The Fence

 

                The fence on the hill was overgrown with tall weeds and grass. A chain-link fence, brown with rust in places. The barbed wire along the top edge completely rusted, but no less jagged and dangerous. The fence looked like a cat’s curved spine. An angry cat, ready to pounce.  The surrounding landscape was flat, making this long, high humped fence stand out on the only hill against the morning sunrise. It was beautiful in its stillness and aged security. I started walking along its edge, looking for a way through or over or around. My feet traipsing through the tall weeds and dying grass of Autumn.

                 The night before. The day before even, I probably wouldn’t have noticed the fence at all.  It was just something in the landscape that I didn’t think would ever have anything to do with me. Just a fence. A nondescript fence. Just like so many we’ve all seen before. Just the fence I passed through every morning. Every evening. As I went to and from my work. There was a guard post at the far end where Charlie worked. He sat in that post every day, for years. Getting fatter and fatter, on his high-backed swivel stool. But the fence itself, hardly ever registered with me.

                 I had passed through the fence like I had done every morning for the last three. I drove in past Charlie and gave him my customary nod. He seemed particularly unresponsive to my polite acknowledgment of his position. It was somehow, even ruder. I’m not even sure if he moved at all.  I parked my car in my usual spot.  There were a lot of empty spaces in the lot. Mary McDurring’s car wasn’t in her spot. She was never late or missed a day of work. She was like clockwork. I always thought the Army asked her what time it was since she was so punctual. Not to see her car was a pretty big tip that something might not be right.

                 I walked the short path from the parking lot towards the pit building. That’s where we keep our supplies and uniforms and the general lockers for employees. It’s a huge dingy corrugated steel building. It was probably a Railroad warehouse depot at some point in history as it had a permanent layer of sooty grime all over it. It looked like it could survive anything and most likely had.  I pulled open the pit building door and stepped inside.  The shop foreman was right there at the door, with his back to me. I called out to him, “Frank,” I said. Reaching out towards him.

                 Frank spun around and pointed a shotgun in my face. He started screaming if I was “one of them. Are you one of them?” To which I had to scream back that I wasn’t and had no idea what he was talking about. He kept the shotgun pointed nearly up to my nose as he eyed me up and down from the stock. I had my arms up at shoulder level and looked back in Frank’s direction. “Take it easy man,” I said, “I’m not one of them. I’m one of you, buddy.”

                 The shotgun slowly fell from my nose and towards the floor. Frank turned back around and looked off into the depths of the pit building. “They’re everywhere in here. All over the place. Hundreds of them, I think. They usually come out at night, but they’re out today. Before sunset,” said Frank as he licked his lips frantically.

                 “Who,” I asked.

                 Frank didn’t look away from the far end of the building. As if he was watching for something to come jumping out of the shadows.

                 “The vampires. The damn vampires, man,” said Frank.

                 I couldn’t help but smirk. I didn’t believe in Vampires. It was just a scary story. Propaganda from Romanian folklore.

                 “See,” said Frank. He pointed the shotgun towards his left and I traced the path of his gesture. Trying to get my eyes to adjust to the dim conditions. “I got those two. They went after Mary. She ran off. Don’t know where. They bit her though. Bit her good,” said Frank.

                 On the ground to Frank’s left were two pale, mostly hairless, bodies. They looked almost powder blue in the dim light.  Their ears were long and pointy. They had long talons on their hands. And a Devil tail, poking out of the small of their backs.

                 “Wow,” I said.

                 “Wow? That’s what you say? Wow? C’mon man. Freaking Vampires man,” said Frank.

                 I said I didn’t know what to say. I’d never seen vampires before. I really thought they were a myth.

                 “Well, these myths killed most of the second shift. It’s like they went blood lust berserker or some godless thing,” said Frank.

                 “Wow,” I said again. Frank looked at me again over his shoulder. I said I was sorry. He shook his head and returned his attention to the far end of the building.

                 “You see that down there? Those shadows, darting in and out,” asked Frank. I did not see them. I couldn’t see them. I didn’t say anything though.

                 “Those other sons of a bitches, they’re plotting something. I can tell,” said Frank.

                 “Where’s everyone else? The rest of the workers,” I asked.

                 “Dead. They’re all dead. Cut to pieces by these things,” said Frank. He hunched down behind the makeshift redoubt of machine shop tool carts and various pieces of scrap and garbage. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

                 “So, should I like, go the way I came in? I’ll just leave then,” I asked as I started to move back towards the door. Frank grabbed me by the sleeve and pulled me down next to him on the ground.

                 “No, no, no, my friend. Now that you’re in here they have your scent. They’ll follow you home and eat you in your bed. That’s what happened to Jimmy. After he left last night. He called me, screaming, saying that there were vampires in his house. You know, he only lives three miles from here. So they followed him home and got him,” said Frank, “That’s why I came with my shotgun today.”

                 I didn’t know Jimmy. He was a third shift guy and I was a second shift guy and we really didn’t interact much. I didn’t say anything though.  Frank was really on edge as it was.

                 “So, what’s the plan then,” I asked.

                 Frank gripped the shotgun in both hands and took a deep breath. He arched his neck back a bit to see around the corner of his temporary shelter, looking back towards the far end.

                 “I think we’re okay for now. They aren’t coming like they were earlier. As people were coming into the building. The vampires were swooping down from the rafters and just plucking people right up off the ground and dragging them back off that way. It was… it was horrible,” said Frank.

                 “Damn,” I said. I looked up at the high ceiling, but I couldn’t really see anything up there. Just corrugated steel and the high metal rafters. Just a normal looking ceiling. I wouldn’t have likely believed Frank about the Vampires, but the two blueish corpses just feet away were hard to ignore. “So, are we just going to stay here? I mean, that doesn’t sound like a good plan. Shouldn’t we go into the sunlight or start making crucifixes or wooden spikes or something,” I asked.

                 Frank was holding the barrel of the shotgun against his cheek, resting his head on it. He seemed sleepy.

                 “I’m just so thirsty,” said Frank, “I just need something to drink. I’m so thirsty.”

                 I took out my lunch box. The nice one I got from my mother two Christmases ago. I got out my Thermos and passed it to Frank. It was filled with Kool-Ade. He took a long sip and then spit it out. Spraying me and everything in the area in red Kool-Ade. “What the hell,” he shouted.

                 I explained that it was Kool-Ade. That I liked Kool-Ade and he didn’t have to drink it if he didn’t like it. He passed my Thermos back to me and wiped the Kool-Ade off his chin. “What are you, frigging Nine-years-old?”

                 “I just like it okay. I think we have more important things to worry about other than my beverage of choice,” I said defensively.

                 Frank wiped at his mouth again. “Shit tastes like, battery acid, or like, shit. Like actual shit,” said Frank. “I can’t drink that. I don’t want to drink that,” said Frank. He looked back down the length of the building, into the shadows. He started mumbling to himself about how thirsty he was. That they made him so thirsty. I wasn’t going to wait around for him to start lusting after my good blood so I grabbed a shovel off the wall and before Frank could turn back around, I hit him as hard as I could along the back of his head. The shovel made a loud “Pang” sound and Frank tumbled to the ground.

                 The Vampires at the end of the building. The ones Frank had been watching in the shadows started to squeal, or maybe laugh. Because it was sort of funny. The noise the shovel made as it connected with Frank’s head. I had to admit. I chuckled a little. “Pang,” I said again.  

                 I heard other shuffling around me, tools dropping with loud metallic thuds onto the concrete floor. I reached over Frank’s body and grabbed his shotgun. I noticed even though I had hit him pretty hard, and hilariously, there wasn’t any blood coming out of the wound on the back of his head. Which I figured meant he didn’t have that much blood left over. I started to wonder if he was a trap. Like bait, and as employees came in, he’d set them up and then let them get eaten or something. I didn’t really know.

                 Some big piece of machinery sounded like it was being dragged across the floor, grumbling loudly. I could feel it in my whole body.  I hoisted the shotgun up onto my shoulder and stood up. I looked into the darkness of the building. It had indeed gotten significantly darker. Some of the larger overhead shop lights were clearly broken creating shafts of darkness throughout the building.

                 “Crap,” I said. I started to back up towards the door. The one I came in through. I no longer believed that Frank was telling me the truth about Jimmy. Whoever that was. I kept backing up, holding the shotgun in front of me. Keeping my eyes on the darkness. I felt my back hit the wall behind me and I started moving towards my right, towards the door. I had to look to my right to make sure it was there. It was. I could see the thin shaft of daylight between the door and the jamb.  I turned my head back towards the darkness. I could hear more squeals, like bats. I slid along the wall until I felt the handle of the door on my back, just above my hip. I reached with my hand that wasn’t on the trigger of the shotgun and flung the door open.

                 A bunch of leaves blew in through the door in a blast of waning Autumn sunlight. I stepped back through the doorway and then turned and slammed it behind me. I leaned against the door. Feeling like I had just run a marathon. The sun was indeed going down. “Damn early sunsets,” I said as I caught my breath.  At least I was outside and could breathe.  I stood up and started walking toward the main office building. I figured there had to be some kind of corporate response. Although I wondered if Corporations actually had fall back plans for Vampiric invasions. I didn’t remember seeing that in the company handbook.

                 I walked across the campus courtyard, towards the main building. It was the nicer part of the property. All well-manicured, watered and mowed.  Along the grass’s edge there were piles of smoldering ashes. Whipped up in the wind. As if a great many people had tried to run through the sunshine and just burnt up, like vampires do.  If we’re to believe TV and movies, but not Twilight. I didn’t read Twilight. My girlfriend did and then we had to go see the movies. And those were just bad. I mean, I actually didn’t hate Kristen Stewart, but the rest, was just not scary or even interesting. At the moment though, I could go for some sparkly vampires that wanted to play baseball, rather than slaughter all my co-workers. Or turn them into Vampires too. Which is what I was guess happed in the campus courtyard.

                 The main building front doors and window glass was all smashed. I didn’t see any bodies though. Which I assumed meant the Vampires carried off their prey to some hidey-hole. They did a pretty good job of covering their tracks. I was a little disappointed that I had missed the fact that there had been vampires all over this place and I never saw them while I was working. Like, how often do you get to see that?

                 I looked up the face of the four-story main building to see if I could see anything or anyone maybe in the windows. I couldn’t see anyone. There had been less cars in the parking lot, but there were on average 300 people on the property a day. So not to see anyone, except Frank, was terrifying. I walked into the lobby of the main building and crunched across the glass on the white tiled floors. The little water fountain feature was still running near the front desk area. It was flowing with blood instead of water but that somehow didn’t seem unnatural considering the situation. The Girl from Ipanema was even playing quietly from the overhead speakers. “Typical,” I said.

                 I moved my way through the lobby towards the elevators. They seemed to be running just as well as Blood Fountain and the Muzak. I stepped into the elevator car and hit the top floor button. “Damn it. I left my Thermos behind,” I said.

          The elevator rode smoothly up to the fourth floor, the executive floors. The doors slid open and I stepped into the hallway. I had the shotgun out in front of me again. I didn’t even know if it was loaded. I never took any shells off Frank’s body so it might be completely useless. “Should have kept the shovel,” I thought.  I crept through the office double glass doors. Which seemed fine and unbroken. The office looked completely normal, other than the total lack of any living souls. There was still coffee steaming in the pot in the break room. There was just silence.  There was a TV in the break room. The sound was off, but the news was on; reporting some kind of world-wide Vampire attack. They came up from holes in the ground and just totally grabbed up tons of people. I turned the volume up slightly.

The terrified looking reporter spoke to the camera as the sound came up, “…cameraman Joe, didn’t make it. He was grabbed and pulled off. I am hiding in a closet. It’s a nightmare come to life outside…,”. The feed went dead, then flickered to a TV studio. The anchor person sat there, trying to listen to the producer in his ear. He wasn’t saying anything, so I turned the sound back down.

 I put the shotgun on one of the break room tables and went over to the coffee. I took one of the Styrofoam cups and poured myself a cup. There was no creamer or milk and I didn’t know where the sugar was. So I just sipped it black. It was pretty good. Better than the machine shop coffee.  I took another sip. The Anchor person was talking again. I turned the volume back up on the TV.

 “…have been informed that if you are watching this or hearing it, to just take shelter where you are and not to leave unless absolutely necessary. There is a military response underway at this time. Please return to your homes or anywhere safe and try to see if you can ride this out…,” said the anchorperson.

 Which was good advice I thought. Just stay put. No reason to risk my neck out there. Plus, it seemed like I was the only one left.  I went over the windows of the break room and looked out towards the flat landscape and that long fence, rimming the perimeter of the property. “What a funny looking fence,” I said as I sipped my coffee.  

 

 

Ghost Shop - Ghost Show

 

The billboard proclaimed

everyone should come to see

the brand-new “Ghost Shop – Ghost Show”

on the Avenue of Main at the

stroke of Three.

 

The billboard hadn’t been there

yesterday, you see, decorated

with flashing neon commands for such an affair,

so you dare not miss it,

for the penalties would be despair, it read.

 

There was no sign post or billboard

the day before, nor the day before,

it was just there, suddenly, a bold neon sign,

just along the road, mysteriously appeared,

but no one worried it seemed, except Abby.

 

“A Ghost Shop,” scoffed Abby, with

a shrill sort of snort.

“There’s no such thing as specters or

ghouls, only a way to for a business

to fool people and their money extort.”

 

Thought Abby aloud,

to the crowd,

who booed and hissed

forcing her to kowtow

and shrink back to the shadow.

 

The Avenue of Main, near the stroke of three,

was packed with those people wanting to know,

what was indeed the Ghost Show, at the

Ghost Shop, the billboard had so proudly

proclaimed.

 

Abby snorted, in her shrill sort of way,

“I bet the proprietor is a monster, here to

steal souls and make a clean getaway.”

The crowd hushed her again, saying,

“Go away doubting Abby, you spoil our fun.”

 

The Church bells tolled three loud chimes,

and the doors to the store opened wide,   

plumes and tendrils of smoke wafted out,

the crowd eagerly cried their, “Oooh’s.”

the owner came out with a spooky glide.

 

“Welcome to the Ghost Shop – Ghost Show,” said the gaunt man.

“It’s my pleasure to welcome all you boys and ghouls!”

His boney wrist cracked as it flicked and produced

a bouquet of funeral lilies from up his long sleeve.

To which the crowd applauded, politely it seemed.  

 

A witch cackled and flew down from the sky,

her broom landing between the man and the door,

“Horace, you fool. This shop is cursed,

as I told you before.” Her long finger pointed

at the man’s wrinkled lapel.

 

“Horace,” chuckled Abby, “What a name to have!”

She nudged the ribs of the man next to her

who said, “Ow, that hurt. Please… I’m

trying to watch the show, leave me alone.”

Abby bit her lip and bowed her sad head.

 

“Eunice, you hag, be away with you!” shouted the

gaunt and mysterious proprietor at the

ugly old witch. “I’ve trinkets and treasures

to sell to these good people.”

To which the people cheered and clapped.

 

The witch looked at crowd,

perplexed as to why they cheered so loud.

“No, you see, I’m here to help. This man is no man,

no quiet shopkeeper. He a demon from beyond, a

casual Grim Reaper.”

 

The crowd, whipped up by this new shop,

wanted things and wares from Ghosts and whatnot,

so they threw stones and rocks at the poor woman,

and caused her to flee, but before she left,

she made a decree, “You’re all idiots, except that one.”

 

She pointed at sad Abby, who looked up, “Who me?”

The witch nodded from her broom, “That one there,

she’s the only one not doomed.” With another cackle

the witch clicked her heels and flew up to the sky

out of sight.

 

The billboard was gone the very next day,

the town was in flames and people went away,

except for doubting Abby, who rose above the fray,

to spend a nice evening drinking tea and eating cakes,

with the Witch of the Mountain at Halloween Hall.

 

  

B Side

 

                Brett checked the sound levels in the recording booth and gave the Devil a thumbs up.

                 “It all sounds great Satan. I think it’ll really be a great record,” said Brett into the studio microphone.

                 “You think so? I’m a little unsure about the whole ‘send me your babies, or I’ll give you rabies’, line in the second verse. I think it’s just… bad,” said Satan.

                 Brett lit a cigarette, even though you’re not allowed to smoke in the engineering room. He brushed his long, but thinning hair off his forehead. His fingernails painted black, fingers covered in silvery skull rings and black tattoos.

                 “Satan, baby, it’s playing backwards,” said Brett with a shrug, “I mean, will kids even know how to play a song backwards? Hell, I don’t even think kids have record players or turntables anymore to put your record onto and then spin it backwards, by hand. I just… I just don’t think kids are like, doing that anymore man,” said Brett.

                 “Yeah. That’s true. But I have a five hundred-record deal and I have to live up to my end. I mean, a deal is a deal, right,” asked Satan.

                 “Of course darling, of course. You gotta do what you have to do, but listen mate. What if we did this whole record, in a totally new format, something totally revolutionary, something so completely new that it will have the kids jumping off buildings and dropping their panties like the old days, eh,” said Brett.

                 Satan put down his fire engine red 16 string guitar. He stood up from the recording studio stool, stretched his sheep legs and scratched his hooves on the floor. “Ugh, I have to get back into shape,” he grumbled.

                 “Brett, listen,” said Satan, “I totally want to get into some new formats. Holograms, digital versions of my music, but I have to do it my way and in my time. I mean, U2 already beat me to the forcible download like, so many years ago with Apple. Oh and I love how they keep coming up with “new” phones every ten minutes. It’s awesome really.  But I have a process. And that process involves a very cumbersome listening experience that my true fans have grown to love and obey.”

                 “Satan, lover, I got you. I hear what you are saying,” said Brett.

                 Satan turned and looked at Brett behind the glass of the recording studio.

                 “Did you just call me lover,” asked Satan.

                 “Um, yeah, is that a problem Satan…,” shrugged Brett.

                 “Listen. This is a professional environment and I’d like to keep it that way. So please keep your lusty thoughts to yourself,” said Satan.

                 “Satan, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I was just a goof mate,” said Brett.

                 Satan went back to the stool in the recording studio. He picked up his massive guitar and rested it on his lap.

                 “Brett, I’m sorry but I don’t think this is working out. I think you have a different vision for this album than I do. So… yeah, you’re fired,” said Satan.

                 Brett stood up in the engineering studio, his headphone dropping to the floor, as he backed away from the control consol. “Satan, no, I’m… I’m so sorry. I believe in your vision, I do, I really, really, really, do…,” cried Brett.

                 “Saying ‘really’ three times does not help your case. Thanks for your service. Good-bye,” said Satan as he snapped his fingers.

                 Brett burst into flames and ash and crumbled to the ground in a charred pile.

                 “Send in the next one,” said Satan. He started strumming his guitar, “Send me your babies, I’ll give you rabies…,” he hummed.  “Still not right…, ugh”.

 

 

Werewolf Lamentations

 

Another ruined pair

of pants,

another shredded teen-ager

caught beneath my

fingernails.

Another Full Moon. Damn it.

 

I howl and warn at

passers-by in the woods

that I’m out there, prowling

through the mists,

but they just keep coming.

Being loud.

 

Traipsing through my

territory like the dumb

teenagers that they are.

The stacks of teen-ager

corpses should be warning enough,

but the sheriff says it’s unrelated.

 

They think some lunatic

escaped from the local

asylum. When’s the last time

anyone lived by the, “Local Asylum?”

as if they’re just dotted throughout

the rural landscape.

 

I ate those kids,

and ruined my favorite pair

of jeans in the process.

There’s just no getting them

washed or fixed. I should just

go back to wearing sweatpants.

 

I don’t like sweatpants though,

the elastic is good for when I change,

but otherwise, they’re pretty uncomfortable.

Especially when I’m human

and I have a date. Who looks good in

sweatpants on a date?

 

I mean I eat her either way,

but still, I want to look nice before I

devour her. I mean, I’m not a monster.

I’m just a werewolf.

I’m just a man.

Sort of. 

 

Ghost Toasties

 

The Ghosts and Ghouls

will get you,

if you let them,

but they’ll probably

get you anyway.

 

They can go through walls,

and find you in any

little nook or cranny

in which you try to hide.

They’re clever that way.

 

They “Boo” and “Hiss”,

and twist your stomach

into knots, they jump

out at you around corners,

and turn a smile into a frown.

 

The scratching noise on the walls,

deep into the night, isn’t

that tree branch that’s just a

little to long. It’s them.

The Ghouls, digging after you.

 

The Ghosts, moaning, rattling

their chains, as they stalk you

across every creaking floor board

and tired house joist.

Keeping you from finding sleep.

 

They want you to know,

that they know what scares you,

and they will churn your nightmares

into butter that they can spread on their

dark breakfast bagel.

 

Which you can order at any IHop

I think. Although it comes with cream

cheese rather than nightmare butter,

but still, it’s chilling.

So satisfying, it’s spooky.

 

Is anything scarier than

advertising?

I’m startled to say the least.  

__________________________________________________________________________

Picture from: ---- https://bellyfull.net/ghost-toast/ 

Tap-Dancing Hells

 

There’s a bumbling shadow

flashing across my moonlit bedroom walls,

a lanky fellow, in a top

hat and tails, tap-dancing;

badly.

 

He’s quite thin,

toothpick arms and legs,

but thick in the middle,

a distended belly of

sorts, shadily protruding.

 

I only sort of catch him,

if I’m glancing that way,

he may be a bad dancer, but he’s

quick on his feet and flees

my quick gazes.

 

I think he twirls a thin

cane too, but he’s too quick

to see all that well, plus he’s

a shadow, which are typically

poorly defined, as shadows go.

 

I think I saw him eating

a sandwich once,

a comically large sandwich,

even with the olive pinned

to the top slice of bread.

 

I guess all that bad dancing

must keep him thin, and yet

he can’t follow a beat and doesn’t

seem to understand rhythm.

It’s amazing, and terrifying.

 

There he is,

in my bedroom, leaping from

dresser to dresser as if he were

Gene Kelly, but never went to art school,

a black mass, step-ball changing through the night.

 

He’s haunting me,

he’s so undefined,

is he a ghost; or is it

just my mind, in the low light

of night;

 

Playing tricks on me,

while black cats whine and

cold winds blow autumn leaves,

scratching and scraping like long claws on

the cold sidewalks.

 

It’s scary to see him,

it’s unnerving that he might

be there, behind me,

in front of me, always there.

As I pull the bed covers up to my eyes.

 

A horror of wondering;

what if I’m him,

or even worse,

what if,

he’s,

me?

 

 

Sand

 

Sand is old.

Thousands of years old.

The pulverized remains

of rocks and coral,

eroded by the tidal waves and time,

over the course of thousands of years.

Yet it has no memory.

 

Greek warriors,

Roman Senators,

Persian Kings,

may have stridden upon the

very rocks and stones that make

the sands we lay our beach blankets on.

It's memory, underfoot.

 

Sand gets everywhere.

In the crevices and cracks

of our bodies, our clothes,

our lives.

Small grains, individually unnoticed,

wash up along the beaches and shores

of our memories. We find it everywhere.

 

Mountains of sand,

piled in wild clumps,

dunes of remembrances,

of victories and of losses.

Memories of faces lost,

to the whims of life’s sandstorms

and unpleasant whirls of the wind.  

 

Sand slipping silently

through clenched fingers,

as memories escape,

the times spent together,

the angry,

the happy,

the silent.

 

Sand, so roughly hewed

over millennia, deposited

in our very laps, only to

be pulled away, back to the

raging seas from whence

it came. Yet we’re left with the particulate.

  

The small grains of sand,

in our shoes,

between our toes, under our nails,

so embedded that it never

seems to shake.

Like tiny shards of our memory,

stuck to our minds, forever.

 

Gone, but never gone.

Replenished.

Depleted.

Remade.

Found.

Lost.

Us.