater circuit, especially at drive in theaters. It is a masterpiece of atmospheric horror and the creepy music only adds to the feeling of dread. Vincent Price has an outstanding performance and Roger Corman’s direction is excellent. This movie is a great example of how horror flicks ought to be made and as such is heartily recommended.

Friday the 13th (1980)

There are times when a movie succeeds in creating a whole new sub-genre. This is often a positive development, since variety is the spice of life. Hollywood flicks all too often get bogged down in the same old, same old cookie cutter formulas. In the case of the 1980 flick Friday the 13th and the slasher sub- genre that it spawned; this was not a positive development. This is especially the case since the new sub-genre came with a brand-new cookie cutter formula that subsequent slasher flicks have rigidly adhered to. Friday the 13th has an absurd premise. Camp Crystal Lake is reopening after 23 years. The reason why it had closed is that a six-year-old child, Jason Voorhees, was presumed to have drowned while camp counselors were engaged in immoral acts. The next year, two camp goers were killed. 23 years after the drowning of the young Jason, with the camp reopening, the crazed old mother of Jason Voorhees who is still known as “Mrs. Voorhees” (Betsy Palmer) wants revenge against the new camp counselors even though none of them had anything to do with Jason’s death. If anything, none of the reopened camp’s counselors even look old enough to have been born by the time of Jason’s tragic drowning. However, Mrs. Vorhees has become crazed to the point of becoming utterly psychotic and she must have her revenge no matter what. There is at least one person in the community who is on to Mrs. Voorhees’s evil plotting’s. This is an old man known as “Crazy Ralph” (Walt Gorney) who warns both prospective campers and camp counselors that the camp is doomed to face unimaginable horrors. Naturally, everyone disregards his warnings. Likewise, there is a truck driver named Enos (Rex Everhart) who tries to warn a prospective camper named Annie (Robbi Morgan) about how Camp Crystal Lake is “jinxed.” She ignores him to her peril. Camp Crystal Lake opens up and it turns out that just about everyone who shows up, both counselors and campers alike, are nothing but a bunch of perverts. Then the killer shows up and runs amok spreading havoc despite getting repeatedly whacked in the head with blows that would knock a full-grown man down. When the killer is finally revealed as Mrs. Voorhees, the absurdity of such an old lady sustaining all that physical punishment becomes apparent. In the end of the movie, the presumably drowned son Jason springs up from the lake to wreak even more havoc and set the stage for a whole series of awful slasher flicks. Friday the 13th is an awful flick in almost every regard. The writing is horrible, the acting is terrible and the cinematography is mediocre. The screenplay is amateurish. Although the idea of teenagers being killed at a summer camp at night is a good premise for a horror movie, it is poorly executed in this movie. Unlike almost all of the pre-1980 horror movies, Friday the 13th and the slasher flick sub-genre that it spawned is not with the victims. These poor excuses for movies are with the killers and the whole point is for the audience to anticipate the next murder or killing spree. Slasher flicks like Friday the 13th are movies to avoid like the plague.

Friday the 13th Part 2 (1981)

What do you get when you take a horrible movie that did well at the box office and proceed to make a sequel with minimal resources devoted to the new flick? Well, in the case of Friday the 13th Part 2, you get a movie that is even worse than the awful original. This is also the case with the Friday the 13th series as a whole: one pathetic excuse for a motion picture after another. The basic setup for Friday the 13th Part 2 makes zero sense. Camp Crystal Lake has been shut down due to the events depicted in the original movie. However, a new camp has just been constructed right by the old camp. Why bother building a new camp when the old one would do just as well? In the first flick, the mad dog killer was Mrs. Voorhees who was still grief stricken because she believed that her son Jason had died at the camp. In Friday the 13th Part 2, the killer is Jason who witnessed the death of his mother in the first film. Of course, Jason wants revenge for that death and is both willing and able to kill indiscriminately to feel that his vengeance has been fulfilled. Also, Jason had been living in the woods as a hermit since the near drowning incident that had caused his mom to go stir crazy in the first place. With the construction of the new summer camp, Jason’s secret hideout is now threatened with the possibility of discovery and Jason will kill like crazy to prevent the outside world from learning of his secret living quarters and the contents inside the shack. Naturally, Jason’s first target is Alice Hardy (Adrienne King) who beheaded Jason’s slasher/mother. He does not even wait for the new camp to be constructed before stabbing Alice by an ice pick in the temple and causing her to disappear about two months after the events in the first Friday the 13th. Of course, the producers ask us to believe that after this ghastly slaying, Jason can now keep his murderous proclivities under wrap for another four years and ten months until the new camp is constructed. Other than the identity of the insane slasher, Friday the 13th Part 2, is for all intents and purposes a rehash of the first flick. Once again, just about all the camp counselors are just a bunch of moronic perverts. Once again, Crazy Ralph (Walt Gorney) makes his fearsome prophecies that nobody heeds about how the new camp will become “Camp Blood.” Once again, there is only one counselor who has brains and is able to beat off the attacker, except her name in this flick is Ginny Field (Amy Steel). Of course, as so with all the other post-Friday the 13th slasher flicks, the movie ends with the lone survivor apparently killing the mad slasher. Of course, if the slasher film is profitable, then there will be a sequel or so in which it is revealed that the killer really did not die. This pathetic excuse for a major motion picture did make a bundle, so Jason got to live on in numerous sequels. This review should suffice for any of the later Friday the 13th sequels since there is, for all practical purposes, zero variety amongst them. Halloween (1978)

John Carpenter’s 1978 horror flick Halloween has often been called the first slasher flick. There is hardly any blood in Halloween. The movie is made in a technically brilliant fashion and is a rare intelligent slasher movie. This is in direct contrast to the vast majority of slasher flicks which are, as a whole, shallow and stupid wastes of celluloid. In late 1978, Halloween opened in Bowling Green, Kentucky before moving on to larger cities. Initially, it was ignored by most movie critics who looked down on it as just another low budget picture. However, the movie was saved from oblivion by word of mouth that resulted in, as they say in Hollywood, boffo box office. Eventually, movie reviewers came to realize that there was something very special about this particular flick. We meet a sympathetic, likable and intelligent teenager named Laurie (Jamie Lee Curtis) and the children that Laurie is babysitting. We also meet Laurie’s less intelligent girlfriends, Annie and Lynda. In contrast to most post-Halloween horror/slasher movies, we identify with and feel terror for these folks as they are targeted for death by a knife wielding psychopath. In the making of Halloween, John Carpenter demonstrated that, at least back then, he understood that the best element of fear is not what actually happens, but what is about to happen. For instance, what was that shadow? It is when evil is lurking, somewhere, you just don’t know where, that you can really get scared. When Laurie and her friends are walking home from school and they are being stalked by the killer who pops in and out of view. It is quite rare that a film can provide scenes that are at least semi-chilling during scenes that are in daylight. Unlike most female characters in slasher flicks, Laurie is intelligent and thinks that she’s "too smart" to attract boys. Laurie pays attention at school, worries about her homework, and is both trustworthy and reliable as a babysitter. She is a responsible person. This is a trait that few movie teenagers, especially female teenagers, exhibit. This quality of hers is not presented as evidence that she is a "nerd" or "antisocial" or "stuck up." One of the principal reasons for the enduring popularity of Halloween is that the teenage audience identifies very strongly with Laurie.

While teenage characters like Laurie are rare in the movies, in real life there are many such teenagers. Over the years a lot of teenagers have seen a lot of of themselves reflected in Laurie. Contrary to repeated assertions made by critics and others since Halloween’s release in 1978, the salient aspect of Laurie’s character is not her virginity, but her responsibility. Laurie’s sense of being responsible is what results in her survival. Likewise, her girlfriend’s irresponsibility is what results in their getting killed. Laurie is the kind of person who is rarely seen in slasher flicks: a genuinely nice person. Laurie clearly takes babysitting jobs not only for the money, but because she enjoys the company of children and really likes making them happy. Laurie’s niceness and sense of responsibility comes together in one of the key aspects in which Halloween differs from most slasher flicks. This is the fact that when evil comes to the house, Laurie focuses on defending the kids and telling them to run for a neighbor’s house as opposed to being preoccupied with her own self-preservation. Halloween is not only a masterpiece of slasher flicks, it’s an excellent movie period.

The Howling (1981)

Over the years, there have been a great many attempts at making what’s known as a "horror comedy." Ideally, a horror comedy is supposed to be both scary and funny at the same time. Problem is that all too often, such movies are more funny than scary and all too often are hardly scary at all. One such flick is the 1981 effort, The Howling. The Howling is a treasure trove of insider jokes for horror flick fans. Many of the characters named after previous werewolf film directors. In one scene, there is a copy of Allen Ginsberg’s epic poetry book "Howl" laying by a telephone. Werewolf flicks and cartoons are shown on TV, and "wolf" items pop up regularly. There is also a reference to radio disc jockey Wolfman Jack, a photo of werewolf movie actor Lon Chaney, Jr., and a character eats a can of Wolf brand chili. One of the biggest problems with The Howling is the fact that what is supposed to be scary often comes across as being goofy. For example, when Dee Wallace transforms into a werewolf towards the end of the movie, she looks more like a cute widdle puppy instead of a frightening werewolf. In order to be scary, werewolf movies need to have frightening monsters, and The Howling is rather lacking in that department. Despite its artistic defects, The Howling proved to be a huge hit on the big screen. It cost $1 million to make and grossed about $17 million on its initial release. Add in TV rights and rights for VHS/DVD releases, and you have a profitability bonanza. No wonder The Howling has generated a multitude of sequels, all of which are least as bad as the original and in many instances even worse. Perhaps the most lasting beneficial effect of The Howling is that it furthered the careers of special effects/costumes men Rick Baker & Rob Bottin. In any event, The Howling is not scary enough to be a horror flick and comes across as being goofy instead of funny, so it fails as a comedy as well. As such, it is not recommended.

I Spit on Your Grave (1978)

I Spit on Your Grave is quite possibly the single most disgusting flick ever made. It is a movie that has no redeeming qualities whatsoever. It is also a movie that despite the fact that it made a tidy profit at the box office, it pretty much destroyed the careers of many of those who were associated with it. Perhaps even more disgusting is the fact that its makers continue to this day telling fallacious lies about their oh so noble and wonderful purposes for making this flick in the first place. I Spit on Your Grave is a glorification of violence against women. Specifically, in this case, rape. It also presents the idea that rape victims really are not bothered too much by the ordeal of rape and that they can quickly bounce back from the violence that was inflicted upon them just like nothing happened. This movie begins when a young female novelist (Camille Keaton) decides to finish up her latest novel at her wilderness cabin. Despite the fact that her purpose is to work in solitude, she starts going about with little clothing on and acting in an indecent, slutty manner in public. It is never explained just why she is doing this. In one scene, she has very little on and she flaunts her sexuality in a highly suggestive manner towards some local boys. Big mistake. The local boys are base perverts at heart and they have a thing for raping beautiful scantily clad chicks. One day while walking around deep in the forest with ridiculously little clothing on for someone who is supposed to be hiking, the novelist is set upon by the perverts and they rape her. After they get tired of raping her, they leave her alone. She then walks around the forest in a circle and comes upon the same gang of rapists. They rape her again. After the second rape scene is all over and done with, she somehow manages to crawl back to her cabin. Unfortunately, the rapists have decided to go there ahead of her and hide in the cabin. Guess what happens to her when she enters her cabin? She gets raped again! Now, you would think that after being raped thrice in a matter of a few hours, she would be all beat up and would not hesitate for a minute to call up the county sheriff’s office. If so, you would be dead wrong. Instead, all she needs to fully recuperate from her ordeal is pop into the shower and before you know it, she is as good as new and fully able to revenge herself on the perverts. Her plan is to seduce and then kill the rapist gangsters one by one until all four of them are dead. As you can expect given that this is a typically reality challenged Hollywood flick, she actually succeeds in her quest by sundown. Her revenge is ridiculously easy such as the scene where she is able to seduce a rapist into climbing a tree to engage in immoral acts where there is a rope with a noose at the end conveniently there. Naturally, the idiot gets hung. She conducts her revenge campaign with but little emotion. There is little in the line of relish at getting back at the perverts or any showing of triumph at the end. She engages in revenge with about as much emotion as she would show sitting down in a rocking chair knitting. I Spit on Your Grave is a truly awful flick. The acting is uniformly horrible. The technical aspects are poor as is the cinematography. The script is a joke. When this awful movie was released, there was a firestorm of protest. Some movie critics such as Roger Ebert and Gene Siskel actually went so far as to join protests outside the theaters that ran this garbage, urging movie fans not to watch this trash. What is really awful about this flick is the fact that the filmmakers have been spreading lying propaganda about their motives for making it. They have made the claim at such venues as the DVD special features and horror film conventions that there was a noble motive for making this sickening piece of trash. The flick’s producer, Meir Zarchi, claims that he made the flick to show that rape was a violent act that hurts people. Yes, you read that right. According to producer Zarchi, people did not know that rape entailed violence and they needed to see a movie to understand that rape is not good for females. What an insult to people’s intelligence. This is especially insulting given the true effect of this movie. In I Spit on Your Grave, the rape victim is shown as not suffering much from the attacks upon her. Also, the rape victim is shown as being able to bounce back from being repeatedly raped so much so that on the very same day that she was raped, all she needed to do to get her revenge on the rapists was to take a shower and put some clean clothes on and she is ready for action. In other words, the true effect of I Spit on Your Grave is to demean rape victims and make it seem as if rape is no big deal and certainly not harmful to the victim. In other words, it serves to encourage rape and other acts of violence against females. Meir Zarchi and the other filmmakers behind I Spit on Your Grave ought to be ashamed of themselves.

Junior (1985)

Back during the good old days before horror flick producers decided that the best way to scare people was to throw buckets of blood at the screen, horror movies used to have strong characters that the audience actually cared about. Also, during the times following the invention of the slasher flick during the 1970’s, there were horror shows that had a strong sense of fun about them. Typically, these flicks had a whodunit aspect to them that served to render the plot deeper than the bulk of horror cinema. One such fun horror flick is the 1985 production of Junior. Junior is an unusual movie in that it is a non-supernatural horror show. There are no goblins, trolls, vampires, werewolves, witches or any other sort of evil monster in this movie. Yet the horror is every bit as scary as movies involving supernatural evil. Another way that this movie differs from much of horror cinema in that it has strong female characters as opposed to the screamers who are so typical of so many female characters found in horror movies.

An additional facet in this show’s favor is that these females are not politically correct radical feminists or, for that matter, feminists of any kind. Instead, these females are typical average gals except for the fact that they are both ex-cons. Upon their release, both K.C. (Suzanne DeLaurentiis) and Jo (Linda Singer) head off for rural Texas in hopes of starting a new life for themselves on the right side of the law. They meet up with their old pimp and at first it looks like they are destined to wind up back in the slammer. However, he tries to rape one of them and they wind up getting the best of him and steal his car and run off to Florida with a lot of his money and illegal drugs. Once arriving in Florida, they successfully sell the drugs and then they decide to use the capital to build a new marina on a local lake. However, with success comes jealousy by some of the locals who do not care for outsiders one bit. Not all of the locals feel this way though. One of the local gals, Sally (Alanne Perry), admires the newcomers for their spunk and winds up making it a trio of females endeavoring to make it in the marina business. The addition of Sally further increases the animosity between the new gals on the block and the locals including the sheriff (Ken Roberts) who decides to ignore any and all crimes perpetrated against the gals. Of all the locals, none prove more demented and obnoxious than Junior (Jeremy Ratchford) who is urged on in his destructive rampages by his evil mother hen. Also urging Junior on is his party girl (Tricia Turner) who is especially vindictive towards the pretty newcomers and their big plans. The combination of Junior and the other rowdies makes everything tough and tight for the gals and they must take the law in their own hands, including finding out just who is doing the evil stuff and and how to stop them.

Murders in the Zoo (1933)

Murders in the Zoo (1933) is a forgotten classic from the pre-Production Code era. It is a masterpiece of completely over the top dementia of the sort that primarily came from Paramount in response to the success that Universal was having in the horror genre in the 1930’s. As with the other horror entries from Paramount from this period, there is a bit too much comedy relief in Murders in the Zoo, which should not be too surprising since Paramount back then was best known for its comedies. Murders in the Zoo has a shocking opening. In it, demented zoologist Eric Gorman (Lionel Atwill) has another man’s mouth sewn shut. Gorman also lectures his victim about the evils of lusting after the wives of other men. Afterwards, Atwill leaves him behind in the jungle to face his fate as prey of the wildlife. When he returns to the compound, his lovely wife Evelyn (Kathleen Burke) asks where the other man is. Eric responds that the other man went for a walk. Evelyn responds by asking "what did he say?" to which Eric answers, "he didn’t say anything." Eric Gorman, you see, is an insanely jealous husband. He has good reason to be since his wife is very beautiful and is rather promiscuous as well. This leads to men lusting after her which leads to their doom at the sadistic hands of her husband. Eric is aided in his quest to keep his wife to himself by some poisonous snakes and some alligators, not to mention other dangerous beasts. Eventually, Eric grew tired of this game and he just simply wound up throwing his lovely wife into a pit full of crocodiles. As you can see, the above plot held great potential for a great horror flick. However, the folks at Paramount decided that horror movies needed to have an extra-large dose of comedy relief. As a result, comedian Charlie Ruggles is given about as much screen time as the demented Eric Gorman. The end result is to dilute the scariness of the flick. There is also an interesting reference to the times that this movie was made in. At one point, Eric Gorman says to another character, "You’re one of the few lucky people who still have some money left." This was a Great Depression era movie and 1933 was the single worst year of that economic period in American history. Murders in the Zoo was a showcase for the talents of Lionel Atwill who was one of the most prominent actors of the 1930’s. Atwill ranked with both Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi as one of the great horror movie actors with such major motion pictures as Doctor X & Mystery of the Wax Museum to his credits. Atwill was a great actor, much more talented than the likes of Karloff, John Carradine and Lon Chaney Jr. and on a par with Lugosi. However, much of his horror flick career was spent on roles as burgomasters and inspectors instead of really meaty roles. Another actor who shines in Murders in the Zoo is John Lodge who played the role of Roger Hewitt aka Eric Gorman’s chief rival for the love of Evelyn.

As it happened, this was Lodge’s second movie in a career that lasted 21 movies made during 1932- 1940. Later in 1946, Lodge became the first Republican actor elected to Congress. Four years later, Lodge was elected Governor of Connecticut. Following his defeat for reelection in 1954 Lodge, like Shirley Temple, was appointed to a series of diplomatic positions by Republican presidents. Lodge was also the Floor Leader at the 1965 Connecticut Constitutional Convention. Murders in the Zoo dates back to the days when horror and melodrama nearly meant the same thing. Horror movies in this vein contain as much drama and suspense as horror. Many of the horror films of this variety are un-supernatural in nature. This is why some folks prefer the call these flicks "terror" rather than horror. In any event, Murders in the Zoo is one of the more effective unsupernatural scary flicks of the 1930’s. This being the case, one wonders just when the studio is going to get around to putting Murders in the Zoo on DVD. Also, if there really is a classic scary flick that needs to be remade, then a remake of Murders in the Zoo sans the distracting comedy relief would be in order. Murders in the Zoo is one of the lost classics of the 1930s. It is a work of Grand Guignol made with full over the top dementia in the way that only truly inspired psycho horror could ever manage. Unlike horror movies of today, it is not about throwing as many buckets of blood on screen. Murders in the Zoo was what classic horror was all about in the early days of movies in that strong plot lines and sudden shocks were the natural focus in such films. For a movie that lasts less than an hour and twenty minutes, Murders in the Zoo packs a real wallop. It is genuinely scary which is more than you can say about all too movies made nowadays. Murders in the Zoo was only issued once on VHS. It is a shame that it has never been issued on DVD. Given the sheer amount of dreck that is on DVD nowadays, Hollywood owes us a great classic like this. In any event, Murders in the Zoo is highly recommended.

Offerings (1989)

During the Post-Halloween Era (1978-present), there have been numerous rip-offs of John Carpenter’s classic original horror movie. Hardly any of these movies ever rose anywhere near the level of Halloween, including the Halloween sequels. One of these rip-offs is the 1989 flick Offerings. As in Halloween, an evil dude escapes from the local insane asylum intent on wreaking homicidal havoc upon his old hometown. You see, as a youngster John was often subjected to cruel bullying as was his girlfriend, Gretchen. Some of the worst bullying was done by his evil gap-toothed mother who, among other fiendish cruelties, delighted in mixing cigarette ashes into his breakfast. He is subjected to relentless bullying, especially by the local bicycle gang. His father is hardly ever around. John is communicating these horrors to others because he is mute. Upon a dare, John walked on the edge of a well and ultimately fell into it. Subsequently, although it was never shown on screen, John killed his mother. This act led to his being committed to the asylum. Now ten years after that ordeal, John has returned to both inflict his revenge on the bullies and gain the love of Gretchen. Much has changed during John’s absence from the community. The bullies have all grown up and prospered. Gretchen (Loretta Leigh Bowman) has grown up to be quite a wholesome young lady. This leads us to John’s plan for both revenge upon the bullies and winning Gretchen’s love at the same time. John intends to kill the bullies off and then leave their body parts at Gretchen’s house as presents, or if you will offerings. For reasons that you can understand, Gretchen is horrified by the human remains that are popping up at the doorway to her house. She contacts the local sheriff who is both alarmed and frighteningly incompetent. He resolves to put an end to John’s depredations despite the fact that he hardly has a clue. Basically, the best thing that you can say about Offerings is that at 95 minutes, it is not a terribly long flick to endure. Endure is the right word here since Offerings is a poor excuse for a horror movie. Offerings takes the Halloween plot and turns it into a hardly scary mishmash. This movie even rips off the Halloween music. There are even some scenes in this flick that are just about identical to scenes in Halloween. This is one uncreative offering from Hollywood. Offerings is one movie that you need to avoid at the video store.

The Ruins (2008)

One concept that runs through some horror fiction is that of evil plants. Plants that have minds of their own. Plants that have appetites for human blood, the ability to mimic sounds such as mobile phone ring tones and mess around with people's minds. Plants that are every bit as evil as mad slashers, mummies, vampires, werewolves & zombies.

However, you rarely see evil plants in big budget Hollywood productions. This is why The Ruins had the potential to be a very special movie that a great many horror fans were anticipating its arrival. One horror author and filmmaker who has used evil vegetation in his works is Scott Smith.

Smith is better known for his crime fiction and his previous novel/movie A Simple Plan. A Simple Plan has the reputation of being a great crime movie. Lately, Smith has become interested in writing horror novels with the end result being both the novel The Ruins and the movie of the same name.

The Ruins is about the horrors that you can encounter visiting Mexico. Some friends visit Cancun and become bored. They go out for a drive in the countryside and discover an ancient Mayan temple that does not show up on any of their maps. What they do not realize is that the temple is controlled by an unspeakable evil.

The original novel was a great scary and suspenseful read. Given the fact that the writer of the screenplay is also the author of the original novel, you would expect that the movie would also be every bit as scary and suspenseful as the novel. Sadly, your expectations are not met by this flick. The screen play is lacking in quality and is just simply not up to the level of the original novel. The end result is a surprisingly dull horror movie.

It is dull despite the fact that the producers chose to sexualize violence. It has special effects that are only okay. However, the movie has nudity that is all too pointless. There is simply no reason to include nudity in this movie. One drawback to The Ruins it is the quality of the acting. The acting is roughly of the same uninspired nature from more or less no name actors and actresses that seems to occur more and more in horror movies today. There just simply are no characters for the audience to identify with and root for.

What horror filmmakers need to realize is that in order to heighten the scares when evil befalls one of the characters, quality acting is needed.

When you get right down to it, The Ruins is basically a generic modern-day horror movie. Cheese is the order of the day in this movie. Other than the cheesy scenes, boredom reigns supreme in this flick. Basically, it is a watered-down kind of horror that makes its failure to live up to the promise of the novel all the more disappointing.

The Sphinx (1933)

On the 1930’s B-Movie scene, Monogram Pictures was the most consistent provider of quality stuff. Their best flicks were one hour movies that were packaged at movie theaters either as the feature presentation on a matinee bill or as part of a double or triple feature. These Monogram flicks delivered with solid production values and genuinely interesting stories. 1930’s Monogram classics included Girl of the Limberlost, King Kelly of the USA, Mystery Liner and The 13th Guest. One reason for Monogram’s success during the 1930’s was the fact that unlike most of the other B- Movie providers, Monogram was both willing and able to attract big name actors. One such star was Lionel Atwill whose performance as deaf-mute millionaire philanthropist Jerome Breen is one of the reasons why the 1933 Monogram effort The Sphinx rises above most other mystery flicks from the same era. The basic plot line for The Sphinx starts with a string of murders of stockbrokers. There are witnesses who saw and heard Breen at the scene of the latest murder.

However, during the ensuing trial, Breen is examined by doctors for both the defense and the prosecution, all of whom testify that their examinations show that Breen is medically incapable of either hearing or speaking. As a result, Breen is acquitted. However, newspaper reporter Jack Burton (Theodore Newton) is unconvinced of Breen’s innocence. Burton is one of those journalists who thinks that he knows more about how to investigate a crime than the cops do. Burton’s belief in his expertise is furthered by the fact that Detective Terrence Aloysius Hogan (Paul Hurst) is incredibly incompetent. Despite the fact that Burton is both pompous and annoying, particularly in regards to his opinion of the intelligence of the average police officer, the police do little to impede him. This is partly because the police realize that Burton has a very good reason to be involved in this particular case. The gal that Burton longs after, society columnist Jerry Crane, is smitten with Breen, often visits Breen at Breen’s home and has been writing a series of articles painting Breen as a wonderful man. Burton fears that Crane is next on Breen’s hit list. The Sphinx is a craftily made mystery thriller with some comedic relief against the backdrop of a rather ingenious mystery. Lionel Atwill as the star of the show provides a standout performance. The other actors are all pretty decent. Combined with the script and the cinematography, the end result is a great B- Movie.

Terror in the Aisles (1984)

One of the hardest feats to accomplish in movie making is that of the scary documentary. Documentaries are generally supposed, by most folks, to be presentations of facts on celluloid. Hence all the controversy that Michael Moore has created with his twisting and distorting of facts and logic to reach a forced conclusion. The 1984 documentary Terror in the Aisles features clips and trailers from a great many horror and mystery movies. These clips and trailers date from Nosferatu (1922) through Friday the 13th, Part 2 (1981). Hosted/narrated by both Nancy Allen & Donald Pleasance, Terror in the Aisles is both scary and a learning experience all rolled into one. The choice of hosts may surprise some readers since Pleasance was one of the all-time greatest horror movie actors while Allen was just another beautiful actress with but little acting talent. In any event, Allen’s talents were sufficient for the role of horror flick documentary co-host. The transitions from one clip to another are well done and the clips seem to be in categories such as the stupid, silly and the just plain scary. For example, the opening credits include chase scenes from horror flicks. The documentary is set in a dark movie theater with both Allen and Pleasance seated with some movie fans. These movie fans are actually actors working on the union minimum wage and their shouts, shrieks and laughter are timed to go along with whatever the hosts are saying. This helps make the documentary seem more "real" than a great many similar projects. Watching Terror in the Aisles is a pretty scary experience. There are but few documentaries that are scary and this is one of them. This is especially impressive in light of the fact that its scary scenes are from horror flicks that you have likely seen before. However, the combination of the hosts, the darkened movie theater setting and the cooperative audience aids in making these largely familiar scenes spooky all over again. Terror in the Aisles is well recommended as a nearly unique viewing experience.

The Vampire Bat (1933) Majestic Pictures is one of the single most obscure movie studios from the 1930’s. Just how obscure? Let’s consider the case of its best well-known flick, the 1933 effort The Vampire Bat. The Vampire Bat is set in the village of Klineschloss where villagers are found dead, drained of their blood with two small holes in their necks. Naturally, everyone suspects that a vampire is at work. It is up to Dr. Otto von Niemann (Lionel Atwill), his lovely lab assistant Ruth Bertin (Fay Wray) and policeman Karl Brettschneider (Melvyn Douglas) to solve the case. However, hysteria and panic is spreading and the superstitious villagers are wielding torches. The case needs to be solved soon to avert a calamity. Dwight Frye has a significant role in this flick as the local weirdo, Herman Gleib, who picks this strange time to proclaim his love of bats. He strokes bats in public and give to his friends as weird gifts. Naturally, he becomes the top suspect for the vampire-like murders. Frye’s red herring role is very well acted. In counterpoint to Frye is the horrible performance of Lionel Atwill as the local scientist. It is easily Atwill’s worst performance that this writer has ever seen.

You clearly get the idea that Atwill would much rather be anywhere else but in this movie. Another actor who seemed to wish that he had nothing to do with this movie is Melvyn Douglas who would later go on to have quite a career as an actor. Douglas plays the role of a stupid police officer named Karl Brettschneider who spends his time sitting around talking about he wants to solve the case. However, he does not do anything to even try to solve the case! The Vampire Bat is a pretty lame flick. This movie features poor production values and a forced script. Worst of all, it has poor performances from several actors who have done better in other, better movies. This flicks only redeeming feature is that it has what may very well be Dwight Frye’s best ever performance. If this flick is typical of Majestic Picture’s output, no wonder it’s so obscure.

Website Reviews http://thehorrorfictionreview.blogspot.com The Horror Fiction Review http://horror.org Horror Writers Association http://swordssorcery.blogspot.com Swords & Sorcery Blog http://academic.brooklyn.cuny.edu/english/melani/gothic/terror_horror.html Terror versus Horror http://toomuchhorrorfiction.blogspot.com Too Much Horror Fiction

Websites of Interest http://www.allhorrormovies.com All Horror Movies http://www.aycyas.com And You Call Yourself A Scientist! http://www.bertigordon.com Bert I. Gordon’s Webpage http://b-masters.com B-Masters Cabal http://www.bmoviecentral.com/bmc/ B-Movie Central http://www.braineater.com/index.html Braineater http://www.darkhorrorgames.com Dark Horror Games http://www.davidbordwell.net/blog/ David Boardwell’s Website on Cinema http://twistededge.org/Death_By_Cinema/ Death By Cinema http://horror101withdrac.blogspot.com Horror 101 With Dr. AC http://www.kitleyskrypt.com Kitley’s Krypt http://krelllabs.blogspot.com

Krell Laboratories http://www.thelairoffilth.com The Lair of Filth https://www.nfb.ca National Film Board of Canada http://www.roguecinema.com Rogue Cinema http://www.roguereviewers.com The Rogue Reviewers http://www.savagecinema.com http://www.theyshootpictures.com They Shoot Pictures, Don’t They? http://videowatchdog.blogspot.com Tim Lucas/Video WatchBlog http://sensesofcinema.com Senses of Cinema