Category Archives for "Supernatural"

95 South

Avery drove down the highway, his arm out the window and bouncing at the mercy of a seventy-five mile an hour wind. He’d survived the onslaught of twelve-hour days and long work-weekends that gathered until April 15th, when they disappeared as darkness does before the dawn. After the deadline, his office turned into a ghost town. Many of the CPAs took vacation, and Avery was no different. Halfway between Richmond and the North Carolina border, all he could think about was the next few days of drinking, eating, and relaxing at his friend Rick’s house. The dashboard clock ticked closer to midnight, and a classic Nineties rock tune strained the speakers.

He ripped his gaze from the hypnotic flash of the white stripes in the center of the road when a single light appeared, as if from a faraway distance, and quickly grew brighter. At first he thought it might be a plane, then a helicopter as it moved closer. And then the light fell from its perch and dropped down into the trees a few miles ahead. The sound of his tires hitting the rumble strips, matching the rushing of his heart, caused him to veer back on the road. Wide-eyed, he looked all around, expecting another car to smash into him, but he was alone.

He turned off the radio and flicked his eyes at the clock again. He decelerated but the ‘happy vacation’ cold six-pack and wine bottle on the passenger seat caught his attention. He hit the gas. Half a mile passed, Avery fidgeting the whole way. He looked at the clock again. “Ah, screw it,” he said.

Avery pulled over at his best guess of where the aircraft fell. He turned his hazards on and pulled out his cell as a truck barreled past. He put the phone down. How come no one else has stopped? he thought to himself. Someone had to have seen it.

He stepped out of his Benz and walked toward the edge of the grass. The full moon lit up a good portion of the periphery of the forest, enough to see thick, hanging branches flush with leaves, but any deeper and all he could see was darkness. No light from a potential fire. Then it dawned on him that he hadn’t heard a sound, either. He imagined the embarrassment of calling nine-one-one and having a cop come out and find nothing. “Been drinking, sir?” Damn it. I must be certain first. I know I saw something.

He returned to his car and pulled out a multi-tool specialty knife and a flashlight from his glove compartment. He had gotten great use out of the knife, one of the best birthday presents he had ever been given. He turned around and aimed for the trees, his car beeping twice as he locked it.

Branches, leaves, and twigs whipped at his lower legs. The crunch beneath his feet reminded him briefly of playing in numerous childhood tree houses. He looked back at his flashing hazards every ten seconds to keep a sense of direction, until the forest swallowed them up. He made a concerted effort not to veer off track, and took mental notes of specific root shapes to use as markers for his return. Just as fear began to spark terrible thoughts of getting lost, a light appeared ahead of him.

There we go! I knew I saw something, he thought.

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The Last Hexereiter

The man in brown rode into the tiny village to the sound of cheers. But there was no one in sight. Where did the voices come from? And why weren’t the villagers tending their farms and livestock?

He found the answers in the middle of the settlement. A crowd of men, women and children in rough clothing filled the village square. He estimated maybe sixty souls in all. It seemed like everyone had taken the day off from their never-ending labors. Something in front of them had captured their attention; but for a few curious children and a couple of youths his approach had gone largely unnoticed. The rider craned his head, seeing a thicket of wooden staves raised before the people,

Not staves. Muskets.

A voice, clear and ringing, cut through the air.

“This I promise you: today the Haferdämonen meet their end!”

Wild applause and full-throated yells filled the world. Slowly, stiffly, the rider dismounted his chestnut mare. There was a time he could do that without his muscles threatening to lock up. Those days had gone with the last shades of black in his short gray hair. Standing on the animal’s left, he gently led it through the crowd, keeping his rifle and his messer far away from the horse’s questing muzzle.

“And who is this?”

The peasants turned to look at him. At his weathered buff coat made of the hides of monsters, the pair of huge pistols swinging from the horse’s saddle, the second pair of pistols peeking above his boot-tops, the rough sword and the time-worn rifle, and, as he drew closer, the amulet he wore around his neck.

“A Hexereiter!” a man whispered.

“It can’t be! Here, in this day and age?”

“Quick, hide the children! And your silver!”

This he heard, and more. The crowd parted before him, the women shielding their children, the menfolk shielding their women.

Through the gap he saw the soldiers. An entire company of foot infantry, resplendent in their immaculate green-white-yellow uniforms. They stared him down, their faces impassive. Their Kapitan, front and center, glared at the rider, and sniffed.

“Identify yourself,” the officer demanded.

“Johann Roger Werner,” the rider said. “And yourself?”

I am Kapitan Paul Heinrich Frank Welf Friedrich Eisenberg, Second Company, First Battalion, Twenty-Fifth Fusilier Regiment, in the service of Herzog Klein of Marenland.” He paused to breathe. “Are you a Hexereiter?”

Werner held out his amulet. It was a beast’s head impaled on a sword, beaten and rough and dull.

“Yes.”

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What Can Your Demon Do For You?

The candles flickered in the dull red light that filled the room. A cloaked figure danced in circles around the white, chalked pentagram on the floor. He muttered under his breath to the beat of a drum that was being played from a dusty gramophone.

Oriens splendor lucis aeternae,” he said.

The dust on the floor began to rise. The figure paused and raised his hands, his voice getting louder, “Et Lucifer justitae: veni. Et illumine sedentes in tenebris. Et umbra­ –.”

“HAROLD. ARE YOU CHANTING AGAIN?” The voice echoed up from below the floorboards.

Harold dropped his hood and sighed. He walked over to the door, careful not to upset the chalk pentagram on the floor. He opened the door as he heard a pair of footsteps climbing the stairs.

“Muuuuuum. I was almost finished.”

His mother stood at the top of the stairs. She had her hands on her hips and her lips were pressed tightly together.

“What have I told you about summoning demons inside the house? Go do your chanting in the hanger,” she said.

Harold tried hard not to roll his eyes. His mother was brandishing a wooden spoon from the kitchen covered in a dark red substance.

“But Dad’s working on the ridge,” Harold said.

His mother’s eyes narrowed sharply. She turned around to go back down the stairs as the smell of something burning became pungent.

“I don’t care. Just get out of the house.”

Harold huffed and went back into his room. He shut the door with precisely enough force to make the shudder reverberate around the entire house. A pile of books by the door fell over. Among them was titles like, A Practical Guide to Summoning, Pentagrams for Dummies and What can your demon do for you?

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The Return of Cosmo Draper

“Yes, I was there. As a matter of fact, you could say that I instigated the whole thing,” old Mr. Porter admitted. “Now?” he inquired of his guest, his voice raspy from age. “You want to hear about it. . . now?” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Well, I . . I guess I have time.”

“It was back in the holiday season of ’79. President Carter had recently given his ‘malaise speech’ – saying how the whole country was in kind of a funk. That was certainly true where I was working: A little daily newspaper called The Northbridge Beacon in Massachusetts. It was a nice little paper. We didn’t report much hard news. It was mainly Little League scores and Rotary Club meetings – stuff like that. Northbridge was where I grew up. It was great back then, but lately. . . well, like the president said: Malaise.

“It all started late one evening between Turkey Day and Christmas. A light snow had started falling. My fellow reporter, Andy Carr, had taken a jaunt down to old man Bellini’s general store to fetch us some sandwiches while I held down the fort.”

Carr entered the Beacon’s offices, quickly closing the door behind him. He stomped the snow from his shoes. “Boy, it’s getting cold out there,” he said. “I’m tellin’ you!”

“The snow looks kind of pretty,” Porter responded from his desk, looking out the window.

“For now, sure. After the traffic gets at it tomorrow morning, it’ll turn into a kind of brown, ugly mush that’ll hang around until April.”

“Well, let’s enjoy it while we. . .” Porter rose from his desk and instantly noticed that something was wrong. “Where are the sandwiches?” he asked.

“Back at Belinni’s,” Carr answered unhappily.

“You never got them?”

“Belinni wouldn’t sell them to me.”

What?”

“He said he was closing up shop.”

Porter looked at the wall clock behind his co-worker. “But it’s only 8:15,” he said. “He’s open until 9:00 every night.”

“That’s what I told him as he locked the main door. He said there were no customers, and he was closing early to go home and watch a Bonanza rerun.”

“He turned down business?”

“Yep. He said it wasn’t worth his while to open up his deli counter for just a couple of sandwiches. I told him I’d buy more – two Cokes and a big bag of chips – but he still said no. I was thinking of heading over to the House of Pizza, but the roads are getting pretty icy.”

“So what’s for dinner?” Porter asked.

“I guess we’ll have to make due with whatever’s in the vending machines.”

“Stale chips and warm soda? Yum! I swear there’s a Milky Way in there that’s older than I am!”

“I’m not happy about it either, Tim,” Carr said. “Any news while I was gone?”

“No. I was just sitting here, watching the snow fall, and thinking about how great of a town this used to be back when we were growing up. Remember?”

“Oh yeah! And I can sum up those good times in two words.”

“Cosmo Draper,” they said simultaneously.

“Now there was a man’s man,” Carr continued.

“My dad used to say there were two ways you knew everything was right with the world: FDR was president, and Cosmo was the mayor.”

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Unknown Woman #42

Dotty stood and stared down at the simple marker, a metal plaque, time-drawn patina across its letters, set into a simple stone block, and like every other instance, every single one of them, she remembered. She read the date once more: June 22, 1918. Somehow, she was always drawn back to this place.

Around the markers stood four elephant statues, their trunks lowered in mourning. She remembered. She thought that there had been elephants….

Of course, there were elephants. There was a tiger too, though the lions were gone for some time now. It took quite a bit at the beginning for the transport cages to be appropriately modified, because the elephants didn’t like the train much. You could hear them banging around sometimes even above the noise of the tracks. Some of the performers lived together, like Bezo the Clown and The World’s Shortest Woman (Clarissa was her real name), or Julius/Julia, Half-Man, Half-Woman and Titus the Strong Man who’d only recently decided to shack up together. Madam Orenska, the Psychic, sometime wondered if it would be more appropriately called carriaged up, but in the end, that didn’t quite flow. Just like Dotty Smith didn’t quite work as a psychic name. She guessed, in the end, that was why people had stage names. Madam Orenska worked one of the side tents, not like the stars of the show. They worked the Big Top. Not so for Dotty Smith. The Flying Forellis had their own carriage, but they were a family, and they worked the Big Top.

Between the carriages that transported the animals and those, further back, that served as living quarters ran the gear flatbeds, the yellow and red striped big top, the poles and ropes and spikes, the tools to put it all together. It gave them all a few meters’ separation from the noise and stink of the animals. Just as well; she didn’t much like the smell of horses. Dotty didn’t much like the lovely Agneta who pranced around on their backs in her blue sequined costume, teeth bared in her performance smile, arms held aloft either. But you couldn’t like everyone, could you? Though everyone else seemed to like her. Dotty just didn’t get it. After the gear and the animals came the living quarters and the sleeping cars and finally, the last couple of carriages, shared by the roustabouts, all packed in like sardines. At least she wasn’t back there.

They had about five hours before the next stop. Some small town in the middle of nowhere, but that didn’t matter. Everyone loves a circus. Dotty had been with Bayley Brothers and Ryan for about four years now, but they’d only started using the train about two years ago. To be honest, she preferred the old style with the caravans and the wagons. Places you could truly call your own. They could go anywhere they wanted, finding interested crowds, people who’d never seen them before. Now they were more limited, stuck with the places that the tracks led. Sure, it was quicker getting to wherever they were going, but not by much. They had a big circuit now, bigger towns and cities. It meant that they had to regularly change up the acts, keep them fresh. Still, despite those differences, she wouldn’t change the life for anything. It was where she belonged.

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