100 Words - Haunted?

 

I just found out that the house I lived in for 18 months, 20 years ago, is haunted. It was on TV. I was never haunted. Not a single ghost. Why didn’t the ghosts like me, or hate me, or whatever it is that makes them want to haunt someone? What’s wrong with me?

So I did some research. There were no reports of ghosts till the current owners bought the house. I also found that one of my favorite ghost debunking channels on YouTube went there and didn’t find anything. Makes me doubt the veracity of the TV shows.

100 Words - Save Me

 

When I was young I imagined that someday I would save a damsel in distress. Turns out that I was the damoiseau who needed saving, but my Dame in shining armor never came.

There were a couple close calls, but none of the woman understood their role. How could they? They, like me, expected me to be the hero. Most women are not raised to be heroes.

So I remain trapped in my self-inflicted tower. Advanced well past saving age. Slowly becoming part of the furniture.

100 Words - Hot Clerk

 

Every week for the last month it’s been the same. The hot gray-haired clerk glares at me over her glasses and the young bag girl smiles at me. Today the girl caught up to me outside and asked, “Are you ever going to ask out Shirley?” The ran back into the store.

So two days later, embolden by the bag girl’s question. I asked out the clerk. She gave me the death stare and said, “Never.” Not just no, but never. The only thing that saved my failing dignity, was that the bag girl was as shocked as I was.

Fallen Barn Valley

 

There is a valley in Pennsylvania that few roads find, where all the barns are falling down. Not some, or a lot, or even most. All the barns are falling down. Some were once huge, some were little more than sheds, but they were all tipped over, dilapidated, and in ruins.

I stopped to take pictures, but every time I raised my camera I was overcome with dread. There was something wrong. Something there that should not be recorded. Something evil was in those barns. Something that was dying, and should not be removed, even in pictures.

I tried approaching a few houses where I saw people watching me through clenched curtains. I waved as I walked up their drives, but all except one old woman shut the curtains and would not answer the door. The old woman waved back, but then also shut her curtains and would not answer the door.

So I left the creepy little valley to it’s inflictions. Left the frightened people. Left whatever was in those barns. Left them to die.

Wasteland

What to do with the wasteland?

100 Words - Love and Pain

 

It’s easy to cherish a sunset on the beach. True love is cherishing the scars you got when you fell off the ladder climbing up to her window. Cherishing the nightmares the concussion gave you. It all hurt, but it was all for her, and she loved you for it.

Then there was the time she hit you with the car. The look of confusion as she looked down at your still breathing body will live forever in your heart. The angry-sounding obscenities she screamed in shock endure as the greatest poem ever written.

What adventures lie ahead? What pain?

The Shaman's Tale

 

Clara was shocked when the police let her in to see The Shaman. He told the cops that she’d be coming and was his only living relative. The cops brought him in and left them alone, though there was a suspiciously large mirror on the wall. The Shaman told her not to worry. He said no one was listening.

She had expected to see Edgar in his eyes, but he wasn’t there. It was just the Shaman grinning that evil grin. He repeated what he said to the media, and she didn’t believe a word of it. She accused him of using Edgar as an excuse. He laughed.

He explained that he had hoped to use her spare soul to pull this off, but it was too innocent, and she seemed too strong. Edgar fit the bill better. Now, all he had to do was to pawn Edgar off on some weak-minded person, have them kill someone, and he’ll be proven innocent.

Clara explained to him that he just confessed. She went and banged on the mirror. "Did you hear him? He confessed!" He told her not to waist her breath. They didn’t care what he said now, he’d already confessed to the killing. She sat down, almost in tears. He reached to hold her hand, but she knew better than to let him touch her. "You learn quick." He said.

She left the police station and sat on a park bench, trying to figure out how to stop him. The surprising problem though was trying to find a reason to stop him. She assumed that he’d pick Edgar’s next victim in prison, who would then probably kill someone else in prison. Where would it stop?

Were those people her responsibility? Edgar wasn’t hers. He was Paul’s. Though, she wouldn’t have had Paul’s soul if it weren’t for Edgar. And what was she to do? Her main advisor for such things was now the enemy. Or was he always the enemy?

The enemy? She rolled the phrase around in her head for a while. It had a certain power. An importance. Was he worth killing? Clara had never considered killing someone before. Would it help? What would happen to Edgar if The Shaman died?

She had never before thought of killing someone. Could she do it? Would it help? Did she want to go to jail? Too many questions. She got up and started walking. Walking away from the thought of murder. You can’t just kill someone. You have to keep control.

Control? Paul controlled Edgar. Or rather, the drugs that they gave Paul controlled Edgar. Or rather, the drugs they gave Paul made it impossible for Edgar to make Paul do anything. Could Clara use that to stop The Shaman? Was he too smart for that?

The secret to fighting someone bigger than you is to use their weight against them. Redirect their force rather than facing it head-on. How does one redirect whatever Edgar is? What does he really want? A body of his own? A body of his own. Redirection!

It took a bunch of meetings with police, social workers, more police, and finally, a mass murderer who recently found God. The plan was stupid elaborate, but in the end, just about everyone decided, "Why not?"

So The Shaman was declared mentally fit and sentenced to life in prison. When asked if he had anything to say, he replied, "I’ll prove you all wrong." The next day he was brought to the penitentiary and placed in a cell with a fellow murderer, who wouldn’t stop reading the bible, out loud.

That Saturday, he was surprised when a guard came to get him. He had a visitor. His niece. Clara was sitting at a table in what appeared to be the guard’s break room. He’d expected to be behind a glass wall and having to talk over a phone.

Clara told him that they were meeting here because the warden thinks The Shaman is crazy. Then she put a thermos on the table, explaining that it was the rest of the goop that made her throw up. She said she decided he was doing the right thing. He had been planning a month’s worth of incantations, but the potion would be a lot quicker. He took the cap off and sniffed. It smelled right.

Clara couldn’t resist returning to the penitentiary the next day. She had to see for herself if the plan worked or not. It was worth it for the The Shaman’s shocked look alone. He asked her what she was doing there. She asked him what he was doing there.

He told her that he was there to give emotional support for his roommate at his hearing. Clara told him that this was no hearing. The Shaman had been so freaked by Clara being there he hadn’t looked around. He went pale when he noticed the isolation booth.

Just then, they brought in the born-again killer. He still had the goop on his face. He winked at Clara as he was led into the booth. Through the bulletproof glass, she watched him get strapped to a table. They put an IV into his arm, the minister blessed him, then everybody left the booth.

As they locked the door The Shaman started screaming, but the guards were ready for this and dragged him away. Clara watched. At exactly one PM, a guy in a lab coat hit a switch, and a dark liquid started to flow into the killer’s arm. Soon he was asleep. Another button pressed, and a clear liquid appeared.

The coroner would normally now go in and declare him dead, but it was agreed to wait two hours. Nobody knew how long Edgar could survive without a body, but two hours seemed good.

She read later that the killer was declared dead at three PM. Six months later, there has been no word of any possessed killers. The world felt safe. Clara felt alone.