Last week I received word that Frank had
died in a bar fight, his throat cut by another man. Frank wasn’t a friend, not for a long time
now, but when we were twelve years old, we had been best buddies. I was overdue to visit a few relatives, so
I came down for the funeral, and now, with the burial over, I decided to take a
walk down here, to the little hideaway we used to visit. When we were middle
school friends, this little patch had been a refuge, a place to play hooky,
sneak a little chewing tobacco, and play cards.
But that was before Frank murdered his kid brother Joe. It was this awful patch of ground that had
changed Frank.
I’m not going any closer. This is far enough. It smells rotten here, the air heavy and
putrid. I’m convinced now this is truly
an evil place. It’s really just an ugly
pimple of dirt and bushes, no bigger than the backyards I remember from
childhood. Frank’s death brought me back
here. I came because I needed to know if
my memories were false memories, or the real thing. Now I know, because I’m not twelve years old
anymore, but a highly functioning 25 year old, and this cesspool still feels
like a crypt of demons.
I remember Frank telling me he had a
“cool” place for us to hang out after school one day.
“Nobody knows about this spot,” said
Frank. “It’s behind the subdivision,
going towards the warehouses, where they keep all the rusty pipes. When the ground slopes down, the place is
invisible from all sides. A crazy
optical illusion, man.” And he was right, it was a private place, ignored by
most people. Happy, bright eyed, normal
people would no doubt just go around this place, without even thinking about
it, the way you step around dog poop, instead of stepping right into it.
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“But it stinks here,” I had said. “Smells like dead rats or dog crap.”
Yet, he was so proud of the hideaway that
I said okay, and we started going there to play hooky or just to hang out. One day it really reeked, and I walked up to
the spot gagging. But there was Frank, laying
on his side, reading a MAD magazine and eating a Snickers bar. It was then that I noticed the dead possum,
only about ten feet from Frank. It was
covered with buzzing green flies, the flies that only show up when something is
dead.
“Jesus, Frank!” I called, covering my
mouth and nose with my shirt collar.
“What the hell, man. It smells
horrible.”
“He looked up, continuing to chew his
Snickers bar, and started sniffing the air.
Sniffing! Like he was trying to
catch the subtle odor of distant wood smoke.
“I guess so,” he said skeptically, then
kept reading his magazine.
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That’s how it started. The place was a stinking, festering hole, but
Frank didn’t seem to notice, and slowly he began to change. Instead of shooting soda cans with his BB
gun, Frank began shooting birds. One day
he started torturing a large box turtle we had caught. I told him to stop and we argued, shoved each
other, and then he killed the turtle. I
left in disgust. His cesspool (a crazy
optical illusion man) seemed satisfied somehow.
It buzzed with flies and pukey little green shimmering beetles. Looking back, I think the diseased little
pimple of dirt and bushes infected Frank with something dark and ugly.
That summer between seventh and eighth
grade, I didn’t hang out much with Frank.
But sometimes I saw him walking back to his house from the old
hangout. I couldn’t understand why he
would go there alone, to that haunted, boil of a place. Two events convinced me that Frank killed
Little Joe that summer, although everyone else thought it was a terrible
accident. Joe was a 6 year old, snotty
nosed little brat, and I loved him.
Everyone loved Little Joe – everyone except his big brother. I visited Frank’s house the day before it
happened, because Frank had called me on the phone and invited me over to see
the new color television his dad had bought.
So I was there when Frank’s dad put the old TV up on the hallway shelf. I saw him
carefully tape the electrical cord into a coil and tuck it away. So how come the police and neighbors all said
that Little Joe had pulled the cord and caused the TV to fall on his sweet
little head. Everyone wondered how anyone wouldn’t know better than to
create such a safety hazard. There was a
lot of anger directed at Little Joe’s dad.
But I saw something else the morning it happened. I saw Frank climb out of his bedroom window
and run towards his cesspool of a hideaway.
Soon after, there had been frantic movement around the house, police
sirens, a fire rescue unit. Little Joe
was dead, his skull fractured by a falling Zenith television.
Why did Frank climb out the window? Why not use the door? And the look on his face as he started
running for the hideaway, it was the look of a thing that enjoyed death –
tongue sticking out from one corner, eyes too bright and lustful. I don’t know if Frank just unwound the
electrical cord and hung it so Little Joe could reach it (here little buddy,
want to play? Pull the pretty rope
Little Joe) or if he pulled down the TV himself. But I know he did it.
Suddenly, I feel like a dumbass for coming here. What did it matter anyway? So what that my best friend had turned out to be a sadistic monster. Or more likely, it was just a freak accident, because that careless, screw-up of a dad put a busted television on a high shelf. Maybe if I see Frank’s and Little Joe’s screw up of a dad in town, I’ll bust his face before I leave. Yeah, I’m a dumbass for coming back here, just wasting time and money. I wasted my money on that flea bag of a motel where I rented a room. If that arrogant little punk of a clerk is on the desk when I get back, I think I’ll slam his head on the counter bell – just bounce his face up and down so the bell rings again and again and again!
Bryan Fontenot, author
Bryan has written short stories, now and then, during the past ten years, and is working on a longer story. His favorite book is “The Pickwick Papers”, but also enjoys mysteries, science fiction, and lots of horror stories. He lives near San Antonio, Texas.
Poised Potion Poison Potential, an RPG story by Jennifer Weigel
(There – I finally said it! Second time’s the charm. Can we move along now?)
Pop Pop Fizz Fizz, boy what a relief it is… Skylanders style
So I think Barbarella is losing it. Like she’s been sneaking healing potions. We never did manage to get to an alchemist before she downed one of those unmarked flasks we got off the goblins when we took their lair. Yeah, we all know they’re healing potions but I can’t help but think the goblins weren’t getting their goods legit. I mean, they are goblins, ‘nuff said. And I’ve heard some of the black market varieties have other weird properties too, so I fear maybe she’s gotten a bad one or something.
Anyway, she’s been acting strange, spending a lot of time by herself. And not working out, like usual, but rather rifling through the treasure trove. Not that she’s at all sneaky about it. I mean c’mon, it is Barbarella after all. She’s kind of the polar opposite of discreet. She’s always been more of a don’t-tread-on-me and mess-with-my-buddies-mess-with-my-war-axe kind of a girl.
It’s making Squidge suspicious. Yeah I know, Squidge is a bit edgy anyway, but they’re acting even more so now. They seem to have an even tighter grip on whatever things they’ve stashed away all up in that cloak of holding or whatever it is that they never take off and that makes it hard to remember much of anything about them. Hell, I don’t even know what gender they are, not that it matters anyway. I don’t concern myself with what Squidge is or isn’t up to so I don’t really care; generally the best is to assume the worst and move on. Nosing around in Squidge’s business is like begging for a stab wound to the back in your sleep, if you know what I mean. But they’ve been acting even more paranoid than normal, so I think they’ve noticed that something is off too.
You know, it’s been a long time since I’ve even had to down a healing potion; I tend to stay in the far back and let the other two hack n slash, it’s safer that way. And health elixirs aren’t my cup-of-probiotic-smoothie-protein-tea (it’s all too snake oil salesman fad craze diet antioxidant stuff for me). I’m more of a freewhellin fireball flingin kind of spell-slinger. The healing arts magics are a bit too… mushy gushy lovey dovey for me.
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We aren’t a goody-two-shoes fixer-upper team, more of a nice-fill-in-the-blank-I-think-I’ll-take-it kind of ensemble. You know the type. #thuglifeforever. But times like this do make me wish we had a paladin or a cleric or even a druid to tag along. Where do you find the moral high grounders when you need them anyway? Sure, I guess I could go to a church or something, but some of the lesser evil critters I’ve wagered pacts and bargains with may not take too kindly to that. And the nature nice guys are all save-the-treants which generally doesn’t mesh with the whole fireball jive.
I guess Squidge could ask someone, but they only really talk to The Guild and just in that you-don’t-stab-my-back-I-don’t-stab-yours kind of sense, so we don’t have anyone to consult with on these kinds of things. It’s certainly not worth seeking out a 100 gp pearl for a wizened old wizard to snort for further clarity, even if the relative scarcity and exchange rate has made them significantly smaller and easier to haul around at this juncture, assuming you can find them at all. I swear, if the alchemists didn’t need to get high to get anything done it’d be a whole lot easier for everyone. And don’t even get me started on the Oracle, that nympho dominatrix bitch. Suffice to say I will NOT be going back there anytime soon, for ANY reason.
So here we are. Maybe whatever it is’ll pass on its own. But I noticed a couple more of those goblin healing potions have gone missing. We all know they don’t work if you aren’t hurt. And I swear I saw Barbarella take her own axe to the shin before she downed one when she thought I wasn’t looking during my nightly séance with the campfire flames. My cohorts don’t realize I can actually do more than it seems from my ritual state. The demonspawn that grant me my powers aren’t always all-engrossing, especially if I’m channeling things I’ve done a bajillion times already and not trying to harness something new. Frankly sometimes it’s best to tune the spirits out since they pontificate at length for no reason, but I suppose I’m not one to talk.
Conversing with Fire Demons, RPG story art by Jennifer Weigel
I keep coming back to this thought though. Why would Barbarella hurt herself just to chug a stupid goblin potion anyway? Usually those dares go the other way. Goblin potions taste like bad grog two days following a dwarven ale upchuck hangover, and that’s if you’re lucky. Often they’re worse. And they’re not even that good as far as healing elixirs, mending maybe a minor flesh wound at best. They’re crappy, no getting around it, and a last resort at best. Why would she deliberately go out of her way to drink that shit?
You know, there’s a whole stash of the things left, and I am a bit down on health myself. Maybe I should try one to see what the allure is. Perhaps the camaraderie and shared experience could help me get Barbarella to sober up and leave the toxic sludge alone. Or at the very least, maybe I’ll understand what she sees in them. Perhaps they’re new and improved, but I seriously doubt it seeing as how they’re still just ill-obtained swag we got off some low-level goblins. You know, no one ever really gives goblins anything worth having unless they’re trying to exploit them in some way, and even then it’s really not worth it, seeing as how the goblins don’t have anything anybody wants to barter…
I swear those potions were in this satchel here; we had like over 100 of the things. Oh, here’s one, way down in the bottom of the bag having fallen under some of the other crap we looted that wasn’t worth much of anything. Wow I really had to dig deep to fish that out, and it’s only been about a week since the goblins’ lair… In the light looks like the same ol’ ordinary purple black pink tinged sludge we normally find, a tad more sparkle factor but not enough to care. Now why are Barbarella and Squidge both looking at me like I’m holding the golden goose egg of everlasting mana and fingering their weapons?
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If you enjoyed this RPG story by Jennifer Weigel, perhaps you will want to see some art from previous campaigns or read the Twilight saga, both on Haunted MTL here.
Portrait of myself with dark makeup and crow skull headdress, backlit by the sun.
This is the kickoff to a new series exploring nature that is kind of horrifying, at least in ways. Our first subject is Vampires Among Us. There are lots of animals named for vampires, sometimes due to folklore and sometimes for their appearance (like the Vampire Squid), but most of these animals don’t have blood sucking tendencies.
Vampire BatVampire Finch
Bats & Birds
There are legit vampire leaf-nosed bats in Central and South America that drink blood. They feed on mammals and are often shown to feed on livestock. They’d be kinda cute if they weren’t so creepy. There are also vampiric birds: some finches in the Galapagos have developed the taste for blood of other birds, mainly seabirds that flock to the islands to raise their young.
Vampire Bats
Leeches & Lampreys & More
And then you get into leeches and lampreys and other denizens of the water that are known to attach themselves to larger creatures and drink their blood. Leeches were even believed to have medicinal value (and still are in certain circumstances). And there are also numerous plants that are known to be parasitic and feed on other plants, wrapping their roots or vines around others to steal nutrients.
Lamprey Teeth
Spiders
Now I’m going to drift off into the realm where this becomes truly horrific. Spiders. Now, spiders aren’t vampires per se, seeing as how they actually kill their prey – they don’t just feed off of it while it remains living and wanders about its business. But because of their structure, they cannot eat solid foods, so they have to inject their prey with enzymes to liquefy it so they can slurp it out like a protein shake. That’s sort of vampirism on steroids if you ask me, just the kind that no one is coming back from.
Spider Eating
Bloodsucking Bugs
But let’s get back on topic. Now let’s consider mites and ticks and fleas and mosquitoes and the like. Some drink blood for their survival; others do so as part of their reproductive cycle (like mosquitoes which otherwise eat fruit and nectar but need the extra protein from blood to grow their eggs).
Ticks need to feed on blood once at every stage of their life cycle and can pick up diseases along the way (like Lyme Disease) but don’t always do so. Different ticks are more likely to come in contact with different things and often humans are not their preferred meal but they are opportunistic and will feed on whatever is available when necessary. Symptoms of illness from tick bites may take years to develop and can have really weird side effects (like the allergy associated with Lone Star Ticks which makes a person unable to consume mammalian flesh).
Spider
This story came to me in a sort of roundabout way from a rather unusual source. So I thought I’d share it with you, dear readership, and see if you can make heads or tails of it.
– Jennifer Weigel
Spanish Moss on Live Oak limbs, marker drawing by Jennifer Weigel
Dread Pirate Rum Tum Tugger could tell this was the right spot.
The site, beneath the sweeping limbs of the Live Oak, Spanish Moss swaying gently in the breeze, was a perfect match to the crude map he had bought off that soothsayer Deuteronomy.
The earth moved easily, as if it had been excavated previously. He dug in with greater fervor with each swipe. The sandy soil gave way to reveal something hard. He scooped and smoothed the remaining detritus from the surface as he uncovered a box.
The carton was simple.
No markings; no ornamentation; no writing. Just a plain cardboard crate, brittle from having been buried for so long but still sturdy. He hoisted it from its burrow.
“Ha HO!” he shouted to the passing breeze, rousing a small cloud of birds that erupted from a nearby thicket. They captured his attention for a moment, but he quickly refocused and returned to his task.
The box was locked but no difference.
Any self-respecting ruffian like himself could pick a lock in seconds. And he did so with panache, as was his way. He pried the lid open and licked his lips.
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Inside was the legendary Kernel of Eternal Life, a small sparrow’s heart, still beating.
Promotional Poster for Dread Pirate Queen Miss Kitty performance art by Jennifer Weigel
Artwork description: Myself as Dread Pirate Queen Miss Kitty wearing black bell sleeve shirt and black vinyl skirt with strapping leather belt over leopard print shirt and tights, with strapping leather boots, pirate head wrap and leopard cat ears.
Image text reads: Purr! Avast ye mateys, Dread Pirate Queen Miss Kitty invites ye to check out her booty stash and dig ye up a dungbie prize. Seek ye some buried treasure! Just grab ye a plastic litter scoop and dig… dig… dig… to ye heart’s content.
I created this image for a promotional poster for a performance piece in a charity art show in which I, as Dread Pirate Queen Miss Kitty, hawked a carnival sideshow style sidewalk installation. For a mere $5 donation to the animal shelter the show supported, gallery goers could dig around in a kiddie pool full of litter to find a prize: a cheap plastic trinket from the dollar store. I had some takers, including one kid who seemed to really enjoy the digging and whose parents were all in, saying “You know, you can totally do that at home too.”
Portrait of myself with dark makeup and crow skull headdress, backlit by the sun.
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