Tag Archives: Flash Fiction

Dunston Monster: Shotgun Welcome

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a flash series part 1 of 8 by David G Shrock

See Dunston Monster Contents page for series information.

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Late evening air held its breath. An ammunition round popped into shotgun barrel freezing blood. Menacing eyes glared down the length of the barrel. Oozing around legs, fog licked the gunman.

Sebastian followed the instruction, he raised his hands in the air. His heart beat faster. This was not the first time he faced someone threatening his life, a hazard of being so big, but experience didn’t make it easier. His gaze swept the road. Lights glowed within the fog: a nearby lantern swung gently in an unseen hand, a candle illuminated a window, and deep within the murk a wriggling glow of a fire sparked. He could make out the dark shape of a second man, a boy maybe, a few feet behind the gunman. The others he heard, a murmur among boots shifting in the muddy road.

Another barking order, and Sebastian found himself taking a step closer, boot squishing mud. Even with his long coat closed tight, he shivered. His revolver pressed against his hip, beneath the coat, beyond reach.

“Look at the size of him,” said the boy. Sloshing mud, he scrambled back, fog consuming him.

Sebastian grinned, a reflex pulling at muscles. Whenever he found fear in the faces of others, a warm smile put everyone at ease. He reminded himself that the people of Dunston feared a menace. They needed reassurance. His smile burned fog from his face. His heart raced on.

“Why ya here?” The gunman’s voice sounded old, worn. His aim drooped to the giant’s legs.

“The church,” said Sebastian. The truth was his shield, and he prayed it held strong. “Father Gustav sent me.”

“Walk all the way here?”

“Took a train to Brook Grove. I walked from there.” Sebastian searched the fog. Only the gunman stood out. Dark shapes grew out of the murk, buildings huddled on both sides of the road. “They didn’t have a horse big enough to carry me.”

“Reckon not for a giant.”

“Please,” said Sebastian. This was his second assignment for Gustav. The Warton Haunt had turned out to be a case of simple superstition. Already this one set his nerves on fire. “I’m here to help.”

Shadows shifted within the fog, the light from the hidden fire at the far end of the road dimmed and brightened again. The scent of roast pork hung in the air.

“It comes with the fog,” said the boy. He sloshed closer emerging from the mist. “A monster.”

“Hush boy!” The gunman spat. Teeth gritting, he raised the shotgun higher aiming for the huge torso. “I reckon this giant is with our monster.”

Father Gustav had mentioned very little, a murder, an unholy terror. Sebastian remained still trying his best to maintain a pleasant expression. His heart thumped. “The sheriff,” he said. “Father Gustav mentioned the sheriff expects my arrival.”

Mud sloshed, shadows moved within the fog, the residents of Dunston crept closer. Murmurs, the fog swallowed their hushed voices. The gunman’s finger crept over the trigger, and his hand shook. The boy glanced at the gunman, eyes growing big.

“Missing,” said the gunman, whispering. His hands trembled. “No sheriff here.”

Sebastian knew nothing more dangerous than a frightened man with a gun. The fog was no help. He wondered how his father, Rhemus the Giant, had dealt with situations like this. A smile and a reassuring voice he imagined. Giants were only good for three things: hefting big loads, reaching high places, and threatening others. Sebastian felt comfortable with the first two. The third he avoided.

“Allow me to prove myself,” said Sebastian, uncertain where the words came from. Channeling his father’s spirit, he supposed. “I will find your monster.”

“Tabitha,” said a woman, a shape within the fog.

The gunman gritted his teeth. “Hush Verna!”

“Thomas!” Verna pushed through the mist and stood behind the gunman. “Give the giant a chance.”

Sebastian nodded feeling his heart thumping into his throat. He saw kindness within the woman’s eyes, and focused on her as a connection. “My name is Sebastian Rhemus. Pleasure meeting you, Verna.”

“Look at him him, Thomas,” said Verna, smiling. “He has the face of an angel.”

Eyes narrow, Thomas studied Sebastian. “Like the devil, I reckon.” His voice was quiet. His hands recovered steadying the shotgun.

Heart thundering, Sebastian focused his mind on a calm summer day, imagining the warmth on his face. He smiled at Verna, and seeing her return the smile he found his heart slowing.

“Thomas.” Verna scowled at the gunman.

“We have two dead and one missing,” said Thomas. He lowered the shotgun. “Cry my pardon if I seem anxious.”

Sebastian lowered his hands, and his heartbeat fell.

“Very well, giant. Find our monster.” Thomas licked his lips. Eyes narrowing, he glared at Sebastian with suspicion. “Return our Tabitha.”

Folding hands together, Sebastian nodded into a bow. “I will.”

“Only then will we welcome you to Dunston.”

Sebastian wanted to stay, reassure them, investigate, but part of him liked the idea of getting away, clear of the shotgun’s reach and beyond the creeping fog. Besides, the missing woman needed him. He thought best to keep the questions brief, focus on finding their Tabitha before it was too late.

Thomas nodded over his shoulder. “Start with Myrtle Ridge. Where the monster dwells.”

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Continue reading Part 2: Tabitha

Mother Dove

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a flash story by David G Shrock

“What’s the matter with you?”

Fred winced at the familiar query. Crouched, he held the paintbrush tight. He knew what came next. It never failed. Dipping the brush into the can, he sloshed white paint onto the fence.

Leaning on her walker, Mother Dove stood on the porch glaring across the yard. “Have a hole in your head?”

Paint slapped on wood turning mottled gray white. Bristles splattered paint on Fred’s face. Frowning, he continued on pretending the old woman was dead.

“After Labor Day,” said Mother Dove. “The yard can’t wear white.”

“Yes, Mother Dove,” said Fred. The old woman was never quite right, but it seemed the accident had stolen more than her hip. “But the fence is a blight.”

“Fred, my boy, paint the fence red.” she said. “It will go with the leaves. Might as well, you’ll not rake them anyhow.” Mother Dove turned, moved her walker clunking across the boards. She leaned on the handles, and her feet waddled a rump-rump sound. Clunk-rump-rump she went back inside.

Snatching the pail, Fred stood wondering how he put up with her. “Love,” he said, “it’s all that matters now.”

After finishing the fence, painted burgundy, Fred looked over the yard. The lawn needed mowing, the flowers demanded water, and rot threatened the eaves. He mowed the grass, even raked up stray blades from the flower garden. The yard appeared neat even without white.

Ladder leaned against the house, Fred climbed, a trowel in hand. Digging into moss and murk, he cleared the eaves, scratching away years of neglect. He heard the door open, and he paused.

Then it came, a clunk-rump-rump. “Fred?” said Mother Dove, moving her walker, a clunk-rump-rump. At the edge of the porch, she looked up. “What’s the matter with you? Have a hole in your head?”

Oh, Fred thought, how I wish her dead. He peered down. “The eaves,” he said.

“No leaves in them eaves!” Mother Dove stomped her walker on the boards. “It’s nap time as you’re well aware! Boy, let the eaves be. I have a new birdbath, didn’t you see?” A clunk-rump-rump, Mother Dove dragged her bad hip back into the house.

Fred climbed down the ladder and headed into the garage. He stood staring at the birdbath. The stone structure stood half his own height. “The birdbath will look great beside the oak tree.”

Grabbing the wide basin, he swung the pedestal out landing with a thud. His shoulders ached, but his love for Mother Dove carried him on. As quiet as he could, he walked the birdbath thudding between his soft steps across the lawn.

Positioned between the oak tree and rose bushes, the birdbath was a sight. All it needed was a splash of water. Turning around, he spotted the old woman on the porch leaning over her walker.

“Fred, have a hole in your head? That’s the north end!” Mother Dove shook her head. “Everybody knows birds bathe south for winter. You’re as dull as the dead!” A clunk-rump-rump she went into the house again.

Hands clenched, Fred stormed across the lawn, stomped onto the porch, and through the open doorway. He loved Mother Dove, but the wreck had stolen more than her hip. Reaching behind the door, he grabbed the baseball bat and swung. The sound meeting his ears was not the expected crack, more like a thunk of a melon. No more rumping and clunking, she slept in her own blood for more than an hour.

The sun down, town asleep, Fred turned off the porch light and crept, shovel in hand, into the garden. He scooped the petunias and begonias aside. He dug a hole. Twice he paused to listen, but not a sound met his ears. Finished digging, he returned to the house. Hefting the portly woman over-shoulder, he took the walker in hand, and stomped outside. He dumped the old bag, walker and all, into her grave.

“See what I did? No hole in my head.”

Petunias and begonias back in place, there was only one more thing to set everything right. Fred carried the birdbath, thumping across the lawn between his steps, and plopped the stone monument among the flowers.

“South side it is. Just like Mother Dove said.”

Returning to the house, Fred threw the door shut and took to the sofa. Arms sore, legs weary, he leaned back for a well deserved doze. Hands folded over belly, he closed his eyes.

A clunk sound broke his repose.

Sitting up, Fred gazed at the closed front door. It came again, a clunk on the porch. What could it be at this late hour? He already knew, and a rump-rump confirmed it. Another clunk-rump-rump, and the door flew open. Mother Dove, covered in dirt, leaned over her walker.

“Fred my boy,” said Mother Dove. “You never been right since the smash-up.” Clunk-rump-rump, she walked into the house spilling a cloud of dust. “A hole in your head, isn’t that what I said?”

Fred scrambled to the mirror, and there he saw it within his mess of hair, a circle of red. “I have a hole in my head,” he said. “All along since the car accident, we’ve been dead.”

Darkness Was Her Dress

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a flash story by David G Shrock

Looking at the girl, Nyx found a face wrecked in worry. She noted the clasped hands, thumbs working flesh.

Nobody ever asked anything of Nyx besides her swift departure. Men huddled by the fire or hid in their homes. They never faced her. Nobody ever did, not until that early morning the young girl came calling.

Removing her hat, Nyx peered up at the glimmering stars. Considering the request, she ran fingers back through her dark hair. The moon smiled, but face half illuminated it appeared more like a sneer. Looking east, she saw the red embers reminding her of a kiss.

The request came again in a burst of tears.

Patting hat on head, Nyx offered a smile. It felt cold, and she saw fear in the wide eyes.

Agreeing to the request, Nyx tugged at her dress gathering the darkness about her. She stormed across the meadow her cold gaze bearing down on Black Woods. Nocturnal insects sang their songs. Hair blowing, dress flowing, she crossed a river. A man dove into a home, door slamming shut. Entering the woods, she stormed up the mountain, river of darkness flowing behind her.

Atop the granite peak, the moon lit the way. Creeping from the woods, the wolves circled around. Some snarled, others cooed. Reaching out, she stroked their black manes as each one passed. Alpha took position upon his rock, and the others settled down gnawing at bones.

Alpha grinned, teeth dripping satisfaction. “Mistress,” he said, “we have done you a great favor.”

Spotting a boy climbing upon the rock, Nyx recognized the eyes. The girl’s brother stroked Alpha’s back. In the west, red embers lingered on horizon. Glancing east, she watched light growing bold. The weight of the problem fell upon her.

“The lad only wants to see his dear sister,” said Alpha.

Nyx shook her head. “Don’t believe his lies.” The wolves of the night wanted her all to themselves, never again hiding in their cave from her lost lover. “He means to devour you both.”

The boy withdrew his hand, fear melting his face. He stepped down from the rock.

“Dusk is ours!” Alpha snapped his teeth and snarled.

Reaching into dark dress, Nyx withdrew a sword. Fury exploded from her dress, cold waving over the mountain. She held the sword high, blade sparking into night sky. Tails hanging, the wolves glanced about. Nyx lashed out releasing energy. The mountain darkened, and wolves yipped bounding into their cave. Another thunder sent Alpha leaping from his rock.

The blade simmered smoking tendrils.

Standing before the boy, Nyx offered a smile. Her frozen glare sent him stumbling back.

“Please,” said the boy. “My sister.”

Looking upon the sorrow, her own longing grew. Lover lost, a forgotten kiss tickled her face. The siblings deserved better.

Gazing at the lantern in the sky, she pleaded. Listening, the moon nodded thinking it over. The wolves grew bolder, yellow eyes glinting from their cave. At last, the moon smiled and offered a solution.

Turning to the boy, Nyx knelt. “You will see your sister again, but you must return. Guard the border.”

Wiping a tear, the boy nodded. He took the sword and descended the mountain into the west.

Already the dark wolves were bounding down the mountain towards orange blazing horizon.

Descending through woods, cascading darkness, Nyx chased after. Reaching into the dark, she unsheathed her last remaining sword. The blade glimmered lighting the way. Bursting into the meadow, she found the girl surrounded by wolves.

Growls rumbled. Jaws snapped. The girl retreated, but the pack closed in caging their prey.

The blade sparked, a blinding orange shattered air sending wolves tumbling. Leaping onto his feet, Alpha snarled at the light. Waving the sword, Nyx glared at the wolf.

Light burned higher into sky; the dark wolves were out of time. A growl at eastern horizon, Alpha turned and led his pack racing for the cave.

Holding out the sword, Nyx instructed the girl on its use. Light recharged the blade keeping dark wolves at bay. Taking the weapon, the girl queried about her brother.

Removing hat, Nyx wiped cold sweat from her brow. “A promise. You will reunite with your brother. Whenever the moon joins the sun, light and dark together, you two shall meet.”

Throwing arms around, the girl hugged her.

The dawn fire burned. Nyx remembered the day, not its warm touch, but the brightness. Facing south, she gazed up at sky. Half her face lit, the moon smiled brightening the dark side.

Morning birds sang greetings. Men stirred in their homes. The wolves hid in their cave. Nocturnal creatures took a deep breath chilling the air, and settled into slumber.

Squishing hat on her head, Nyx looked down at the pleasant eyes.

“Will you watch with me?” Another request. A little hand rose, fingers open. “Will you watch the sunrise?”

Gathering the darkness about her, she reached out and grasped the warm hand. Sky blazed, orange pushing back the darkness. Dawn glowed.

Winking, the moon signaled the sun: the passage was clear.

Nyx remembered sunrise, the grandeur. Warm kiss, a forgotten memory teased her cheek. Lips quivering, she yearned to return the sweetness.

Day fire burned extinguishing stars. The world faded, little hand slipping away, a fleeing memory. Storm of light and dark rumbled, a wind pulled at dress and tugged hair. Nyx clasped her hat, and the world returned in a breath.

Glancing west, Nyx spotted the burning horizon where Dusk stood holding his sword. She looked at her empty hand, recalling the warmth, remembering Dawn.

She waved at Dusk and spun around heading into a valley. Darkness was her dress flowing over the land. Never sleeping, she raged on. The night was hers, and she was the night. The night moved on.

Alley Shade

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a flash story by David G Shrock

Sketchpad under arm, Julie marches on the sidewalk. Cold breeze lifts hair off shoulder, and she glances up at the eastern sky expecting the glow of the rising sun. A handful of stars twinkle above city haze.

On the next block over a delivery truck groans, gears crunching into position. The traffic light switches from green to yellow. Julie leaps onto the sidewalk. Black Mary Janes clap cement.

Headlights glare in the far lane of the one-way road, a shadow slides across road, and a car rumbles by.

Eyes adjusting, Julie spots a figure standing in the center of the nearest lane. Watching the form, she slips fingers into the handbag and around a can of pepper spray. She distrusts anyone out at this hour, least of all those standing in the middle of the road. Pace quickening, she marches keeping eyes on the form to the right.

Baseball cap turns in her direction. The figure steps closer.

Finger touches spray nozzle. She watches the man.

Dressed in a puffy coat, hands in pockets, he steps into the glow of the streetlight. A shadow falls over the face beneath the brim of the cap. Untied laces flop around the left shoe.

The man pulls hand from pocket. “You see them?” The voice, hushed as if whispering, bellows sending her skin crawling.

Slowing pace, she glances in the direction of the pointed finger finding an entrance to an alley. Stopping in the glare beneath the lamppost, she looks around.

Home resides four blocks away, and her aching feet beg for rest.

The man shuffles closer, left foot dragging.

Peering at the alley corner, she sees wood pallets stacked against the wall and other shapes hidden in the dark behind them. Brow rising, she shakes her head. “Who?”

“Them.” Although an attempt at whispering, the hoarse voice is loud enough for them to hear in the alley, if anyone is there to hear at all.

“I don’t see anyone.”

“Call the cops.” Facing the alley, the man stands up on his toes, wobbling. He appears drunk or disoriented, but otherwise normal in clothes too nice for a homeless man. “Hey you little monsters! We’re calling the cops!”

Mind jumping to full alert, eyes growing big, Julie searches the shadows within the alley. The cold air wrapping around her legs sends shivers rising up her body, mouth shuddering.

A clap explodes from the alley.

She leaps onto toes, eyes growing wider.

“Do you see them,” says the man, nearly shouting his hoarse whisper. Standing, he shifts from foot to foot and points into the alley.

Wishing for something stronger than pepper spray—a gun or a grenade even—she bounces up on her toes, pivoting around and searches for an escape.

Just beyond the street on the previous block, a dark figure marches on the sidewalk blocking retreat.

“There,” he says. “Right there they are!”

Twirling around, Julie sees the man stumble onto the sidewalk, coming at her, hands flying out. His eyes are huge, full of fear. She leaps back from the waving hands, watching the man tipping towards her. The cap flies free, and the man falls, palms clapping on the sidewalk. Metal skitters across the rough surface, a dark object slides up clanging against the base of the lamppost.

Gaze falling on the pistol, Julie snatches it up. Hugging the sketchpad with her left arm, her right hand rises pointing the gun at the alley, finger falling on the trigger. Her first time, but the gun feels comfortable in her hand as if it belongs there.

“No good,” says the man, climbing to his feet. “Can’t kill them.”

The entrance to the alley is as before, pallets stacked against the far wall near the corner.

Arms out, he shuffles closer.

Pointing the gun at the man, Julie scurries back three steps. “Stay away!”

“Please, lady.” He clasps his hands together, wild eyes darting about. “Make them go away.”

“Who’s in the alley?”

He bites down on fingers. “They stay in the shadows. Watching. Always watching.”

She sees something besides fear in those eyes: the glassy orbs of confusion. With all the shouting, anyone hiding is gone by now. There might be someone in there, she thinks, shot earlier by the crazy man. She glances over her shoulder.

The figure stands at the street corner, beside the walk sign, hands in his pocket, a silhouette hiding in the shadows. Watching.

One eye on the crazy man, gun pointed at the ground, foot stepping in front of the other, Julie slinks closer to the alley. Heart pounding, she holds her breath peering into the darkness. Her flesh crawls. Face turns to ice.

Behind the pallets, a shape leans against the wall. Six feet tall, it stands, unmoving. Growing from the darkness, shape and texture build, a wrinkled surface appears, a tarp wrapped around a cylindrical object.

Julie releases her breath.

Standing at the entrance to the alley, she peers at the street on the far side. Beyond the pallets and the tarp, trash cans stand along the both walls, paper cups litter the ground, a tire sits in a puddle at the center.

“No one is there,” says Julie, turning back to the man.

Headlights flood the road, an engine roars.

She stuffs the pistol into her handbag. Glancing down the road, she looks at the corner now lit by the passing car. Seeing no one there, she sighs. Heart slows to a normal beat.

Feet stomping the sidewalk, the man in the puffy coat storms away crushing cap underfoot.

Watching the man, Julie considers of all the animals in the world only humans scare the crap out of themselves.

Clarabelle

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a #fridayflash excerpt from “Suffocation Bell” by David G Shrock

The smell of lilac and pine consumed the heavy air. Silence wrapped around becoming a constant chime. A softness cradled around nestled from head to toe. Time was lost, recent memories untouchable. Day or night, winter or summer, nothing was certain. The endless note increased in volume threatening to crack the darkness. Lilac overpowered pine turning sour. The heavy air wrung moisture. An invisible grip squeezed.

Clarabelle lurched up. Forehead struck—sparkles—and she flopped back down on the pillow puffing around each side of her head.

Hand rising, knuckles scraped a cold surface.

She rubbed her throbbing head.

Her hands slid down her front. Fingers caressed lace running over breasts, soft fabric snug around her belly, smooth loose folds swelled over her hips.

She wore her best Sunday dress.

Reaching into her memory, she searched for recent events. Images flashed: dancing in the garden, enjoying tea in the veranda. She watched the scenes, as a child running across the cotton field then as an adult sitting beside the fire, as a child again. No order, only the apparent age fitting each scene into place.

Hands rising, Clarabelle touched the cool wood above her face. Faint red with hazy edges, shapes followed her hand movement sliding outward along the smooth wood grain. She saw her hands.

Hearing a faint crunching sound, she dropped her hands on her chest and listened.

Insides gurgled. The invisible grip tightened. She breathed, gulping air in fits, lip quivering.

A swift crunch crackled from everywhere and nowhere.

Lifting her hand, elbow struck against a wall on the right, thud booming. Swinging hands out, she felt the narrow walls. Fists and feet hit the wood above, knocking, increasing into a fury, deep thuds beating against her ears. Flailing at the sides, her knuckles scratched against the wood biting into flesh.

Jaw stretching wide, searing heat bellowing up her throat, she released a shrill scream as she banged hands against the walls. Hot air rushed out, sticky phlegm splattering around her mouth. Abdomen caving in, the grip squeezed the air out of her turning the cry into a broken gurgle.

She sucked in air, head spinning. Tired feet fell silent, heavy hands collapsed upon her chest. Lungs pressing against the tight embrace, refused the air as if poison.

Throat burned. Tongue hanging out, she coughed fits.

Holding her hands before her face, she gazed at faint dark red splotches. Looking at the hazy spots, she relaxed. The pain withdrew, but the squeezing increased. Watching her hands, she realized there was light, an opening to freedom.

A gnash, vibrations raced underneath.

Turning head in each direction, she searched for the source of light, a hole or a crack. Lifting and twisting her head pressed against the wood, she peered around. Gazing down the length of her body, she saw her legs, a dim red haze within the dress.

A crunch and pop boomed.

She drew in a deep breath, stinging her throat. “Is somebody there?” Her own voice boomed in her ears.

Placing her hands against the roof, she pushed. Teeth clenched, she grunted and pushed. The right side gave a fraction and fell, hands tumbling onto her chest.

Crunch and snap. Everything shook. Metal scraped wood.

Scooting right, she pressed against the wall and raised both hands to the lid. Taking in a deep searing breath, she drew her knees up jamming between her abdomen and the enclosure. Releasing breath, she pushed with her hands and knees.

The lid bounced up, dirt and grit sprinkled over her arms and face. She spat acrid soil, the smell of the earth crawled into her nostrils. Feeling bugs scurrying, she scrambled, swiping at her face and arms, knuckles scraping wood.

She wheezed. Tugging at collar, buttons popped and fabric ripped. No help. Dress squeezed, suffocating.

Mouth wrenching open, she released a scream and pushed, arms molten hot, knees popping.

The top swung up, dirt pouring in as she lurched up, pushing and screaming, sounds shifting from the deep groan to an open echo. Light poured in. Her scream died, grit sticking inside her mouth.

“God save me,” a voice said.

Through the rising dust, Clarabelle saw a man stumbling back against a sloping dirt wall, his eyes bulbous and full of fear. A shovel fell from his grasp. Glancing up, she gazed out of a hole at a purple sky full of stars, bright wispy clouds of stars. Below, she saw her dress covered in dirt. Feet buried, she stood inside a casket, a slanted wall of dirt piled against the side.

The gravedigger crawled up the slope, pushing streams of dirt sliding into the hole. He cried out to God.

Even outside the coffin, the invisible grip tightened around threatening suffocation. Looking down at the Sunday dress covered in dirt, she scowled at the garment. Reaching between her breasts, she gripped her dress. She pulled tearing fabric. Her fingers dug into the white laces running the length of the corset, and ripped them free.

Wearing only her loose silk undergarment, breeze caressing skin, she tossed the corset aside. Her body expanded, and the burning within faded. Running fingers through her midnight hair, she combed dirt showering behind. Raising hands overhead, twirling in a circle, she breathed in the cool air of freedom.

She spotted another man above standing at the edge of the hole peering down. A hat with a wide brim rested atop his head. His face appeared ashen, ill, but his eyes captured her attention. The orbs were luminous, irises gleaming red. Although she failed finding the man in her memories, she recognized him at once as if whispered into her thoughts.

Demetri knelt and extended his arm. “I apologize,” he said. “Your illness took a turn for the worse. They believed you dead.”

“I have missed the sunset.” She gazed up at stars, jewels in the purple sea. “Was it beautiful?”

“Never as beautiful as the night.” The voice was a deep chorus, tranquil and soothing. “Or your dark hair glistening beneath the stars.”

Clarabelle accepted his hand.

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This excerpt is a flashback from “Suffocation Bell,” an urban dark fantasy short story of 8,000 words available for download in PDF and ePub at Suffocation Bell blog entry.

Warton Haunt

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a flash story by David G Shrock

The crank turned, ratchet clanking into place releasing an explosion of metal crashing throughout the cavern. Grinding over a massive wheel, chain rattled down the stone pit disappearing into darkness. The machine seemed better suited for an ancient torture device than a well. And whatever the chain held was heavy, far too heavy for a bucket of water.

Lifting the lantern, Sebastian held the light over the hole. The flame cast a shadow swirling against rectangular stone walls. Time had ripped at the mortar loosening stones, some sunken and others missing. Sebastian imagined at the bottom another wheel, wrecked by corrosion, held onto the chain. And no water. He suspected an old mine lay at the bottom.

Skewered through a big gear, the crank held opposing handles. The device required two average sized men turning the crank lifting whatever riches the ground once held. It was certainly not a well as Donner had called it.

Setting the lantern down, Sebastian gripped the handle with both hands. He stood hunched over, hat grazing the ceiling. His massive arms turned the crank, ratchet clanking, rumbling into his shoulders. A shape lumbered to the top, pungent odor wafting over the stone. Coal.

Sebastian glanced at the dark material piled inside a large metal bin hanging from the chain, and sat down. He wanted to please Donner and the kind citizens of Warton, but he felt as if he tip-toed at the edge of his knowledge. One misstep and he might plummet into rumor and superstition. And he did not want to let Father Gustav down. This was his first assignment, but he knew nothing of ghosts.

Was this how his father had spent his life? Chasing ghosts? He doubted it. Every job came with baggage. Somehow he had to find a way to put the people of Warton at ease.

Opening his satchel, Sebastian pulled out the book Father Gustav had given him without much explanation. Leafing through the pages touched by fine handwriting, he found sections on superstition and local folklore. Witchcraft seemed to be the most prevalent topic. And vampires. Finding nothing about ghosts, he flipped back to the page outlining general superstitions. Near the bottom of the page, he found a brief mention about lost souls.

The author advised reminding commoners that a lingering soul was complete rubbish. All spirits went to heaven or hell. And apparently those believing in silly superstitions were all destined for hell.

Putting the book away, Sebastian returned to the bucket of coal. Almost anything might explain strange sounds: a wind shooting up the shaft or scavenging critters. He needed proof. He tugged on the chain. It felt too strong to rattle for anything less than a storm. He listened. Peering around, he searched for tracks or droppings. Only his boot prints marked the sandy ground. He smashed his hand into the coal, digging.

His fingers touched something cold, narrow with a gritty texture. He snatched the object spilling coal onto the ground. Holding the slender thing before the light, he gazed at a brown bone covered in black specks and fibrous leather forming the unmistakable shape of a human hand.

The dead never made noise.

Without an explanation for the strange sounds, Sebastian hung his head in defeat and climbed the wood steps. Each groan, every creak beneath his great weight, echoed his failure. Reaching the top, he climbed into the storage shed, and headed for the open door. Ducking through the opening, he greeted the warm sunshine with a welcoming grin.

People clamored around the shed, their hopeful eyes peering up at the giant. Standing in front, Donner frowned at the bone in the big hand.

“Not a well,” said Sebastian. “An old coal mine is buried beneath.”

Glancing at each other, people nodded realizing this made more sense. A voice in the back shouted asking about the ghost. Nods turned to shakes, and all eyes peered up again.

Sebastian felt his grin fade. The air grew cold. He thought about warning against silly superstitions like the book advised, but without proof he had nothing to offer. He had no explanation, nothing at all, but an old arm from a forgotten miner.

“Here,” said Donner. The wrinkled face smoothed into a smile. Snatching the dead arm away, he faced the crowd and held the bone up like a trophy. “Here is the source of our troubles. Our haunt!”

The people of Warton gasped.

“We must put the remains at rest.” Lowering the bone, Donner held it to his chest and bowed his head. “Only then will the lost soul move on to the heavens.”

Looking around, Sebastian saw all the pleading eyes peering up at him, waiting for his approval. Even Donner looked up and waited. Although his book advised against it, and with nothing better to offer, he nodded.

The Warton residents seemed happy breaking into conversation. Donner smiled his approval. And Sebastian returned the smile feeling better if only by a little. With luck, moving the old crank might have killed the spooky sounds.

Let them have their ghost tale, Sebastian thought. Heaven had room for the superstitious.

Spotting a pair of men handling a broken wheel, the back of the wagon wobbling on its perch, he smiled at the job for a giant and marched across the road. “Allow me to hold that wagon.”

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To find all #FridayFlash stories about this character see tag: Sebastian Rhemus

A Grave Giant

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a flash story by David G Shrock

Arranged in rows by color, gold up front and red by the picket fence, chrysanthemums lined the left side of the stone path. The rows of perfect bundles curved with the path around a big oak. Shivering in the breeze, green and yellow leaves sent wiggling shadows over the path and flowers. Brown leaves tumbled catching in the chrysanthemums.

Sebastian Rhemus stood on the path staring at a leaf caught within white bulbs, serenity dancing within green defiled by decay.  Another crisp leaf blew over the gold row and into the white. Somehow it appeared as though the dead leaves swarmed onto the white chrysanthemums ignoring the others.

Footsteps tapped stone. The cadence told Sebastian the feet belonged to his sister, Mary, the eldest child of the Rhemus family. He listened to the clicks, a shuffle, another click of her toe over the other foot, the way she always stood whenever she had something important to say.

Another brown leaf fluttered around the flowers and landed in the same white chrysanthemum bundle. The dead had a way of clinging onto the living.

Mary exhaled loudly.

Squatting, Sebastian reached out and plucked the dead leaves. Closing his hand, he felt the crisp edges breaking into smaller pieces. His opening palm released pieces fluttering onto dirt.

“Mum loved her mums,” said Mary. Hugging herself, she twisted at her hips sending her black dress swishing about her feet.

Looking over, Sebastian found his sister staring at the flowers. Even squatting, he still stood taller if only by a hair. At her height the world appeared different. Others hid their emotions by gazing down so that he only saw the tops of their heads often obstructed by hats. From down low he watched the long stare peering beyond the flowers into another world.

There was no need for an announcement, Sebastian read it on her face. Mary planned on taking their little brother to stay with their uncle. A smart idea while his studies kept him away.

Hearing the clomping of boots and jingle of spurs, Sebastian stood turning around. He found a face sagging with leathery folds and held out a hand. “Marshal Williams.”

The marshal’s hand felt frail in Sebastian’s massive grip.

Glancing towards the end of the path where the guests picked at a table full of snacks, the marshal nodded. “I thought the funeral was last month.”

Sebastian folded his arms and bowed his head. “Our mother.”

“Grief took her,” said Mary.

“My pardon.” Removing his hat, Marshal Williams placed it over his chest. “I didn’t know.”

Mary excused herself and rejoined the others. The marshal started to speak, but coughed into his fist instead. The wind gusted sending the oak limbs waving into a song, several yellow leaves flew over the chrysanthemums and through the fence.

The marshal coughed. The wind settled to a breeze.

“You found the rest,” said Sebastian referring to his father’s remains.

His mother had spent all her time thinking about her loss, more than her share it seemed. Everyone knew, his mother most of all, Rhemus the Giant had a dangerous job protecting the wilds between towns. His mother had always appeared strong, but it seemed she had hid her pain within a tough shell. Maybe she had placed her strength in the hands of her giant husband.

“Vermin did nasty damage,” Marshal Williams said, “but no mistaking that big skull of his.”

Now Sebastian was the giant. His siblings depended on him.

The marshal slapped Sebastian on the back. “Come,” he said. “This day is for your mother. Other business will wait.”

Walking through the open gate, Sebastian watched all eyes pulling away from the snacks turning his way. They looked up to him. He was the size of a giant, but he felt small, helpless. Even giants fell. They all depended on him.

Holding head high, Sebastian marched over to the far end of the table to a large ceramic pot. Taking a white chrysanthemum, he walked to the pair of graves where the casket held by ropes floated over the pit. On the left, his father rested beneath the pile of dirt. Mary took a flower and joined him. The others brought flowers forming a circle.

The priest gave a short eulogy. Tears flowed, but not on the giant’s face. Four men turned cranks lowering the casket.

Sebastian tossed the first chrysanthemum, and the others dropped theirs, white chrysanthemums swirling into the darkness.

Grabbing a shovel, Sebastian filled the pit while the others watched. Strength was the trait of a giant, and he shoveled dirt in great heaps, his face remaining somber. He knew that Mary wept on his behalf, and gained strength from this. Grave filled, he speared the shovel into the ground and stood tall.

The others crept back to the table of snacks. Only Mary remained at his side.

Sebastian gazed at the two graves, at his parents resting beneath the fading sky. He felt better knowing they were together. “They both loved her mums.”

Ghost Curtain

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a flash story by David G Shrock

Waving like a curtain, the white fire burned across the horizon. Streams of pale green reached for the stars. Nyx felt the light on her face, a cool kiss tickling her cheek. Unlike any aurora she knew, this ghost curtain buzzed with energy. And it was in the west.

Glancing east, Nyx spotted red embers burning on the horizon. Dawn was on her way. Would the morning eat the nocturnal ghost light?

Tugging at her dress, she gathered the darkness about her. She stormed west over the hills, a river of darkness flowing behind her. The insects sang to the twinkling stars, and the wind moaned. The strange light in the west burned brighter. Pulling her hat down, she shielded her eyes. The tickle on her cheek became a fire.

Men exited the trees. Some formed packs while others stood alone, all peering west at the blazing spectral curtain. On the heels of Nyx, darkness swept in, a cold blanket chilling the land. Men dove away from the flooding darkness, bounding into the trees and into their homes. The river of night poured into the valley crashing into a barrier.

Peering through slanted eyes, Nyx gazed at the light. Her face burned. Unlike the warm kiss of her lost lover, the ghost fire’s touch felt like a freezing heat, licks of frost between jolts of scorching venom. The air crackled. Her hair flared out pushing hat higher. She clenched her dress to throat, summoning the darkness about her, and peered into the veil.

Men tended the fields, milked cows, and washed clothing in the river. Watching them felt like peering into secret things she had only imagined before. Children chased each other darting as a group. The flock ran to a thatched hut then burst into the trees. Among a circle of huts, adults spoke to each other, their faces smiling. They swatted at the air, at the sparking currents, but otherwise seemed unaware of the energy burning around them. They basked within the false day.

Spotting a familiar face, Nyx stepped back in surprise. Across the barrier the young man dressed in dark furs stood staring back at her with a crooked grin.

“The border,” said Nyx. Spotting Dusk Sword hanging from his belt, the weapon she had given him ages ago, she nodded. “Why have you abandoned your post?”

“Look.” He pointed over his shoulder.

She glanced at the children running around, at the adults working. The false day appeared nearly as pale as moonlight. Peering up, she took in the height of the shimmering veil. Reaching out, she touched the surface feeling the hot sparking energy. Running her fingers across left a wake of green spirals fading back to white.

“They don’t need to fear you anymore.” His voice carried a grim satisfaction.

“What is this?”

“From the sky.” Peering up, he gazed at the handful of stars twinkling within the veil. “An icy ball burst into fire and crashed.” Head dropping, he looked at the ground. “Brighter than day, fiery clouds reached into the sky. And left this.”

Peering inside, Nyx watched the men absently swiping at the energy. They appeared weak turning pale. Reaching out, she pushed against the barrier. She took a step, but the crackling energy pushed back.

“Now,” said the bearer of Dusk Sword, “I can see my sister again.”

Glancing over her shoulder, Nyx saw the burning eastern horizon. She recalled the day, not its warm touch, but the brightness, the mark of a lover’s kiss left upon her cheek. Turning her cold glare on the young man, she said, “You deceive these men by guarding this pale light.”

The young man set his hand on sword gripping the handle.

The world took a breath chilling the air.

“Dear brother,” a voice said, a soothing whisper. The young woman approached like a warm current, the grasses waving around her bare feet. Her nude golden flesh sparkled, and long red hair waved and wriggled about her. In her left hand she held Dawn Sword, the fiery blade sparking into the sky. “What are you doing here?”

There was no time for a reunion; the day would not wait. Reaching out, Nyx snatched the woman’s hand and tugged. They pressed through the barrier, energy rippling up the ghost curtain. The man backpedaled, stumbling. He released Dusk Sword. The blade glowed red then darkened, eating the pale light. Feeling the curtain’s energy fade, Nyx charged pushing a wake of darkness to each side. Dawn floated through the pale light.

Nyx snatched the retreating arm, and there she stood with a sibling in each hand.

Men glanced around confused by the night caught between sunrise and a false sunset within the pale light. Some ran into huts while others stood staring.

The day fire burned into the sky extinguishing the stars. Warm hand slipping away, Nyx latched onto the cool hand. Standing at the edge between light and dark, she watched the world fade away. Wind pulled at her dress. She clasped her hat, and the world returned in a breath.

Glancing west, Nyx spotted the burning horizon. Looking east, she saw the back edge of the false day, a wriggling curtain on the dark horizon. Already, it appeared weakened without its misguided guardian.

Releasing the arm, she pushed the guardian away. She glared at him. Head lowered, he sheathed his sword and marched west. Embers sank into the horizon, and stars filled the sky.

Spinning around, Nyx headed into the mountains. Darkness was her dress flowing over the land. Never sleeping, she raged on. The night was hers, and she was the night. Nyx moved on.