Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Findng the doorway PART 1

As with most things in life, timing was everything, and boy did I pick the wrong time to walk into Tony’s house. It wasn’t the fight that was waging between him and his wife, it wasn’t the drunk friend who had stayed so far past his welcome, it wasn’t even the crying step-daughter running through the house like her hair was on fire or the screaming infant in my friends arms. All that was the immediate auditory assault I walked into, but nothing in that domestic unrest could of prepared me for what was about to happen.
I headed through the kitchen with the only happy member of the family, the two year old German Shepard, at my heals. I smiled at both the husband and wife and then stole the screaming infant from my friend and headed back into the kitchen. The eight pound ball of lungs was clenching her fists and shaking with all the anger her tiny body could muster, but after a quick move to my shoulder and a few gentle pats on the back she emitted a rather impressive round of burps and quickly forgot her troubles.
A monstrous crash from downstairs ended the arguments and both father and mother came rushing into the kitchen to see what had happened. They immediately looked at me and I just shrugged my shoulders and nodded towards the basement door.
“That fucking girl is going to get such a beating.” Tony mumbled as he ripped the door open and headed down the stairs. I immediately noticed the lights where off down there and knew that the teenage girl wasn’t the cause of the noise.
“Chris?” Tony yelled up the stairs, something very close to terror on his voice. “Chris, get the fuck down here now.”
I looked over at his wife and we exchange puzzled glances while I handed her the now quiet baby and rushed down into the basement.
Tony was standing a couple feet from the stairs looking across the room at something. I followed his gaze and felt all the blood drain out of my face; this was just fucking impossible.
The basement door was ripped off its hinges and knocked twenty five feet into the backyard. I could wax poetic about the splintered wood and twisted hinges but there is no point. There was nothing poetic or artistic in the violence that caused the damage. Tony and I stood there looking at the gaping maw like a couple of idiots, a knot of fear expanding in our stomachs and twisting up our insides with icy hands.
“Your step daughter didn’t do that.” I finally managed to say. Speaking had broken the paralysis that overcame me and I was able to head closer to inspect the damage.
“No shit.” Tony was suddenly at my side, his eyes foggy like he was seeing all this in a nightmare. “But what did?”
I had no answer, and that didn’t matter. Before I could even open my mouth for a non-reply a scream from upstairs got both of us running to the main floor.
“Someone just walked into the nursery.” April said as we rushed into the living room. She was holding the baby protectively in both hands and staring at the steps. “I was about to walk up when I saw someone move through the hallway and into the baby’s room.”
“Where is your daughter?” I asked her while Tony put a hand around her shoulders and hugged her close.
“I’m right here Uncle Chris.” The thirteen year old was sitting on the floor between the couch and the wall, her knees pulled up to her chin and arms wrapped around her. “I heard something in my closet and ran out here to get mommy to come in and check it out, but she was already telling about someone upstairs.”
Her mother and stepfather mirrored the fear on the girls face. I am sure I looked just as scared.
Tony and I headed up the steps and paused just before reaching the landing. We could plainly hear someone walking around in the room, and neither one of us was in a rush to see what was in there.
“On three.” I whispered. “One, two, three!”

there is much more of this story to come. Check bck here daily for updates.

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Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Prison walls

For those of you who don't know; Horrorwritingdaddy spent some time in prison. Ah yes, I can hear the collective wetting of the women's panties now. Bad boys are hot, I know.
Anyway, this story is from my time behind bars.

There was nothing but echoes moving through the prison, even the shadows seemed to have settled in for the night. Lock down was three hours past and all the inmates were settled into their cots for the night. All except for me. i walked down the long ramp from the housing units struggling to keep my balance as i headed down the slick marble floor. An officer was waiting for me at the bottom, one hand resting on his gun belt, the other leaning on the cool cinder block wall. I reached his side and immediatly grabbed the wall; I knew the procedure, 4 years is enough time for anyone to learn the ropes.
I had known this officer for the past 2 years. He was a good enough guy, not a super cop, not a dirty piece of shit. He did a quick and needless search of my person without violating too much of my ego and pushed the button in front of the first slider.
A couple seconds later there was a metallic hum as the door slid open (hence the term "slider") and we stepped through and headed down a long thin hallway past the kitchen, now closed and dark, the laundry room, likewise silent, and up to the next slider. Again we waited.
"You catch RAW tonight?" I asked the officer. As stupid as it was most inmates watched professional wrestling. We loved the story lines.
"Yeah." The officer said. "Kind of lame that Triple H kidnapped Stephanie and married her."
"I saw it coming." I told him. "I don't care what the story line is, Stephanie is hot."
"She's not bad." we walked through the last slider after traveling for about three minutes down the hallway. We crossed over a thick painted red line in the floor, the designation for most inmates to stop. I was a trustee, an inmate with little time left and little interest in escaping. I wasn't a risk, so I was allowed all through the prison.
Past the red line was a heavy metal gate which had to be opened manually. There was no electronic controls. Beyond that gate was the loading dock and the dry storage area. We were heading into the dry storage room and through to the back where the painting supplies were located.
The officer removed the keys off his gun belt (the CO's called it a gun belt even thought they weren't allowed to carry guns in the prison, stupid right?) and hunted throught the dozens of keys searching for the correct one. He found it and took hold of the lock then paused, cocking his head to the side.
"Whats the matter?" I asked.
"I thought I heard something." The officer slid the key into the lock and turned. I heard the tiny click of the lock and then a sudden loud bang. We both jumped and the officer immediatly looked at me. I put my hands up.
"Wasn't me, man." I kept both hands in the air just to be non-threatening but pointed at one of the large overhead doors about a hundred feet from us. "It came from in there."
"Bullshit." The officer said. "No one else is down here."
"If it wasn't me and it wasn't you then it has to be someone else." I said. Logic didn't always register with Correction Officers.
"K-1 to Secondary," The offer spoke into his two-way radio.
"Go for secondary" came the staticky voice.
"Reguest signal 16." A signal 16 was a scan of the officers immediate area with the security cameras.
There was a thirty second pause. "Signal 16 is 10-1."
"There isn't anyone back there." The officer said. He started to remove the lock. Again there was a loud bang from the overhead door. This time we both saw the door shaking after the impact.
The officer replaced the lock on the gate and looked over at me. I have to admit i was a little scared. Common sense said no one was there, the guards looking through the cameras said there was no one there, and at this time of night there was no reason fo anyone to be there. Yet someone was there.
"What the fuck?" The officer removed the lock and opened the gate.
This time the noise was intense, the overhead door shaking violently and the sound of a hundred hands slamming against it filled the hallway. I was halfway through the door when the noise started. It scared me so much that I dove back behind the gate with the officer right at my heels. He hit the ground and slammed the gate and struggled to his knees to replace the lock.
"Holy fucking shit" I screamed, but I could barely hear my own voice. On top of the pounding there was now screaming. it sounded like a thousand men screaming for help at the top of their lungs. Thick black smokie began to drift out lazily from underneath the overhead door. The smell hit us before we ever saw it, but it wasn't more than a couple seconds before the hallway was filling with it.
"Code 3 loading dock. Code 3 loading dock!" The officer screamed into his radio. There was no reply. The smoke got thicker and I began to cough.
"Code 3. I repeat Code 3." He coughed a couple times and repeated the code. Nothing. There should have been a call going out over the loud speaker. There should have been flashing lights and a siren. Nothing was happening. We were both coughing, struggling for breathe as not only smoke came out from underneath the door, but now the bright dancing light of fire. The screams from the other side of the door were agonizing to listen too. Men were being burned alive a hundred feet from me and I could hear the torment in their voices. I could hear the sizzle of their flesh as the flames licked over them.
"Code one." He coughed, sucked in some air and coughed again. "Code one officer down officer down." He tried to yell but his voice was already raw and weak.
The overhead door began to bulge outward as the fire superheated the metal. It was only a couple minutes now before I would be cooked to death. Nice.
And then it was over.
The officer and I were laying on the floor struggling to breath when all of a sudden the air became fresh and clean. The smoke was gone, the noise was gone, the heat was gone. We looked at each other and then around the room and quickly got to our feet.
"What the fuck?" I asked.
"I, um..." The officer tried to come up with an answer but he couldn't. "I, uh..."
"What the fuck was that man?" I was looking around the room for any sign of the fire, but there was nothing.
We stood there for a very long time before either of us spoke. We were staring at the overhead door a hundred feet away from us, praying it wouldn't move, praying nothing was behind it.
i don't know about the officer, but I suddenly became very aware of the camera that was watching us just stand there.
"What the fuck happened?" My voice was just over a whisper.
"I have no idea." The officer unlocked the gate and swung the door open. "I suggest we forget it and go about our day."
"Not very fucking likely." I replied.
He looked across the loading dock at the overhead door.
"Go ahead." He said, motioning me forward with a nod of his head.
"Fuck you." I stepped back "If your so fucking brave you can go in there. You have to unlock the overhead anyway."
"Fine." He said it with conviction but didn't move.
Eventually I walked past him and moved very cautiously into the loading dock. I stood in front of the overhead and waited a few seconds before he finally showed up and unlocked the door. There was a long circle of chain you have to pull to open the door. He motioned for me to pull it. Inmates are not allowed to touch doors or locks or anything that has to do with either.
"No way man, I can't do that." I took a step back again.
The officer sighed and began to pull the chain. I took another step back and looked under the door as it slowly went up.
That night I retrieved the supplies and we left without incident. I worked that night with the paint crew and eventually went back to my cell where I couldn't sleep. It took three days worth of exhaustion before I finally slept, and it was a horrible sleep plagued with nightmares about fires and smoke.
The officer never returned to work.

Turns out there was a fire in the prison fifty years ago. What was now dry storage used to be a housing unit. Fifty inmates and three officers died in the fire. I got to relive their last moments on the anniversary of their death.
Lucky me.

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Spooky faces in the stairs

Some of the scary stories I tell are mine, others belong to friends or family members, and some are things recanted to me second or third generation. However, if I swear something to be true you can bet your grandma's left tit that it is. Nipple and all. I will not always tell you which ones are mine and which are second hand bones, and sometimes I will even put a story into first person when it's something I heard, just to throw you, the reader, off. Sometimes I do it to protect the innocent, the guilty, or my own hairy yellow ass.

Once upon a time Stan moved out of his house and his marriage. His bestest friend Tim had recently bought a house, and Stan moved in. It would only be temporary, Stan promised.
Three months later Tim told Stan he was going to move him to another part of the house. The room Stan was currently in was too close to Tim's bedroom and it was creaping out Tim's girlfriend.
So Stan was moved into one of the rooms upstairs.
That night Stan went to bed drunk, as he often did. Sometime during the middle of the night he heard someone knocking on his door. It wasn't the usual three wraps that someone would normally do, it was a constant tap-tap-tap-tap-tap that seemed to be going on endlessly. Finally the noise was enough to wake Stan up from his drunken stupor.
"Yeah, what?" Stan said, thinking it was Tim. The tapping continued.
"What the fuck do you want?" Stan bellowed, thinking it was one of his friends messing with him. The tapping continued.
Stan was annoyed into a murdurous rage and jumped from bed. The taps got louder as he crossed the room and flung the door open.
No one was there.
Fuck me. Stan thought to himself. He looked out into the hallway and even checked the surrounding rooms. There was less then a second from one of the taps to the time the door opened, not enough for someone to run away and hide.
Stan did the only intelligent thing; he went downstairs to drink more.
It was just Stan and Tim in the house, and Tim was fast asleep in his room. Stan sat in the kitchen and finished the vodka before heading back into his room and laying down.
His head hadn't been on the pillow for more than two minutes when someone started to jiggle the doorknob. Stan moaned loudly at the door and threw his pillow across the room. The doorknob continued to rattle away. Finally there was a loud click and the door slowly creaked open. Stan sat up in his drunken stupor and looked into the nothingness that opened up to him. No one was standing there, no one was opening the door, yet he was watching it slowly open until it touched the wall and stopped.

The next three nights went exactly the same. Stan came home, drank and went to bed, only to wake up a few hours later. After the third night Stan told Tim, his friend and Landlord about the ghostly occurances.
On the fourth night Tim stayed up with Stan. It was a friday night and neither of them had to be at work in the morning. They hung out drinking until two in the morning. Stan finally headed up to bed. Tim remained downstairs watching re-runs of doctor who on BBCA until he heard it. Upstairs, coming from Stan's room. There was a light rattle as if someone was jiggling a doorknob. Tim headed up the stairs and watched the door slowly open. He saw Stan's eyes shining wide and bright in the room.
Knowing that everyone would think they were drunk Stan and Tim decided to video tape the door opening.
The next night they set the recorder up and tunred it on at two in the morning. Stan went to bed. At two forty the door started making its noise and opened. Stan could see the red record light flashing away. The next afternoon Stan and Tim invited some friends over to watch the tape.
They told their story and everyone thought they were full of shit until Tim hooked up the digital recorder to the TV and played the footage. There was no faking it. Everyone was shocked.
After everyone left Tim and Stan decided to sprinkle powder all over the floor in Stan's room. This way they would see the footprints if someone was walking into the room.
They went into the kitchen and grabbed a five pound bag of flour. Half way up the stairs Tim tripped and spilt enough to cover the back of Stan's pants in flour. He shook it off and informed Tim he would be cleaning the mess.
They went into Stans room and sprinkled flower all over the room, set up the digital recorder and headed back down the stairs very carefully so they didn't slip on the flour. While Stan put the flour back in the cabinet Tim went over to the stairs with the broom to pick up the spilled flour.
"Stan!" Tim screamed from the foot living room. "STAN! Get the fuck in here NOW!" Tim sounded on edge and Stan came running. He found Tim standing in the living room looking at the stairs. Stan followed his gaze and saw it; a single set of footprints in the flour, and half way across the room. The footprints stoped five feet away from them.

Tune in next time for the exciting conclusion. Same Bat Time, Same Bat Channel.

Monday, April 4, 2011

Update on Scary shit

As stated in my post on friday Horrorwritingdaddy went to his friends house. It was a good visit, my brand new Neice is adorable and I got to hold her. She smiled, which probably just meant she had to shit, which makes a lot of sense because she did take a nice stinkless new baby shit in my arms. I didn't change the diaper; new dad needs the practice.
After a couple hours of hearing about the baby from new dad I eventually had to smack him in the face and force him to change the subject. For the love of god, the kid was five days old at this point. How much could she possably have done?
Stupid new parents.
Eventually I got him to talk about some other stuff, and we chatted about a planned expansion to his home, his dog Sarah which really needs to be broken of her jumping habit, and who had visited and brought gifts ( I, of course, came bearing diapers and wipes and Butt Paste and new outfits) and who was a complete douche and wasn't participating in their joy.
And then it happened.
"Hey, not that I'm pissed or anything," Mike said between overly loud sips of coffee, "But I was kinda wondering why you would leave on every sngle light in my house."
Mike was refering to Monday when I came over to feed the dogs and let them outside to "make" while he and his wife were off squeezing a 6 pound 14 ounce baby out of her vagina. Kinda gives you the visual of her as a tube of toothpaste, doesn't it?
"What are you talking about?" I asked.
"When I came home monday night all the lights were on." Mike said.
"I left the radio on for the dogs, the standing light in the living room and the kitchen light." I finished the weak coffee in my mug and got up to make another pot. Mike is a nice guy but his coffee making skills suck.
"My neighbor said he saw you turning the lights on." Mike got busy following me around the kitchen cleaning up after me.
"Who, Walter?" I asked. I paused and counted out a dozen scoops of coffee, then added a pinch of salt. It cuts the bitterness in the coffee. Try it.
"Yeah." Mike moved the salt shaker three inches to the right.
"He couldn't have seen shit." I came back from the stove and added the water. "He wasn't home yet."
"Yeah he was, he said he saw your truck here and someone walking around turning the lights on. He watched the light go on in the nursery and waved to you. He said you waved back."
I immediatly got gooseflesh.
"Walter wasn't home. I got here at five thirty, maybe five forty. I brought Lisa's car." I took my seat, my knees suddenly deciding they didn't want to hold me up any more. "She got home a little after five and I ate dinner real quick and headed down here. Walter is never home before seven."
"So who's truck was here?" Mike asked. He sat down too, a little too heavily. He spilled some sugar and then, grateful for the distraction, set about cleaning it up.
"I have no fucking idea." I really wanted that coffee to hurry up now. And if it could somehow magically change into bourbon that would be fan-fucking-tastic. "Lisa parked behind me so I had to bring her car. I was here well before six and got home before six thirty. I don't kow who Walter was waving at, but it sure as shit wasn't me."
"And you didn't turn the lights on?" Mike tossed some sugar into the garbage can. "Your not fucking with me, right?"
"Dude, I swear to Christ I only left the kitchen light and the living room light on. Not the overhead fan, just the pole light."
"And you didn't wave to Walter?"
"Nope." I said. "I never saw him. I almost walked over there and knocked on the door to let them know Carolyn was having the baby, but I didn't see his truck and knew he wouldn't be home for awhile. I don't know his wife enough to bother her, I didn't want to scare her."
Thats when I told Mike about all the shit that happened when I was over feeding the dogs. Good thing he was sittign, it didn't look like he would have ben able to stand up if he needed to.
"Seriously, this is a really bad time to be messing with me." Mike finsihed the tiny bit of coffee in his mug and leaned over to pour a new one. I followed suit.
"You know I wouldn't fuck around like that, not with the new baby and everything." I was whispering because his wife was in the other room and I didn't want to make her nervouse.
"Well, let's hope John was turning on the lights to be helpful." He added sugar and cream to his coffee and drank as much as he could in a single swallow. "I'm sure it's nothing."
"Yeah, me too." I lied.
I only left on two lights, one for the dogs and one for him when he came in through the kitchen door. I did not put on any lights up stairs. I did not leave on any basement lights. I did not put on the dining room or bathroom lights. Hell, even the porch light was on out front. I know he never uses the front door, most of my friends prefer the back door. Hahaha. Seriously, he parks in the driveway and comes in through the kitchen, so why bother with the porch lights. Also I own my house and pay my bills, as my buddy does, so I wouldn't  rack up his electric bill for no good reason.
Looks like John was busy.
Despite my suggestions his wife was brought into the room and I had to tell her about everything that happened on monday.
She wasn't too upset by it, she thinks its cool. And the good news is now that she is going to be staying home with the baby she is starting a journal. She is going to keep track of every little thing. I won't recant any of the small shit, but the good stuff... you all will get that. Promise.
Now I am off to finally watch the new "I Spit on your Grave." It better not suck.

Friday, April 1, 2011

Some scary shit

Not only do I write horror, but I also activly seek it. I try to find things that frighten me, so that I can live through these experiences and "write what I know", as the mantra goes. I may never have been attacked by a witch or a werwolf, as so often happens in my novels, but I have had people come at me with knives and other sharp implements. That's a story for another day; ask me about my prison chilli story, maybe someday I will tell it.
So I watch Ghost Hunters, have for years and years, and when ghost hunters international started I really got into that show. Who isn't crazy about Kris Williams?  Have you ever seen anyone look so good in night vision? But then I found Ghost Adventures on the travel channel, and I began to watch that show. The hosts are funny, they don't take themselves too seriously, and they get some amazing shit on tape. When my friend moved into a house he claimed to be haunted I told him about the show, and we began a weekly friday night ritual of getting together, drinking large amounts of coffee, and watching Ghost Adventures.
Now my friend claimed his house was haunted, he offered me dozens of stories that seemed to validate his claims, but I had never experienced anything myself. Not someone who just sits idly by and accepts peoples assertations about such things I would try to explain away a lot of the alleged hauntings as things that would normally or naturally happen. After spending a a few months worth of friday nights at his house I began to experience some things too, some of which I couldn't just explain away. I have literally dozens of examples, but what happened to me Monday is the best by far.
The friend who owns the allegedly haunted house, lets just call him Mike, since that is his name, just became a father. His wife went into labor at 12:51 in the morning on monday and my Neice Rebecca was born around 9 am on monday morning. She is adorable, by the way. While Mike and his wife were busy at the hospital becoming parents his two dogs, a German Shephard named Sarah, and a Beagle named Ozzy, where left alone. Mike called and asked me to let the dogs out.
No problem, I said. I went over and let them out. I was there for fifteen minutes or so, letting the dogs wander the yard and do their business. I was outside with them, nothing of interest happened. I left. I locked Sarah in her cage and left Ozzy on the couch, turned off the lights and locked the door. The radio was on for the dogs, and I left it.
I returned five hours later to feed them and let them out again.
The radio was still on, much too loud, much louder than it was when I left. All the lights were on throughout the house, and the basement door was open. I know enough to make sure the basement door is closed because Mike just had a new rug put in and he doesnt want the dogs staining it, as dogs like to do.
Worried that Ozzy might have taken a beagle sized shit down stairs I walked down to check. I turned the lights on and headed into the basement. No dog turds. Good. A sudden thump from the laundry room made me jump, and I headed towards the noise cause thats what you do in horror books and movies. I found a laundry basket overturned on the floor. It had fallen off the ironing board. Not a huge deal. What was a huge deal was when the lights turned off and left me alone, plunged into darkness. My heart began to race, my palms instantly got sweaty, and my body was covered with gooseflesh. A sudden waft of freezing air covered my body and followed my as I fumbled my way towards the stairs. With the open door in sight I paused. I knew this ghost, knew his name, and had enough encounters with him to be on a first name basis.
"John," I called out into the basement, "It's just me. I came in to feed the dogs. Mike is at the hospital, everything is fine, Carolyn had the baby. They are both healthy, everything is good. They will be home in a couple days." The feeling of ice cold air abated and my gooseflesh went away. I went upstairs and closed the basement door.
I let the dogs outside for ten minutes and brought them in. The radio was blasting. The basement door was open. All the lights were on down there. Against my better judgment I went back down and turned off all the lights and then closed the door again. I fed the dogs. I lowered the radio.
Knowing the dogs should be let out again I waited around, editing my second novel STANLEY, available on Nook and Kindle, and let the dogs settle after their meal. I figured I would work on the edit for half hour and then let them outside again to purge their system of their delicious dinner. As I sat in the kitchen with Sarah dutifily by my feet I could hear the radio slowly getting louder. When it got too loud I got up and turned it down. Sarah followed me into the living room, paying lots of attention to the corner. I went back to my book. Suddenly the radio began to blare at full volume. Sarah got up, ears spinning on her head like small trinagular satelite dishes. She ran into the dinning room and barked at the closed window. I turned the radio off and went back to my book. Sarah calmed down and came back to the kitchen. A few minutes later she ran over to the foot of the stairs and began to bark, her ears pinned back as she looked up at the second floor. I called her, but she ignored me, barking loudly towards the top of the steps but refusing to head up there. I yelled for her to stop and calm down, which she finally obeyed. No sooner did she get into the kitchen then I heard someone walking around upstairs. Heavy footfalls rang out from above me, the floor creaking with each step. It was too loud and too real to be anything but a person, so I took off running. Up the stairs and to the top, my heart pounding all the way. I checked the nursery. Empty. I checked the bathroom. Empty. I checked the master bedroom. Empty. I even looked under the bed. Nothing but dust bunnies and a strap on.
I was filled with an unmistakable urge to not be up there anymore, and I headed down the stairs at a slow walk, intent on showing how not scared I was. Half way down the stairs I heard a loud bang from below; the basement door. No one was in that house with me, I had covered every inch of it. I knew I was alone, yet somehow I wasn't.
I went back to the kitchen and drank Mikes last beer while I continued the edit on my book. I heard the footsteps above me again. Screw it; the fucker could tap dance up there if he wanted too, I wasn't going to bite. I finished editing and let the dogs out, tossing the ball to Sarah and giving both dogs the time to shit. I smoked a cigarette and when both dogs were ready we headed back into the house. The radio was back on and the basement door was once again open.
I lowered the radio, locked Sarah in her cage, turned on the lights in the living room and kitchen, and closed the basement door.
"John, just make sure Ozzy doesn't go downstairs and take a shit." I called out. "Mike will be home tonight alone, and he needs his sleep. Leave him be. The baby will be here tomorrow, don't fuck with her." I headed out the door, locking it behind me as I went.

Since then Mike and Carolyn and baby Rebecca are home, so is Carolyn's daughter Katelyn. All are happy and healthy and fine, and I haven't heard anything about John acting up, but then again everyone is tired and busy with the new baby, so maybe they haven't noticed. Either way it's friday, and tonight I am heading over to spend some time with my new Neice, my friend Mike and his wife and step-daughter. Sarah and Ozzy will be there, as I am sure John will be also.
Hopefully he won't behave.