 Horror/Scary: January 25, 2017 Issue [#8090] |
  Horror/Scary
This week: DON'T READ THIS Edited by: W.D.Wilcox  
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When The Sky Opened
When the sky opened, with no warning other than a single clap of thunder, the world shook and the impending storm finally broke. The sound of the rain was like a giant tent collapsing in a whoosh and roar. It tore apart a pleasant afternoon, and blew it far, far away, even as the alien ship swept in ahead of schedule.
The year was 1969 -- an ancient time, so long ago.
The traveler scrambled out of his transport just as it began to dissolve. Standing there in the pouring rain, he thought, This is it. This is my new home. He wiped his hand across his face and tried to slough off his weariness and cast it aside. As he took-in his surroundings, drum-rolls of thunder beat at the heavens above and the storm marched on.
He had arrived in a section of old-growth forest -- firs and pines, mostly. The trees were so immense, and the high branches so densely interlaced into a sheltering canopy, that even to his dark-adapted eyes, visibility was poor. Here, under the evergreens, the darkness pooled deep, and the terrain was like gray bones mixed with knobs of bedrock and exposed roots. In the distance, stood the fired-glow of a city so bright, that not even the torrents of rain could put it out. He started off in that direction, searching the landscape for signs of life, because going back would be impossible now. The return path was lost, so the traveler changed beyond all hope of recovery, and for all means and purposes, he looked mostly human.
Days turned into months, months into years, and before long the traveler was discovered.
To most human eyes, he appeared as just another freak of the 1960's. But he was not of this world, and light reflected oddly around him, bending in a singular fashion. Someone must have noticed, called someone else to report to someone something strange about the guy living in apartment 2C.
He didn't understand why.
Why humans had to stick their noses into other people's business; why this world was filled with so many conspiracy theorists and nut-jobs, looking to burst somebody's balloon. Wait, no, bubble. Yeah, that's it. Always looking to burst somebody's bubble.
Bad things can happen because of that, real bad things. The traveler had a backup plan though. Hell, they all did.
The dead woman laying on the floor of his one-bedroom apartment was CIA. He knew she'd been dead for a while now because he had killed her. Part of him enjoyed it, the part that kicks-in when he knows he's been discovered. The agent's face was rotting away from her bones, pus oozed from her swollen purple lips, but she was dressed in a nice black suit. Overtime, her face became gray, a little green around the eyes, with brown-black blisters of corruption extending from her nostrils. He felt sorry for her because he couldn't imagine anyone ever wanting to give her a kiss in this state, but the thought had crossed his mind. Maybe he could press his lips to hers and stick his cold, serpent tongue into her mouth like a grotesque graveyard kiss. That would be exciting.
The traveler knew that was the other in him. The part that takes over when he felt threatened. The inner him that was deformed in mind and spirit. That one, looked upon the dead agent and thought that Death had never looked so . . . festive.
Over the years he discovered while living with humans in disguise, that some lives, conducted with grace, are beautiful arcs bridging this world to eternity. No one's life should be rooted in fear. Life is born for wonder, for joy, for hope, for love, to marvel at the mystery of existence, to be ravished by the beauty of the universe, to seek truth and meaning, to acquire wisdom, and by our treatment of others, to brighten the corner where we are. But, as Emily Dickinson wrote, "Love can do all but raise the dead." He might have loved the dead agent, but she sure as hell wasn't coming back. He regretted that. He'd have to do something with her sooner rather than later.
Thinking with fingertips steepled toward the bridge of his nose, he half hid his face in a prayer clasp, as if the shadows didn't provide enough concealment, or as if he were whispering a confession into the private chapel of his cupped hands. Finally he realized it was time to move on. Maybe he'd infiltrate a rich family, or go into politics. The world was his clam. No, wait . . . his oyster.
The traveler left everything he had accumulated -- including the dead woman -- and slipped out of his apartment in the dead of night.
There are many travelers in this world, stretched across a vast amount of time. They are everywhere, learning, studying, becoming part of our society. They look a little different, but not much. In fact, one could be sitting next to you right now.
Until next time,
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DON'T READ THIS
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A twisted tale of a demon's magic. Winner of the December 2016 Weird Tales contest.
#2105842 by wikiemol  |
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DEAD LETTERS
LJPC - the tortoise
Very cute! I remember a neighbor getting a pogo stick in the 70s. It wasn't that hard, but got boring pretty quick. (I think a unicycle would be harder; never tried one of those.) Thanks for the story!
~ Laura
The Soup
Stanley Vang sat alone in the back booth of the restaurant concentrating on his lunch.
He sucked hot soup from his spoon, then spooned up some more, never taking his eyes off the contents of the bowl.
He pretended to be unaware of his surroundings, even of the limping waitress that gave him another dirty look as she passed by.
Ignoring her, he kept slurping his soup.
Stanley was small but sinewy, in his late forties, and wearing his hair closely cropped. His skin was the shade of antique parchment.
He allowed people to think that he was Chinese, but was actually a Vietnamese refugee who had fled to the States after the fall of Saigon. Rumor had it, he’d been an interrogation expert, using any tool or technique to get his prisoners to cooperate, which was probably true.
But that was then.
Now, he ran this restaurant and would never tolerate his employees to be late for work, ever.
Again the waitress hobbled by, angry, slowing only a little to examine her small toe floating in the bowl of Stanley's soup.
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