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boxofteethrpg-blog · 1 year

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Candlelight Vigil

Chapter 3 - The Knock

"The more light, the better, "the shaken wife agreed and twisted in her seat. She couldn't see the lantern, but knew that the table it sat on was just past the edge of shadow. Her fingernails bit into her palms before she found the courage to reach out. At first, everything was fine. She curled her hands around the lantern's glass and felt the lingering heat of its dead flame. The soft pads of someone else's fingertips caressed down her forearms, from elbows to wrists. She croaked. Whoever the hands belonged to should be standing right in front of her, literally between her arms, in the candlelight! "David."

"It's like, ink. No. Tar would be a better way of putting it," He said and tapped the window again, not hearing his wife's strangled call.

The fingers tenderly checked her fearful pulse. It dawned on her it felt like more than five dancing about each wrist- perhaps more than ten. She didn't feel the pull of fingernails, or the warmth of human contact. Clarissa jerked her hands back into the light and frantically worked on igniting the lamp. "David. David!"

"What is it?" He said, spinning to her and tugging out his pistol. Clarissa enkindled the heirloom at that moment. The extra brilliance filled the room for but a tick before the lantern expired once more. There was no one else there but them.

"I... David, get away from the window."

He quit the spot and didn't look back until he was at her side. At the very edge of candlelight, the living Gloom was no longer satisfied with coating the outside of the window. As to a bloodstained bandage, the fluid darkness soaked straight through the otherwise solid glass and spread across the inner surface. Quite impossibly, given its seemingly liquid state, it pooled instead of running down the window. One spot became two, two became three. The fourth leeched through the wall – wood, stone, paper, and all. The zoetic pitch fostered no noise, even as it bubbled and festered.

"The fireplace," David said and fumbled around his wife to grab the candle, "stay close."

As the couple retreated into the hall, taking their lifeline with them, Clarissa swore she saw faces rippling from every growing shadow-- faces consumed by maligned and ravenous need. She tugged David to a stop and firmly shut the door. The action had a muffled sound and she felt as if that part of the house no longer existed. After all, she could not see it.

"Help me with the end table," she muttered as they waited in the candle-lined hall.

"Clarissa."

She started without him, grabbing the edge and tugging. "Just do it."

David tried to assist her with one hand, unwilling to let go of the protective rushlight. The lesser candles wobbled, but it ended up being a vase full of summer's last wildflowers which tumbled and shattered. They knew it was only cold water that coated their legs but in the sepia glow of the hall, it imitated blood. Clarissa looked toward the kitchen, glad to see all of the waxen beacons were intact. David checked the other direction toward the front door.

Just as his attention graced the exit it shook with a resounding thud, then two more in rapid succession. The padlock clattered. They froze like rabbits under a wolf's jaws. Fear-addled minds took another rattle to realize it was only someone knocking. Husband and wife shared a look. David opened his mouth to speak, only to be hushed by the prudent application of Clarissa's supple fingers.

"David?" The knock included a familiar voice next, saying, "Clarissa? Damn it all. Open up. There's queer things afoot and I can't let you do this alone."

"Gregory," Goodman Blythe whispered against his wife's hand.

She shook her head with a flutter of tresses and murmured, "we can't know for sure. It could be a trick. Even if we let him in or leave the house, we all die."

The fruitless pounding continued even as David's heart sank. His wife was correct. He led her into the family room where the fire blazed, but not as bright as they fancied. They didn't close the interior door but pulled the couch closer to the hearth. David handed her the bound candle and went to feed the fire. Smothering heat was preferable to consuming night. The knocking ceased abruptly, perhaps with a scream. Either that or it was the distant cry of a horse.

All around them the house creaked, and objects shifted. On any other night, Clarissa would chalk it up to settling as abodes are want to do. Tonight, every groan clawed at her anxiety. Something grated floorboards under foot, rustled through cabinets, scrapped chair legs. They weren't alone, but at the same time, there wasn't that sense of presence as with the stitch-scar hands.

"You lie down and try to rest," David said, trying to distract her from the errant sounds. His palm settled gingerly on her cheek. "I'll keep watch over the fire and when I get tired, I'll wake you."

She pressed a kiss to the meat of his thumb and then set the dip between them. While she didn't think she'd be able to sleep he was right. If they both gave into fatigue at the same time, they'd likely lose the beacon and their lives.

While she focused on the tiny flickering flame which stood between them and oblivion, David worried if they'd have enough wood. He sagged to the floor, letting his back rest against the couch's arm. That way he could keep an eye on the hearth and hall at the same time. His wife's arm draped over his shoulder; her hand casually stroked his firm chest.

The strain of his vigilance waned as long minutes became an hour. Somewhere between the chimes of nine and ten his wife's arm went limp as she gave in to emotional exhaustion. He nuzzled her elbow and worried after the fire. By then the house fell deathly silent. Despite Clarissa leaning against him, David had never felt so alone in his home before. There was something alien to it as if everything but the room around them didn't exist. He knew every creak, every corner, and twist of the building. Yet, now that it was shrouded in night David knew if he stepped into darkness, he'd never find his way back again. He focused on the dance of flames, the rhythm of her sweet breath. His eyelids grew heavy.

#horror #horror short story #horror fiction #supernatural horror #horror author #short story

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johnputignano · 3 years

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Big Jim’s Big Secret (Short Story)

When Big Jim Anderson finally uttered his final breath, well, King’s Creek had lost a true legend. That son of a bitch was renowned for his ability to drink anybody under the bar. No shit. And when Big Jim started tossing back cold brew, there was no way of knowing whether you would get the friendly old man or the cocksucker who loved to tease. Regardless, it was all in good fun.

I swear to god, there had been this one occasion when these degenerate punk rockers rolling on through. Apparently, they had a show that night in the valley, their name was “The Shit Kickers” but they pulled into town and made a short pit stop off at Mitch’s Pub to wet their palate. Clarissa had been tending the bar when the Mohawk weirdo began making a ruckus.

These punk rockers just love to get under the skin of working-class folk in the Bible Belt, and so there he was, spouting off obscenities and blasphemy for shock value. The spectacle was nothing more than the run of the mill asinine, juvenile behavior.

Big Jim heard the whole thing but felt that this wast his battle. So he ignored the punkers the best he could, but throughout the night they continued to get louder, drunker and more obnoxious. Enough was enough.

“I’m going to ask you boys to bring it down a notch or I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Clarissa spoke loud and clear so that there was no mistaking anything.

“Fuck you, redneck slut.” the one with four lips rings responded before pouring his beer all over the floor. “You better clean that up less you want a lawsuit.”

This made Big Jim get all crazy. That big fucker rose from his barstool, picked it up in a calloused mitt and began to bash one of those jokers in the back of the dome. The Punker went down like a sack of horse shit, I mean knocked out cold. Another pulled out a switchblade.

“Oh, so you want to play games.”

Big Jim retrieved his large sheathed blade. The sight of this menacing bastard was sufficient enough to make a Civil War veteran shit his knickers and piss all over himself. That fellow knew full well that he was fucked. Luckily so did Dennis Lee, who quietly got up and bolted shut the bar entrance, ominously flipping the sign around, letting patrons know that they were closed.

“Big Jim, carve this fucker up real nice.”

And he did, ramming that mean steel blade right into the city boy’s esophagus. He was deceased before he knew it. Big Jim then made his way over to the unconscious man, yanked his head up by his hair and slashed him ear to ear. That night Clarissa, Dennis, and Big Jim would haul those bodies to Robert Turner’s farm to get rid of them.

Yeah, Big Jim was no joke and when he passed from a heart attack, well it just brought every eye in town to tears. The funeral was held at his house. Understandably, the better part of the town showed up to pay their respect and all were in the bark yard where the service was being held. That is, except for Big Jim’s grandson Waylon. That’s because he had snuck off to the basement.

Big Jim had a heart, and he was an open book, more or less, that is except for his private room in the basement. This room is where he spent a considerable amount of time and when he was in the basement, the old man was not to be disturbed.

The mystery of that room captivated the young boy’s mind. What was in that room? All sorts of scenarios went through the kid’s head. Hell, at one time he thought that his grandpa had a space alien locked up in there. I’m serious, that’s how secretive he was about how he spent his time.

Waylon knew that the room was fastened by a simple padlock and luckily for him he knew just where to get a pair of bolt cutters, which he snuck over there and hid in the bushes close by. As he stood in front of that ominous door all sorts of shit went through Waylon’s twelve-year-old head but he knew that this was his only chance he’d get.

The bolt cutters worked like expected, but Waylon froze for a moment. What if something so awful was being imprisoned behind this door that his grandfather took it upon himself to shield his family from it? And what if, by opening this door, that evil were to escape and wreak havoc? There was no point of contemplating at this point. The lock was busted and his hand was already on the door knob.

Now, before we proceed any further with this story, there is something we should address about Big Jim. His wife was Bridgette and in her day she was hell on wheels. As Big Jim told the story, he fell in love one night way back when they were both in their early twenties. Brigette was a Tom Boy and boy did she love to fight men. I mean, she was ruthless, and she had a particular distaste for pedophiles and rapists. That year Frank Reed had been arrested for molesting a sixteen-year-old girl, but since we all know that the court system is a joke, he got off on a technicality. Now Brigette never would admit to it for obvious reasons, but it is presumed to be true that she went to Frank’s house one night in the summer and cut his dick off. Frank lived, but she took the dick with her and fed it to her dog. The police never could get an answer out of that man as to who done it but when Big Jim caught wind of what Brigette had done he knew that this was the woman for him.

Brigette saw Big Jim as a wildcard with a heart, and that appealed to her. So when he announced that he was going to have a secret space for himself many years ago, she asked no questions. She trusted her husband was doing nothing more than blowing off steam, probably drinking beers and tinkering with the model cars he was obsessed with making.

Despite all the young Waylon’s planning, he did not anticipate Brigette’s keen sense of awareness. So when she saw her son’s kid sneak back into the house, she knew damn well what he was about to do. For fuck’s sake, everyone in town knew about his secret room and we all wondered what was in it. Brigette didn’t care that her husband was dead, she intended to keep the promise she made to him years earlier, to never step foot in that room. She’d be damned if she was going to let some snot-nosed brat disrespect her deceased husband.

By the time she found an opportunity to slip away unnoticed, she took it. Once in the house she moved quickly to the basement but when she got there, it was too late. The door was open, and the boy had disrespected a dead man’s wishes.

“Now you really did it Waylon.”

He seemed unfazed by her voice. The boy wasn’t even startled by the unexpected company, he was too focused on what he saw. As Brigette descended the stairs her anger turned to curiosity. What was in that room to steal her grandson’s attention so much that he couldn’t even hear the ass whooping he was going to get when she told his father? When she saw the tears in his eyes her curiosity turned to concern.

“Waylon?” she called out. He turned his head toward her and she saw trauma. It was that same look Frank had on him when she sliced off his willy.

“Grandma, I’m sorry, but I had to know.”

“Well, you went on and opened it. So what’s in there that has you so upset?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Boy, you better tell me.” Anger was returning, but when she got to the doorframe she too froze. “Holy shit.”

Big Jim’s secret room was a secret no more, and what the two of them saw was nothing short of disturbings. The room contained a shrine of sorts. Every inch of wall space was covered in Polaroid pictures, and in those pictures were children. In some pictures she could see parts of Big Jim which she identified by his chest tattoo, which was of a confederate flag. In all the pictures, the kids are naked, some crying. As horrifying as these were, they didn’t compare to the ones of her husband performing various sexual acts. Big Jim was a pedophile.

How does one recover from such revelations? She knew that Waylon couldn’t be trusted to keep his mouth shut and once word go out that she was married to a kid diddler, well, she couldn’t bear the embarrassment.

“Waylon. I want you to go back to the funeral. Say nothing.”

The poor kid was so shocked that he obeyed without so much as a whimper, making his way back like a soldier suffering from shell shock. Once alone Brigette dropped the touch act and began sobbing. Her entire life with Big Jim was a disgusting lie. She slept in the same bed with this filthy monster. There was no stopping this. Word was sure to spread but what she can do is make certain that nobody ever sees the contents of that room.

After getting back her composure, Brigette made her way to the garage where she retrieved two cans of gasoline. With a broken heart, she poured it all over that room. Every inch was dripping with gasoline. Once both cans were empty, she grabbed a box of matches from the kitchen. Without hesitation, she struck a match and tossed it into the room.

Brigette stood there, watching the room burn with all its contents until she no longer could stand the heat. As she made her way back to the funeral, the flames began to spread to the rest of the house.

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bigjimbigsecret · 3 years