Haunted MTL Original – From The Papers of AvH – Kathy Sherwood
“From The Papers of AvH” by Kathy Sherwood
Of all my experiences and studies of the undead, the first time I encountered them face-to-face has haunted me the most throughout my life.
I was in medical school, though at the time in question, it was a holiday, and I had left the city for some climbing. It was my plan to only spend the day in the mountains, and perhaps had taken too few precautions.
I had forgotten my watch, and I was still high among the cliffs and woods late in the afternoon when a monstrous thunderstorm appeared out of nowhere. Soon, I became lost, and quite frightened, wandered through the woods in the dark. Lightning struck near me more than once.
It was with great relief when I stumbled across the ruins of an old castle. And it truly was a ruinâto get out of the rain, I, foolishly, ventured deeper inside and down below to its crypt. It was dark, though occasionally punctuated by flashes of lightning above.
Without the rain on my head, I felt safe.
Then I saw them.
They stood still, no doubt as startled to see me as I was them. A man and two women, all engaged in unwrapping themselves from their shrouds.
The smallest woman recovered first, snarling like a beast, springing forward, fangs bared. Fortunately for me, she was not yet out of her shroud and could not get very far.
I turned and ran, taking the stairs two at a timeâby some miracle not falling. The only indication of their pursuit was the noise of their hisses and snarls. Their feet made no sound.
In my shock and disorientation, I made a wrong turn, running up the stairs, and ran deeper into the ruins. And then I did fall, tripping over some roots that were tearing up what had been the old flagstone floor. I landed on my shoulder, and my right arm went painfully numb.
Staggering to my feet, I saw that the male vampire had caught up to me. He lunged at me, and though I tried to jump out of the way, he caught me by my numb shoulder. We grappled, his rotten breath making me cough and choke almost as much as his grip on my neck. Then I was suddenly snatched away by another forceâthe small woman had entered the fray. Her fangs were already extended, and my heart stood still, waiting for them to sink into me.
The man abruptly let go of me, causing the small woman to lose her balance, and I managed to pull myself out of her grasp. He advanced on her, striking her hard across the face with enough force to throw her to the floor.
With one arm still useless, I tried to run again, but it was further into the dark. Unable to see where I was going, I suddenly found myself face-to-face with the taller woman. She didnât speak or move to attack me. She did raise one hand and pressed a finger to her lips. Then against mine.
She then pointed to a passage leading to the left. There was a hint of light in there, and I could vaguely hear rain striking the stones again. I looked back at her, and she shoved me down through the doorway.
I ran again, after a few yards breathing in fresher air. Hope surged within my chest, and along with a sense of confusion. Abruptly the hope died away when I realized I had come into what appeared to be a dead-end, the fresh air coming from a lack of roof. I looked over my shoulder, to find the tall woman just a step or two behind me. She pointed ahead, still silent, and not knowing what else to do, I looked at the dead end again.
Lightning flashed, momentarily illuminating the space. She hissed, sounding like she was in pain, as I took in what remained of the old castleâs chapel. A cross was carved into the wall, once ornate, but now rough and faded. The altar still stood, if a bit tumble-down.
Glancing over my shoulder, I saw that I was alone. But I knew what she intended me to do.
Carefully making my way across the broken up, slippery floor, I stumbled to the front of the chapel and crouched down behind the old stone altar. Rain poured on my head and pooled underneath where I sat. It was terribly cold, but a sense of relief warmed me from within.
A cacophony of angry, animalistic noises outside the chapel made me cold with fear again, and I waited for the creatures to return. But they never did.
Gradually the feeling returned to my right shoulder and arm, and slowly the lightning stopped, the thunder silenced, and the rain gave way to a heavy morning mist. I couldnât bring myself to move until sunlight peeked over the highest wall of my ruined sanctuary.
And when I first tried to move, I found I couldnât. My limbs were stiff and cold from spending the night crouched beneath the stones. It took me several minutes of crawling, stumbling, and once grazing my forehead on the feet of a stone saint I could no longer recognize before I was able to walk somewhat normally again.
All my instincts screamed for me to run back to civilization, but my escape had been so narrow⊠it would not be right for me to leave this danger to befall anyone who might come after me.
The trees, courtesy of the violent storm, presented me with a bounty of broken branches, and I found several that possessed sharp points. The ruins themselves were full of heavy, easy to hold rocks. So armed, I descended down the stairs again, until I found the shrouds.
The first one I pulled back contained the man. He lay like a statue, his eyes open, like two gray islands in seas of blood.
I selected a stick and hammered it against his chest, just above the heart. His face contorted, but I knew I hadnât broken the skin. His shirt was very old, though, and tore easily. And striking again, with more strength, this blow brought up a pool of black blood, and he howled in pain. It took me three more strikes before he was silent.
Standing back to catch my breath, I watched in horror and awe as his flesh melted away to become a dusty skeleton, still with pronounced fangs.
I pulled away the next shroud, revealing the small woman, who also rested with her eyes open. Out of delicacy, I left her clothes in place as I leveled my makeshift stake. It took six blows with the rock. My ears rang as I straightened up, and her screwed up features dissolved into bone.
Trepidation filled me as I pulled back the final shroud. The tall woman had scratches on her face, and I wondered if she received those as punishment for aiding me. Unlike the other two, her eyes were closed. My palms began to sweat, in spite of how cold I was.
She was a vampire, I reminded myself. Even though she had saved my life, eventually she would have to drink the blood of someone else. Maybe they would even become a vampire, like her. I had to do it.
But I still hesitated another long moment before I steeled myself, aimed my stick, and brought the rock down with all my strength. Then again. And again.
I looked down at her as her face shrank down, finally fading into bone like her companions. She still had fangs, but one of them fell away. As I took the shroud out from under her bones, her skull was knocked askew. I replaced it.
The others I left where they rolled when I pulled the shrouds away to burn.
           Throughout the years, I encountered more vampires, and they all were reminiscent of the two creatures who attacked and fought over me. I never understood why the tall woman chose to help meâshe had to know what would happen to her if I survived the nightâand I still wonder if other vampires had any chance to rise above their monstrosity as she did.
Kathy Sherwood was born in Virginia, educated in Ohio, and now resides in the wonderfully morbid Wisconsin. She has written and loved the horror genre her entire life. Kathy recently published an ebook, In the Full Moonlight, and is currently working on another novel, Born Dead.
What if ours weren’t the only reality? What if the past paths converged, if those moments that led to our current circumstances got tangled together with their alternates and we found ourselves caught up in the threads?
Marla returned home after the funeral and wake. She drew the key in the lock and opened the door slowly, the looming dread of coming back to an empty house finally sinking in. Everyone else had gone home with their loved ones. They had all said, “goodbye,” and moved along.
Her daughter Misty and son-in-law Joel had caught a flight to Springfield so he could be at work the next day for the big meeting. Her brother Darcy was on his way back to Montreal. Emmett and Ruth were at home next door, probably washing dishes from the big meal they had helped to provide afterward, seeing as their kitchen light was on. Marla remembered there being food but couldn’t recall what exactly as she hadn’t felt like eating. Sandwiches probably… she’d have to thank them later.
Marla had felt supported up until she turned the key in the lock after the services, but then the realization sank deep in her throat like acid reflux, hanging heavy on her heart – everyone else had other lives to return to except for her. She sighed and stepped through the threshold onto the outdated beige linoleum tile and the braided rag rug that stretched across it. She closed the door behind herself and sighed again. She wiped her shoes reflexively on the mat before just kicking them off to land in a haphazard heap in the entryway.
The still silence of the house enveloped her, its oppressive emptiness palpable – she could feel it on her skin, taste it on her tongue. It was bitter. She sighed and walked purposefully to the living room, the large rust-orange sofa waiting to greet her. She flopped into its empty embrace, dropping her purse at her side as she did so.
A familiar, husky voice greeted her from deeper within the large, empty house. “Where have you been?”
Marla looked up and glanced around. Her husband Frank was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, drying a bowl. Marla gasped, her hand shooting to her mouth. Her clutched appendage took on a life of its own, slowly relinquishing itself of her gaping jaw and extending a first finger to point at the specter.
“Frank?” she spoke hesitantly.
“Yeah,” the man replied, holding the now-dry bowl nestled in the faded blue-and-white-checkered kitchen towel in both hands. “Who else would you expect?”
“But you’re dead,” Marla spat, the words falling limply from her mouth of their own accord.
The 66-year old man looked around confusedly and turned to face Marla, his silver hair sparkling in the light from the kitchen, illuminated from behind like a halo. “What are you talking about? I’m just here washing up after lunch. You were gone so I made myself some soup. Where have you been?”
“No, I just got home from your funeral,” Marla spoke quietly. “You are dead. After the boating accident… You drowned. I went along to the hospital – they pronounced you dead on arrival.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Frank said. “What boating accident?”
“The sailboat… You were going to take me out,” Marla coughed, her brown eyes glossed over with tears.
“We don’t own a sailboat,” Frank said bluntly. “Sure, I’d thought about it – it seems like a cool retirement hobby – but it’s just too expensive. We’ve talked about this, we can’t afford it.”
Marla glanced out the bay window towards the driveway where the small sailboat sat on its trailer, its orange hull reminiscent of the Florida citrus industry, and also of the life jacket Frank should have been wearing when he’d been pulled under. Marla cringed and turned back toward the kitchen. She sighed and spoke again, “But the boat’s out front. The guys at the marina helped to bring it back… after you… drowned.”
Frank had retreated to the kitchen to put away the bowl. Marla followed. She stood in the doorway and studied the man intently. He was unmistakably her husband, there was no denying it even despite her having just witnessed his waxen lifeless body in the coffin at the wake before the burial, though this Frank was a slight bit more overweight than she remembered.
“Well, that’s not possible. Because I’m still here,” Frank grumbled. He turned to face her, his blue eyes edged with worry. “There now, it was probably just a dream. You knew I wanted a boat and your anxiety just formulated the worst-case scenario…”
“See for yourself,” Marla said, her voice lilting with every syllable.
Frank strode into the living room and stared out the bay window. The driveway was vacant save for some bits of Spanish moss strewn over the concrete from the neighboring live oak tree. He turned towards his wife.
“But there’s no boat,” he sighed. “You must have had a bad dream. Did you fall asleep in the car in the garage again?” Concern was written all over his face, deepening every crease and wrinkle. “Is that where you were? The garage?”
Marla glanced again at the boat, plain as day, and turned to face Frank. Her voice grew stubborn. “It’s right here. How can you miss it?” she said, pointing at the orange behemoth.
“Honey, there’s nothing there,” Frank exclaimed, exasperation creeping into his voice.
Marla huffed and strode to the entryway, gathering her shoes from where they waited in their haphazard heap alongside the braided rag run on the worn linoleum floor. She marched out the door as Frank took vigil in its open frame, still staring at her. She stomped out to the boat and slapped her hand on the fiberglass surface with a resounding smack. The boat was warm to the touch, having baked in the Florida sun. She turned back towards the front door.
“See!” she bellowed.
The door stood open, empty. No one was there, watching. Marla sighed again and walked back inside. The vacant house once again enveloped her in its oppressive emptiness. Frank was nowhere to be found.
So I guess it’s goodbye for now. Feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigelâs work here on Haunted MTL or here on her website.
Today on Nightmarish Nature we’re gonna revisit The Blob and jiggle our way to terror. Why? ‘Cause we’re just jellies – looking at those gelatinous denizens of the deep, as well as some snot-like land-bound monstrosities, and wishing we could ooze on down for some snoozy booze schmoozing action. Or something.
Honestly, I don’t know what exactly it is that jellyfish and slime molds do but whatever it is they do it well, which is why they’re still around despite being among the more ancient organism templates still in common use.
Jellyfish are on the rise.
Yeah, yeah, some species like moon jellies will hang out in huge blooms near the surface feeding, but that’s not what I meant. Jellyfish populations are up. They’re honing in on the open over-fished ocean and making themselves at home. Again.
And, although this makes the sea turtles happy since jellies are a favorite food staple of theirs, not much else is excited about the development. Except for those fish that like to hide out inside of their bells, assuming they don’t accidentally get eaten hanging out in there. But that’s a risk you gotta take when you’re trying to escape predation by surrounding yourself in a bubble of danger that itself wants to eat you. Be eaten or be eaten. Oh, wait…
So what makes jellies so scary?
Jellyfish pack some mighty venom. Despite obvious differences in mobility, they are related to anemones and corals. But not the Man o’ War which looks similar but is actually a community of microorganisms that function together as a whole, not one creature. Not that it matters when you’re on the wrong end of a nematocyst, really. Because regardless what it’s attached to, that stings.
Box jellies are among the most venomous creatures in the world and can move of their own accord rather than just drifting about like many smaller jellyfish do. And even if they aren’t deadly, the venom from many jellyfish species will cause blisters and lesions that can take a long time to heal. So even if they do resemble free-floating plastic grocery bags, you’d do best to steer clear. Because those are some dangerous curves.
But what does this have to do with slime molds?
Absolutely nothing. I honestly don’t know enough about jellyfish or slime molds to devote the whole of a Nightmarish Nature segment to either, so they had to share. Essentially, this bit is what happened when I decided to toast a bagel before coming up with something to write about and spent a tad too much time in contemplation of my breakfast. I guess we’re lucky I didn’t have any cream cheese or clotted cream…
Oh, and also thinking about gelatinous cubes and oozes in the role-playing game sense – because those sort of seem like a weird hybrid between jellies and slime molds, as does The Blob. Any of those amoeba influenced creatures are horrific by their very nature – they don’t even need to be souped up, just ask anyone who’s had dysentery.
And one of the most interesting thing about slime molds is that they can take the shortest path to food even when confronted with very complex barriers. They are maze masterminds and would give the Minotaur more than a run for his money, especially if he had or was food. They have even proven capable of determining the most efficient paths for water lines or railways in metropolitan regions, which is kind of crazy when you really think about it. Check it out in Scientific American here. So, if we assume that this is essentially the model upon which The Blob was built, then it’s kind of a miracle anything got away. And slime molds are coming under closer scrutiny and study as alternative means of creating computer components are being explored.
Jellies are the Wave of the Future.
We are learning that there may be a myriad of uses for jellyfish from foodstuffs to cosmetic products as we rethink how we interact with them. They are even proving useful in cleaning up plastic pollution. I don’t know how I feel about the foodstuff angle for all that they’ve been a part of various recipes for a long time. From what I’ve seen of the jellyfish cookbook recipes, they just don’t look that appealing. But then again I hate boba with a passion, so I’m probably not the best candidate to consider the possibility.
So it seems that jellies are kind of the wave of the future as we find that they can help solve our problems. That’s pretty impressive for some brainless millions of years old critter condiments. Past – present – perpetuity! Who knows what else we’d have found if evolution hadn’t cleaned out the fridge every so often?
Feel free to check out more Nightmarish Nature here.
Continuing our junkyard dawg werewolf story from the previous St. Patrickâs Days⊠though technically he’s more of a wolfwere but wolfwhatever. Anyway, here are Part 1 from 2022, Part 2 from 2023 and Part 3 from 2024 if you want to catch up.
Yeah I donât know how you managed to find me after all this time. We havenât been the easiest to track down, Monty and I, and we like it that way. Though actually, youâve managed to find me every St. Patrickâs Day since 2022 despite me being someplace else every single time. Itâs a little disconcerting, like Iâm starting to wonder if I was microchipped way back in the day in 2021 when I was out lollygagging around and blacked out behind that taco hutâŠ
Anyway as Iâd mentioned before, that Scratchers was a winner. And Iâd already moved in with Monty come last St. Patrickâs Day. Hell, heâd already begun the process of cashing in the Scratchers, and what a process that was. It made my head spin, like too many squirrels chirping at you from three different trees at once. We did get the money eventually though.
Since I saw you last, we were kicked out of Montyâs crap apartment and had gone to live with his parents while we sorted things out. Thank goodness that was short-lived; his mother is a nosy one for sure, and Monty didnât want to let on he was sitting on a gold mine as he knew theyâd want a cut even though they had it made already. She did make a mean brisket though, and it sure beat living with Sal. Just sayin.
Anyway, we finally got a better beater car and headed west. I was livinâ the dream.  We were seeing the country, driving out along old Route 66, for the most part. At least until our car broke down just outside of Roswell near the mountains and we decided to just shack it up there. (Boy, Monty sure can pick âem. Itâs like he has radar for bad cars. Calling them lemons would be generous. At least itâs not high maintenance women who wonât toss you table scraps or let you up on the sofa.)
We found ourselves the perfect little cabin in the woods. And it turns out we were in the heart of Bigfoot Country, depending on who you ask. I wouldnât know, Iâve never seen one. But it seems that Monty was all into all of those supernatural things: aliens, Bigfoot, even werewolves. And finding out his instincts on me were legit only added fuel to that fire. So now he sees himself as some sort of paranormal investigator.
Whatever. I keep telling him this werewolf gig isnât all that itâs cracked up to be, and it doesnât work like in the movies. I wasnât bitten, and I generally donât bite unless provoked. He says technically Iâm a wolfwere, to which I just reply âWhere?â and smile. Whatever. Itâs the little things I guess. I just wish everything didnât come out as a bark most of the time, though Montyâs gotten pretty good at interpretingâŠÂ As long as he doesnât get the government involved, and considering his take on the government himself that would seem to be a long stretch. We both prefer the down low.
So here we are, still livinâ the dream. There arenât all that many rabbits out here but itâs quiet and the locals donât seem to notice me all that much. And Monty can run around and make like heâs gonna have some kind of sighting of Bigfoot or aliens or the like. As long as the pantryâs stocked itâs no hair off my back. Sure, there are scads of tourists, but they can be fun to mess around with, especially at that time of the month if I happen to catch them out and about.
Speaking of tourists, I even ran into that misspent youth from way back in 2021 at the convenience store; I spotted him at the Quickie Mart along the highway here. I guess he and his girlfriend were apparently on walkabout (or car-about) perhaps making their way to California or something. He even bought me another cookie. Small world. But we all knew that alreadyâŠ
If you enjoyed this werewolf wolfwere wolfwhatever saga, feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigelâs work here on Haunted MTL or here on her website.
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