The Story Collector, contest entry

2486 words                                                  The Story Collector

        Streaks of lightning flashed relentlessly behind the Cripple Creek Asylum.  The bright streaks illuminated the ominous structure causing it to seem even more imposing than Stefan first thought.  He stared reluctantly out his windshield at the building in front him.  With the thunder booming and the early October rain pouring down, he realized that Mother Nature promised that his first visit would be one not soon forgotten.

        Being that Cripple Creek was uncharted ground for him, Stefan wasn't sure what to expect from his visit.  He was hoping he’d get enough information and gain enough knowledge afterward to finally finish his book entitled, The Story Collector.

        Using the streetlamp he was parked under for light, Stefan turned to reach into the backseat and gather his briefcase and mini tape recorder which he took to all of his sessions with the story tellers themselves.  Most didn't have a problem with their stories being recorded, but he always gave them the option.

      Stefan clicked open his briefcase and gently placed the recorder inside of it, closing the case with a final "click". Holding the sturdy valise in his lap for a few seconds, he watched as the rain seemed to come down even harder, reinforcing his original reluctance to visit the eerie place. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the door handle preparing to dart for the doors of the asylum. “Here goes nothing.” Counting to three, he jumped from the car, hopped up the curb and ran toward the building using his briefcase as an umbrella.

      Soaking wet, he reached the inside, then handed his briefcase over to Charlie, the night security guard, who proceeded to inspect its contents. With a disapproving grunt, Stefan shuffled from one foot to the other while watching the chubby, red-faced guard do his job. Thankfully, Charlie took great care in his inspection, careful not to mess up the papers inside.

          Clicking the briefcase shut, the guard handed it back to Stefan. “You’re all set, sir. Please check in at the receptionist’s desk and enjoy your visit.” With a wave of his hand, Charlie politely sent Stephan on his way.

          Nodding, Stefan walked toward the receptionist’s desk, where a pretty brunette stood smiling pleasantly.

        After signing in and receiving his visitor’s pass, Becky, as her name-tag said, informed him that his first visit would be with Captain John Cunningham, a veteran of WWII. Becky also explained that Captain Cunningham’s room was filled with Navy memorabilia -- from his years in the service right up to about five years ago when he arrived at Cripple Creek.

        If nothing else, Stephan thought, the collection would make for some great research.Thanking Becky for the information, he affixed his visitor’s pass to his shirt and headed toward the East wing of the asylum, where the patient’s rooms were located. According to the map Becky had given him, all three of the interviewee's rooms were down the same corridor. That should make for easy visits; at least he wouldn't find himself lost in Cripple Creek.

        Stefan’s footsteps echoed eerily behind him sending clacking noises up and down the hallway. The cement walls surrounding him reverberated any noise that struck them, causing Stefan to think he wasn't alone. Shaking his head, he scolded himself, “Stop being a wuss, no one’s behind you.” With a chuckle, he continued toward the patients' wings.

        Not much later, Stefan reached Captain Cunningham’s room. With a knock at the door, and one more peek behind him to make sure no one was there, he waited until he heard the soft invitation from inside, granting him permission to enter.

        The old metal door creaked loudly as Stefan turned the knob to open it. Immediately his senses were assaulted by cigar smoke...and something else he couldn't quite interpret. Entering the room through a cloud of the exhaled fumes, he smiled as he spotted the Captain.

        “Good evening, Captain Cunningham, uh, my name is Stefan.” Extending his hand in greeting, only then did he realize that the Captain was in full Navy uniform sitting in his wheelchair. At first glance Stefan thought it was a straitjacket, but then noticed the cup of coffee sitting on the table next to the man. One sure couldn't drink coffee with a straight jacket on, he thought silently before speaking.

        “Uh, excuse me, sir. I’m here to listen to your story? Thank you for allowing me to record your tale. I collect them from various people as you may have heard.”

      “Hello son. They told me how you collect stories that terrify others. Captain Cunningham looked at Stefan with inquisitive eyes. "Why would you want to do something that strange?”

        “It’s research for my book, Captain. I’m writing a volume of scary tales, told to me by many people over a period of time. Would you mind if I turned on my tape recorder, so that I don’t miss anything vital when it’s time to enter it all on my computer?” Stefan then took a chair near a table in the middle of the room.

        “You have a wonderful collection of memorabilia here, Captain. Becky at the front desk told me you had a huge collection of stuff from your days in the service and on. It’s rather impressive, I must say.” Stefan acted overly friendly so the Captain would know he was genuinely interested in what he had to say.

        “I’ll turn on the recorder now and you can go ahead with your tale.” Stefan sat back, positioned the microphone toward the Captain, and waited.

        Captain Cunningham cleared his throat, again took a sip of the still- steaming coffee, then began to relay the story for a U.S. Navy submarine haunted by two ghosts. "One of them was a yeoman and the other a junior officer who had lost their lives at sea when they drowned in their vessel. Legend had it that many young sailors were terrified by the apparitions they would see while on duty -- victims of poltergeist activity, so it was said.

        Disembodied voices," the Captain continued, "would make the hair on the back of your neck and arms stand on end. Whispers and echoes could be heard all through the narrow, metal corridors. Sudden commands could be heard, bellowing throughout the submarine. 'Abandon Ship!' or 'Fire the torpedoes!' would have all the young soldiers jumping and taking inappropriate action in battle when, in fact, there wasn’t anything going on. Quite a few lives were lost due to their behaviors, causing some of them to take their own lives in return."

          Stefan looked up as Captain Cunningham stopped talking.  “Please continue.” 

          Stefan looked up as Captain Cunningham stopped talking. “Please continue, my friend.”

          “That’s about it, son. Whether you choose to believe or not, it's been going on for several years. There really isn't much more to tell.” He said, taking another sip of coffee.

          “Did you hear the voices?" Stefan asked the silent Captain. "Did you see the ghosts manifest?”

          “Hear them? Why, I followed their orders just like everyone else. That’s how I ended up here; I could still hear their voices and had nightmares over what had happened so many years ago. When medication failed to control the visions, my family sent me here. And here I sit today telling you my tale.” Captain Cunningham then bowed his head in remembrance.

          Stefan figured that was his cue for the interview to conclude. Clicking off the recorder, he packed it into his briefcase and stood.

          “Thank you, Captain, for your time. I’ll be sure you receive the proper credit for your tale when my work gets published.” With a nod, Stefan walked to the door and let himself out. Once outside, he exhaled a sigh of relief mixed with frustration that there wasn't more to the story than what he’d heard. But that was fine he figured.

          Making his way down the hall, he read the list Becky had given him with the map to see who awaited his next visit. The widow, Mrs. Elaine Richter, was a former housewife of a well-known forest ranger who had been killed by a brown bear. This was no ordinary bear; it was a ghost bear that her husband had killed during a hunt.

          Stefan stood in front of Mrs. Richter’s room moments later, with the same feeling of someone or something watching him. Turning, he glanced around the hallway, seeing nothing just like the last time. Letting your imagination get the better of you? he scolded himself silently.

          After knocking, he heard the lock open as a petite woman answered the door. Her blue-gray hair was put neatly in a bun, and she wore flannel pajamas with fuzzy slippers. Her glasses were on a gold chain dangling around her neck, the perfect picture of a nice grandma-like person, albeit with librarian glasses.

          Stefan held back a chuckle as he recalled his hometown librarian who had supported his writing fancy.

          With a smile, the lady looked up at Stefan, who towered over her by at least a head. “Oh, hello, young man. Do come in. You must be here to listen to my story.” She said, backing up and opening the door wider for her visitor.

          “Thank you ma'am, I appreciate your time to speak with me.” Stefan entered offering an outstretched hand.  Stefan couldn't help but smile at the little lady, she seemed so nice and normal he couldn't imagine how she had ended up at Cripple Creek.

          Mrs. Richter shut the door behind her, walked over to a corner table, then sat down. “Come on over here," she beckoned,"there’s pretty good light if you need to take notes.” She motioned for Stefan to sit across from her.

          Taking his place at the table, he asked Mrs. Richter if it would be okay for their conversation to be recorded. She agreed, nodding slowly, then proceeded to tell her tale.

          Apparently, about six years ago, her husband had gone on a bear hunting trip with some buddies.

          "...once they were deep in the woods," the woman continued, "they sat in different areas waiting for the big one to come by. Hours had passed, but nothing was seen. Then, just before dusk, as the group was ready to head back to their rented cabin, My husband -- Mr. Richter -- he heard some commotion coming from behind him. Upon turning around, he saw a large, brown bear walking slowly toward him -- about 200 yards away, they said, from a nearby clearing.

          "Shaking with excitement," Mrs. Richter grinned, "he raised his rifle and looked through its scope. Guess he waited until the bear was about 100 yards away, before he took aim -- just as the beast spotted him. I can still imagine that bear sniffing the air and letting out a low growl. Just before it started running toward him with its sharp teeth bared. Once he fired off two shots aimed at the critter’s head, well, that dropped him alright.

            Stefan listened to how, after finding out about her husband’s hunting trip and success, she had told him about a brown bear that, two days before his hunting trip, had broken into a cabin, similar to the one that he and his buddies were renting. According to the newspaper article she had read, the bear had attacked and mauled a group of hikers, and afterward someone had shot him. But the animal's soul hadn't died.

          "Guess he figured his wife had finally gone senile, 'cause Mr. Richter went out for another hunt a few days later and never returned. The story that his friends told me was that my husband got killed by the very ghost of that bear he had killed. Or thought he'd killed. From that day forward, people been relaying accounts of seeing that ‘phantom’ bear. Some who've never been seen or heard from again. So they say. Well, wasn't long before those accounts grew mighty quiet, and no one's mentioned them tragedies again."

          “So what happened to the bear?” Stefan asked, both skeptical and intrigued.

          “No one ever saw it again,” Mrs. Richter replied matter-of-factly. “Of course the ancient Indian spell I used to summon that bear in the first place was only supposed to be good for one cycle of the moon. No one else was supposed to get hurt. It was my dear old cheatin' hubby I was after.” Mrs Richter smiled, adjusting her glasses.

            Realizing how this was probably the reason Mrs. Richter had been brought to Cripple Creek, Stefan shut off his tape recorder. Placing it back inside the briefcase, he snapped it shut with finality and stood to leave.

          “You be careful out there, boy. I hear that strange things happen on Halloween night around here. I've seen a few things here myself, but no one believes me. Now, you just get yourself back home as quickly as possible, so when that book of yours comes out, you’ll still be alive to enjoy the success.” Grinning another ominous smile, Mrs. Richter stood and walked Stefan to the door.

            “Uh, thank you Ma’am, and Happy Halloween to you -- as well.” Stefan tripped a little as he nodded and quickly departed.

            Upon leaving Mrs. Richter’s room, Stefan wondered what other stories he might hear tonight as he continued down the hall to his next story teller. Captain Cunningham’s and Mrs. Richter’s accounts were somewhat frightening, but not quite spooky enough. But since they were still good stories, he would definitely include them in his book. Yet, he needed a truly terrifying thriller to complete his work.

            Lightning continued to crack amid the clapping of thunder while stefan knocked on the door to number 666. The room was the very last among those in the west wing.

            An elderly voice suddenly croaked out a cold welcome. “Come in.”

            As Stefan opened the door, the overhead lights began to flash, flickering off and on with each lightning strike. Certain the asylum would lose power at any moment, he looked around within the fading darkness, searching for the source of the old voice that had spoken to him. 

            With a sudden flash of light from a florescent bulb, Stefan heard a menacing growl and two disembodied voices yelling “Abandon ship!” and “Fire all Torpedoes!”

            The last thing Stefan saw were three white apparitions heading toward him. With a blood-curdling scream, the dark enveloped him. His yells faded into the night, seemingly heard by no one. It was the perfect ending of a story that no one would hear, nor believe.

            One year later....

            Becky knocked on the door to room 666 as she did every morning for the past year. She felt sorry for the inmate and enjoyed serving breakfast to Cripple Creek's youngest patient. “Stefan," she called. "It's Becky. Time to loosen your jacket for a while and have a bite to eat. Here I come.”