The Riverboy

They say he drowned there around fifty years ago, and they say sometimes he comes back to the surface in search of companionship. They say so because they’ve seen it, and they’d be willing to swear on the good book that it was true. And for the last fifty years, kids kept disappearing, gone for days, and suddenly turning up dead in the river, looking like they’d been dead for weeks. Every time one body turned up, another kid seemed to go missing.
That’s what they say, anyway. And they blame it all on the Riverboy.

When I was eight years old, I was unusually brave for someone who was terrified of everything. I was a regular oxymoron, the bold coward, the pathetic hero. So it was natural that I would be afraid of being drowned by the Riverboy, but intrigued by the legend surrounding him. Mom always told me to stay away from the river, but it was a good place to play. During the day, there seemed nothing wrong with it. It moved too fast for skipping stones and too slow for makeshift rafts to be any fun. There used to be a swinging rope, but some grown ups complained it was dangerous and the parents of victims sobbed at the sight of it, so they had it taken down.

I never swam in the river, anyway, so that didn’t bother me much.
Kevin Pearsley and I used to play there. Sometimes we tried fishing. We never caught anything. Other times a police officer would come by to make sure we were okay, and we were always fine. Usually he asked us to go home anyway, or go to the park across the street because it was safer.

But the river was so much fun. There was something about it that made us want to go there. Maybe it was the way the waters sang, whispering over the rocks. Maybe it was the way it rippled in shapes unlike any other body of water I had ever seen. It was like another language. It was like art.

Once I thought it spelled out my name. There, in the shapes and curves of the waves, I saw it; “Bridget.” I asked Kevin if he noticed, but he didn’t. He never really saw what I saw. It said his name once, too.

It was June. I overheard Mom tell Dad another body turned up. Gracie Maydale this time. She was older than me by two years, so I never really knew her. Mom talked about moving. They had listed the house months ago, but I guess nobody wanted to move here. Dad said it was just the economy, whatever that meant. I thought it was the Riverboy’s fault.

Three days following Gracie’s death, I realized Kevin hadn’t called or come by or anything. He didn’t live very far, so I walked to his house and knocked on his big red door. His parents didn’t answer it, so I walked home.
“Mom?” I asked. “Have you talked to Mrs. Pearsley lately?”
“Oh, honey,” my mom replied in the voice she always used when there was bad news. I had heard it twice before; once, when she told me my guinea pig “ran away,” and again when she told me one of my old relatives that I never really knew had died. But this was different. This wasn’t a pet or a distant relative. This was Kevin. This was my best friend.
She told me he went missing three days ago. The same night Gracie’s body was found. How come they found Gracie, but not Kevin? Where had he gone?

There was only one place missing kids in my town were ever found.
The river.
The Riverboy’s river.

I waited for my parents to fall asleep, and even though I was more frightened than I had ever been, I found the bravery to run to the river in the black of night.

The streetlamps were dim, but they were enough. I flew past them, my sandaled feet hitting cold pavement. The farther I ran, the harder it was to make my legs move, like little weights jumped on with each passing yard. But I didn’t stop for anything.
When I reached the river, I stopped at the edge on a dime. The waters roared around me.

“Kevin!” I shrieked, cupping my hands around my mouth. The rushing water still drowned my voice. “KEVIN!” I tried again. “KEVIN PEARSLEY! You aren’t funny! Come out! Kevin!”
I heard a voice.
My best friend’s voice.
Kevin.

“Bridget?” he said.

It was so quiet, I thought it was impossible that I had heard it over the water. Yet it reached my ears clear as day, as if I had thought it myself, right there in my own head.
And then I saw him. Tiny Kevin Pearsley, standing stock-still in the middle of a rushing river. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought he didn’t feel the water at all. And he was coming closer, hands outstretched, fighting the current effortlessly. His skin looked blue in the light of the moon, reflecting off the water.

“Kevin! What are you doing in there?”

“Bridget, it’s cold.”

“Where have you been for three days, you big dummy?” I cried.

“It’s cold,” he said again. His voice was monotone, and his eyes were dull, his face was expressionless. “It’s cold. Help me.”

He reached out his hand. I hesitated.

One more word, flat, emotionless. I didn’t even see his blue lips move. “Help.”

I reached down and grabbed his hands. It was like grabbing ice; he slipped, and he froze, and I shivered. I felt him come up out of the water, and for a moment I felt a sense of total victory. My heart rejoiced. I smiled.

But then I fell in. The water crashed around me, numbing my skin, filling my ears, my eyes, my lungs.

I watched Kevin float to the surface, drifting away from me, but as I sank deeper, I still felt icy hands gripping mine.

Kevin Pearsley’s body was found on the riverbank the next morning. Bridget Allan’s was gone.

I was Bridget Allan once.

I’m the Riverboy now. It was Kevin Pearsley before me. Gracie Maydale. Countless others. Like good children at the playground, we take turns. We share. We wait.

I’m still waiting.

RiverBoy

He’s waiting…

 

Little Miss Mad

Little Miss Mad

The Ballad of Belsnickel

belsnickel1
‘Twas two weeks afore christmas
And all through the land
The children were fearful
Of Belsnickel’s hand
___________________
If you are good
You have nothing to fear
But if you are naughty
He’ll find you, my dear
___________________
Hark little Timmy
Come round our back porch
His eyes teared with terror
Hands clutching a torch
___________________
In a voice doused in fear
His speech trembled forth
Of indescretions and crimes
Perpetrated up north
___________________
Twas refuge he sought
In our humble abode
Safe haven from Belsnickel
Child collector of old
___________________
We took him inside
Gave him birch beer and kiffles
And a soft handkercheif
To dad away sniffles
___________________
Belsnickel we told him
Was nay but a tale
To make the naughty behave
And steer the wicked from jail
___________________
when finally we calmed him
Even coaxed out a grin
There arose from the front yard
A terrible din
___________________
The wailing of children
Lost in despair
Encircled the house
And swirled through the air
___________________
I closed all the windows
And locked every door
I threw back the carpet
To reveal a trap door
___________________
Inside we tucked Timmy
And bade him to hush
We shut him inside
In a flurry of dust
___________________
I rushed to the front door
 and peeked through the glass
what I saw set me back
and I let out a gasp
___________________
A heavy dark figure
loomed in front of my door
his clothes draped and tattered
dangled down to the floor
___________________
His carriage behind him
black and shackled to a host
of shaggy black beasts
tied to a post
___________________
On our door he did pound
With a sooty black fist
His face drenched in shadow
His head wreathed in mist
___________________
The screws of the hinges
torqued themselves in reverse
as the door toppled inward
I jumped back with a curse
___________________
Belsnickel stood there
a sight to behold
like a king of the beggars
from dark days of old
___________________
His black robes were all dusted
With coal from the mines
And his breath smelled of creosote
And bacon and lyme
___________________
His face was soot covered
and calloused and rough
and his beard was all black
with tangles and tufts
___________________
He carried a switch
made of cable and twine
in his meaty right hand
a black jug of red wine
___________________
His eyes gleamed like sapphires
catching bits of the moon
and under his breath
he hummed a strange tune
___________________
His gaze locked on mine
and a smile crossed his face
“Timmy”  he said
as he wrinkled his face
___________________
“I know that he’s here
So you’d best not deny”
I just shook my head
and let out a sigh.
___________________
In a flash he was gone
and the house it did shudder
and shake to it’s timbers
as if torn asunder
___________________
I lurched ‘cross the room
with my head in a spin
and opened the trap door
to check deep within
___________________
But there was no Timmy
crouched down in the hole
Little Timmy was gone
in his place a lump of coal
___________________
No one ever saw Timmy
again after that night
he just disappeared
or kept out of sight
___________________
His parents spread word
he’d been sent off to school
to learn to behave
and follow the rules
___________________
But I saw in their eyes
and heard their voice shake
They lied about Timmy
for I knew his fate
___________________
‘Twas Belsnickel that took him
that cold wintry night
now you know the story
sleep tight, nighty night!

___________________

Copyright 2013 SkullDug Jerry

Road Work

Night Highway

If you would just stop and ask for directions…

The headlights of the blue BMW drilled into the night, illuminating the black tarmac that flowed like a river of madness through the Pennsylvania mountains.  A double yellow line split the road lengthwise from Tafton to Mountaintop – 26 miles of harrowing hairpin turns and wild camel humps –  a roller coaster ride through old-growth Pennsylvania forests.

Ken kept both hands firmly on the steering wheel – his eyes forward, scanning the shoulder of PA route 390, vigilant for suicidal deer hiding in the darkness between the trees who were more than eager to bound into the path of his speeding vehicle.

He toggled the high beams but they were no match for the darkness that sent it’s fingers through the trees, squeezing the road into a narrow blue tunnel through the woods.

Tanya stared out the passenger window.  She shook her head and tossed her bobbed black hair – releasing dim shimmers of blue in response to the cold dashboard illumination.

“You always do this.”  she sniped.

Ken adjusted his jaw from side to side.

“The traffic was stopped.

For twenty minutes.

I had to get off – I can’t just sit there like that.”

Tanya frowned.  “We’re lost.  You have no idea where we are, in a place that we have never been.”  She pulled her cell phone from her purse and sighed.  “AND we have no signal.  Of course – we have no signal.  We’re in the middle of NoSignalVania.”

Ken winced at every word.  Tanya’s shrill, nasal voice had evolved into a first class irritant as of late.  It was like a million sewing needles stabbing and gouging his eardrums with each sentence. He found himself drifting away during her monologues, staring off into space, dreaming of the days before marriage and wondering how he could have been duped into matrimony all those years ago.  How could he not have noticed that sputtering, insidious, acrid tongue?  A tongue that found him time and time again musing on just how to tear it out, to cease it’s wagging forever so that he might find peace. Instead, he soldiered on in silence, obedient to the stereotype of the henpecked husband.

“Why are they always doing construction in Pennsylvania.  Everywhere you turn, a lane is closed or an exit is under repair.  I hate this state.”  Tanya shook her head.

“We are not lost.  We’re just…temporarily confused.”

Tanya shook her head and scowled.  She glanced back at the road.  “Jesus!”  She braced her hands on the dashboard and dug her feet hard against the floor of the car.

Ken snapped his gaze back to the road in time to see a deer flash past the headlights.  He  jammed both feet onto the brake pedal as the car began to skid sideways.  Suddenly, another animal, this one thicker with dark gray and black streaks, sprang into the path of the sliding car.  It moved like a cat stalking prey, low to the ground and surprisingly agile for its bulk.

There was a moment that seemed an eternity.  It was filled with clenched teeth, white knuckles, squealing tires and the smell of burning rubber and hot brake shoes.  It swam slowly into focus and then WHAM!  The sickening thud of metal hitting flesh and the tinkle of shattered glass broke the spell.

The collision spun the car 90 degrees off the road and into a shallow swale on the right shoulder.  Thick ferns and mountain laurel cushioned the car to a shuddering stop.

“Oh my god.  Are you OK?”  Ken reached over and touched Tanya.

“I think I bit my lip.”  She dabbed her mouth and examined the bright red that coated her fingertips. “Yeah, I’m OK, I think.”

“What the hell did we hit?” Ken unbuckled his seatbelt.

“A deer.  I think I saw a deer.”

“No, we missed the deer.  Something came out of the woods after it.  Something bigger like a bear.”

Ken opened his door and circled around to the front of the car.  The grill was mangled and steam seeped from under the crumpled hood.  The right quarter panel was crushed and the right front tire was rotated at an impossible angle.  Thick black goo was smeared across the damaged areas.

“Shit, shit, shit.”  Ken kicked at the ferns.  “There goes my insurance.”  He turned and looked back down the road.  A dark mass lie motionless on the blacktop, partially blocking the right lane.

“I think you hit a bear.”  Tanya was standing next to him, dabbing her lip with a tissue. “Way to go Mario”.

“Just call Triple A.”  Ken began walking toward the shadowy shape.

Tanya fumbled for her cell phone. “Uh, can’t.  No signal.  Unbelievable.”

Ken slowed his steps as he neared the carcass.  A musty odor, somewhere between cat urine and vinegar, wafted through the night air.  Ken recognized more detail in the moonlight.  The entire creature was about five feet long and had four legs, the front ones longer than the hind and all four capped with five to six inch glossy black claws that looked as if hewn from obsidian.  It appeared to have a small amount of black fur on it’s back which was streaked with dark gray patches that mimicked forest shadows.  Overall, Ken thought it vaguely resembled some kind of deformed black bear mixed with a mountain lion.  The fur gave way to black velvety skin that concealed sinewy muscles throughout the body of the animal.  The shoulders were bulky and the head was elongated and wide, with an odd sloping forehead and two large eyes, shut tight into ten inch slits.  A twisted pair of foot long black horns jutted from just behind the creatures large pointed ears.  The most astonishing feature, however, was the nightmarish mouth of the beast.  It gaped slightly open, and was circled in a row of black teeth on the outside, and rows of similar fangs on the inside.  It was as if a shark’s mouth had been turned slightly inside out around the edges and painted gloss black.  A black forked tongue lolled from the open mouth, dripping with gooey dark saliva.

“What the hell IS that thing?”  Tanya had joined Ken.

“I have no idea.  Maybe a bear that was burned or something.  But it has horns, I think.

“Bears don’t have horns, moron.”  Tanya looked at her phone again.  “How the HELL are we going to get a tow truck.

“We’ll have to walk and get help”  Ken looked around at nothing but shadowy forest as far as the eye could see.

“I’ll bet that’s some kind of endangered animal.  I’ll bet this dumb-ass state is going to fine us on top of everything.”  Tanya started walking back toward the disabled BMW.  “And there’s no WE in this whole walking to find help thing.”

Ken shook his head.  “Seriously?  What the hell are are YOU going to do while I’m walking?”

Over his shoulder, a pair of headlights flickered their way through the winding darkness of the stoic trees, distant tires clinging to the blacktop, hissed through the curves like a mechanized serpent as the vehicle neared.

“Looks like someone just caught a lucky break.”  Tanya stood, hands on hips, a smirk writhing across her red lips.

Ken ran toward the approaching vehicle, arms waving.  Blinded by the headlights, he could make out the dark shape of a late model pick-up truck, slowing to a stop before the motionless body of the strange creature.

“Hey, hey!”  Ken waved his arms.  “We hit something and we need help.”

The driver opened the door and stepped out.  He walked past Ken in a flurry of flannel, scraggly beard and greasy hair, eyes fixed on the creature in the road, the scents of sweat, tobacco and body odor swirled about him in the night air.

“Hey, thanks for stopping, we…” Ken put his hand on the stranger’s shoulder.

The truck driver spun and pushed Ken away.  “Nacht Teufel!”  He hissed through broken teeth and began to back away toward his truck.

“What?”  Ken stumbled forward. “Hey, what the hell?  Where are you going?”

“Ein Junge Nacht Teufeufel!’, shouted the bearded stranger as he climbed back into his truck and gunned it in reverse.

“No, no, no!”  Ken sprinted after the truck as it sped away into the darkness.  He waved his arms and shouted until the tail lights disappeared into the night.  He hung his head and slowly turned back toward his wife.

“What the hell was that?”  Tanya raised her arms, palms toward the sky.  “Did he not speak English? Why didn’t you stop him?”

“I don’t get it.  How could he just leave us here?”  Ken shook his head.

“I’m going to take a nap in the car.  Good luck on your walk.”  Tanya turned and headed back to the car.

“Seriously?  You’re gonna sleep while I walk alone on this ridiculous road?  In the middle of the night?” Ken spread his ams wide in disbelief.

“Good luck.”  Tanya climbed into the back seat of the disabled BMW and slammed the door.

Ken stood motionless, mouth open.  And then he heard it.  Low at first, but growing slowly louder.  A low growl rattled from the carcass on the road behind him.  He turned around and his legs buckled.

The creature’s claws made a rasping sound as they scraped the blacktop.  The eyes were wide open, luminous and green, and as big as pie plates with no visible pupils – just two organic headlights glowing in the thick night.  Slowly, it struggled upright, tilted its  chin into the night air and began to howl.  It was low and mournful at first but built quickly to an ear shattering crescendo that echoed through the black forest.

Ken clamped his hands over his ears and gathered his legs beneath him.  Gingerly, to avoid drawing attention to himself, he began to step backwards toward the safety of his car.  After a few steps he turned and broke into a run – his shoes clacking on the hard surface of the road.

The creature howled again and Ken quickened his pace.  Behind him, he could hear claws scuffling on the blacktop as it tried to regain it’s senses. He reached the car, grabbed the door handle and yanked.  It was locked.  He pounded on the window.  Inside, Tanya shook her head and extended her middle finger.

“Unlock it!” he yelled.  Tanya extended both middle fingers and lounged back down on the back seat.

“C’mon!” Ken bellowed and beat his fists bloody on the window until he was out of breath.  He paused and looked past the car into the dark forest.  Everything had gone silent.  All the katydids and crickets and tree frogs were suddenly mute.   The night seemed somehow darker as the soft rustle of the grass and the wind in the leaves coaxed a pair of giant luminous green eyes from between the trees. Ken’s blood ran cold and he felt light headed.  Slowly, a second creature, identical to but about twice the size of the injured one behind him, emerged from the shadows directly across the road from his disabled beamer.  It moved with careful determination, barely making a sound in the forest night, confirming it’s status as an evolved nocturnal predator.

Ken dropped to his knees and hid behind the car.  His heart pounded in his temples and his hand rested on his thighs where he felt something solid.  He fumbled in his pocket and pulled his cell phone and 2 receipts free before finding his car keys.  Warily, he stood back up and peered over the car.  The creature was gone.  He turned and looked behind him.

The larger creature was now tending to the injured smaller one, nuzzling and grooming it’s wounds with a giant black forked tongue.  Short chirps and whimpers drifted through the dark air as mother creature cared for her child.

Ken fumbled with his keys and dropped them, tinkling into the thick ferns.  “Shit!”  He bent down and began to rummage his fingers through the thick foliage.  Suddenly, he felt warm air on his neck and that acrid smell from before.  Before he could turn, giant, powerful jaws clamped around his torso, and bore down with unbelievable force.  His head felt as if it would burst from the mounting pressure. He felt his ribs snap and the blinding burn of his flesh tearing beneath the black razor teeth of the beast.  He was lifted above the car, sideways, his head slightly lower than his legs, which he could no longer feel as the pressure continued to increase to impossible levels.  He felt gushes of warm blood running up his back and coursing along his neck and chin.  His head swam – the pain was blinding and mounted to a crescendo of cracking bones and rending flesh followed by swirling blackness as he lost consciousness.

And then Ken was hovering above the entire scene.  He could see his limp body in the creature’s massive jaws, like a rag doll, flopping as the creature began to thrash from side to side.  After a few flicks, his body split in two, blood and entrails spilling onto the tarmac. But Ken felt at peace.  There was no pain.  In fact, no feeling at all. He looked down upon the creatures as they milled around the disabled vehicle.  Far away, he could hear his wife’s shrill screams as the mother creature pried the car doors open with giant black claws.

A white light opened up above him, drenching the night in a glorious glow of salvation.  It washed his floating spirit in joy and redemption and mitigated all earthly sounds and images, beckoning his weary soul to eternal bliss.

A feeling of unprecedented warmth and contentment flooded through Ken’s being.  He grinned and dove headfirst into the light, delighted by the realization that he was finally free of his wife’s acrid tongue forever.

Night Eyes

Here kitty, kitty…

Jerry SkullDug

Thanks for digging the dark

 

 

 

 

Recurring nightmares and self-starting clocks

I have a recurring nightmare:  I’m at a location that I know is haunted but only after a certain time – usually after midnight.  The location varies, sometimes it’s an old victorian home, sometimes a townhouse or a bungalow.  Sometimes it’s a familiar place, other times not.  I’m with others, family and/or friends and everything is going just fine.  There is conversation and friendly interaction which often centers around some sort of dinner party or family gathering..

As the haunting deadline grows near, everyone leaves and I am alone in the house.  A clock usually chimes the hour and then I realize that I’m by myself and something very frightening is about to descend upon me.  I try to get out of the house, but my legs feel as if they are made of lead.  There’s usually some strange noises, apparitions and other creepy things swirling around me and I wake up, startled and uneasy.  I always have the feeling that some sinister spirit has passed by and disturbed my sleep patterns, leaving me with a sense of deep trepidation and an awareness that something is or has been very close.

I’ve had the dream many times throughout my life and it always brings back the feelings and sensations I experienced growing up in my childhood home which was legitimately haunted (more on that in another series of blogs that I am working on).

I am not one to shy away from strange and creepy things.  As a matter of fact I am oddly fascinated with them.  So when I had the dream again the other night and awoke in my usual state of dread, I paid very close attention to my surroundings.  It was 1:11 a.m. and there were no unusual sounds.  My wife was sound asleep as was my daughter and our cat Sasha.  I ran the dream back in my mind and tried to remember as many details as I could and this is what I was able to recall:

Dark City, Dark Dreams

Hello? Anybody home?

I live in an abandoned city with my family.  Most of the buildings are in disrepair and unoccupied and there is debris strewn about everywhere.  There are other residents living in nearby buildings, but they are few and far between.  We are friendly with many of them and often pool our resources to survive.  My wife, daughter and I have taken refuge in a small four story apartment complex.  It has roughly forty different rooms and we’ve cut interconnecting entryways between them, creating a network of spaces which we can traverse at will.

During the day, we scavenge, trade and interact with our neighbors.  After sundown, everyone barricades themselves inside until dawn.  Night is when “they” come.  It is usually after midnight and you can hear them approach.  They shout orders in a language that none of us can understand over the din of their chainsaws.  Most of the time they remain in the distance, but sometimes they come very, very close.  They are bipedal humanoids that wear gray body armor and dark, round goggles – obscuring most of their faces.  Their boots are loud on the pavement and they always travel in groups of a dozen or more.  None of us are really sure if they are organic or synthetic.  We’ve never gotten close enough to make that determination.

They command large insect-like creatures on leashes made of rusty chains. Roughly the size of german shepherds, these creatures are metallic gray and resemble crickets with the exception of their mandibles.  Unlike crickets, these insects have rows of hideous fangs that drip with foul smelling saliva.  They whir and screech and chatter like giant cicadas at the peak of mating – squeals more like metal on metal grinding than anything biological.  Again, none of us are really sure if they are organic or synthetic.  The creatures are held at bay on the chains while other humanoids chainsaw openings into the buildings, providing egress for the eager monsters that are then released to scour the structure for food.  We are the food, or perhaps just sport to satisfy a bloodlust.

I’ve rigged our dwelling with booby traps to ensnare or slay the beasts, should they gain entry.  I have a vault on the top floor near the rear of the building where I put my family while I man the traps, waiting for the inevitable.  A clock strikes midnight and I can hear the chainsaws at the end of the block.  I brace myself at the lever of the first trap – a great slab of concrete suspended over a second story doorway to the stairwell from the first floor.  I wait, poised to pull the pin that releases the chain to send tons of crushing cement and re-bar down onto a slavering insect.

And then I wake up, just as the chainsaws are chewing into my building’s front door.

That morning, I ventured into the basement for a morning workout.  As I entered the exercise area, I noticed that the TV over the bar on the other side of the room was on.  I also noticed that an old clock that we had recently taken down from the wall upstairs and put on the floor in the basement was ticking.  The pendulum was swinging back and forth – tick, tock, tick, tock.  It’s the kind of clock that you wind up and start by giving the pendulum a nudge.  I had stopped that pendulum the night before at my wife’s request.  She hates that tick, tock sound.  Somehow, it had begun on it’s own in the middle of the night.  My question is:  who or what nudged it back to life?  I stopped it again and it has since been still.

I’ll be sure to check it again after my next nightmare.

The mysterious self starting clock

Warning: this clock powered by nightmares

 

Greetings from the Poconos

Beware the forests of Pennsylvania. They’re dark but they’re watching you. You can feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up on end because you know that something is waiting in the darkness between the trees. Watching and waiting for you to turn your back. Just for a moment…

Go ahead, turn around...

Go ahead, turn around…

Tales from the Boschard – Chapter 1 – The Mound


Tales from the Boschard Logo 
Forward
I grew up in an area of northeastern Pennsylvania that was struggling from rural to suburban in the early 1970s.  New housing developments elbowed their sterile green lawns into seventeenth century farmland, upstarts shaking their fists at the old Pennsy Dutch hex signs and traditions.  In many ways, it was a culture clash, but it also provided an interesting fusion.  Much like turn of the century railroads, telegraph and automobiles invaded the old west – with Model-Ts chasing horses past swing-door saloons, modern times were hot on the heels of the stubborn Pennsylvania Dutch agrarian ideologies.
A
These same ideologies had deep roots in Germanic storytelling.  Grimm’s fairytales, the original German ones, lived up to their author’s namesake for they often veered into dark waters.  Consider Ashenputtel (Cinderella) in which white doves peck the evil sisters’ eyes out at the conclusion.  And who can forget the adorable ending of Schneewittchen (Snow White) that finds the evil queen locked in a pair of red-hot iron shoes and dancing herself to death.  Fusing the dark, traditional tales with modern interpretations and mutations, I heard plenty of creepy stories, deviously attached to the real places and characters around me.  Compound that with my childhood home being legitimately haunted (just ask the rest of my family).  Perhaps that’s part of the reason I gravitate toward dark corners of the psyche with my content.  Or perhaps I’m just a bit twisted.
A
Tales From The Boschard was born of that fusion – the name Boschard is a mash up of old and new.  The ‘bos’ from the Old German for a wooded area (Bosc) and the new English word, orchard, providing the ‘chard’ part.  I’ve tried to re-create that linguistic fusion in some of my characters as best I could as well – particularly for the old-timers who routinely lapsed from English to German to Pennsylvania Dutch, often in a single sentence.  Here’s a commonly used example of Pennsylvania Dutch  that my father asked me to decipher when I was a kid:
A
Saville der dago
tousand buses inarow
nocho demis trux
summit cows and summit dux
A
Here’s the translation:
Say Willie there they go
a thousand buses in a row.
No Joe, them is trucks,
some with cows and some with ducks.
A
Many of these tales are haunted folklore passed down from family members and acquaintances and others are based on actual events.  I think that all of them will give you a glimpse into that place where my darkest dreams routinely came true – haunted, weird, northeastern Pennsylvania.
Hex signs

What The Hex?

Chapter 1 – The Mound
 
He had us corralled like sheep – trapped between the garage and a chain-link fence too high to scale.  His snow white hair, breeze-blown up in the back, completed the portrait of a mad white rooster.  He squinted at us through black, beady eyes, barely visible between the leathery creases of his withered face.  His skeleton right hand clutched a hefty cane – that bone-white instrument of retribution.  We had all seen him hurl that rod with frightening accuracy at cats, dogs and wicked children.  He clutched the polished weapon with hands covered in worn, yellow gardening gloves. It was strange, but we had never seen him without those gloves, even in summer.  His long sleeve shirt hung on his gaunt frame like rags on a scarecrow.  Even his work trousers seemed two sizes too large for his wiry legs.
 
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“Naah I got yous!” his gravelly voice rumbled.
 
Pappy Zanders had finally caught us.  Nearly a month of torment at the hands of three eleven-year-olds had come to an end, right here and now in the old devil’s yard on a sunny day in July.  Not that we didn’t deserve a show-down with our nemesis – we had surely earned his attention through apple thievery, tomato tossing and numerous other pranks that would likely have resulted in lawsuits in today’s world.  Perhaps it was the challenge that lured us to this moment – Pappy was old, but he was angry and very agile for man of his years.  The thrill of the chase and the ultimate satisfaction of eluding a mysterious old man was just too good to pass up.
 
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I glanced over at my accomplices, Steve and Ritchie – their eyes were as big as pie plates.  Steve’s lip trembled beneath his enormous nose.  Had I not been so scared, I would have chuckled at the sight of an eleven-year old boy with the face of Jimmy Durante, twitching and pale with terror.  In that distracted moment, however, Ritchie , the smallest but arguably the most daring of the three of us, decided to make a break for freedom.  He darted to the right of the old man, his spindly legs slipping on the dewy grass.  I watched with astonishment as Pappy wheeled around and brought his cane down across the shins of the floundering young boy who dropped to the grass, clutching his legs.
 
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“Get in the garage, naw yous hooligans!”  Pappy shook his cane and hissed through crooked yellow teeth. We pulled the groaning Ritchie to his feet and shuffled through the open door and into our purgatory – the garage of Pappy Zanders.
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My eyes took a moment to adjust to the dark interior.  The smell of auto tires and turpentine with a just a hint of Pine Sol bullied the air.  The tools were meticulously arranged – hung on pegboards in perfect symmetry. The boxes were neatly stacked and aligned with precision.  The floor, painted and buffed, seemed clean enough to eat from. There were glass jars of nuts, bolts, nails and other hardware tidbits, carefully arranged along the top of a massive wooden workbench with a giant iron vise anchoring the left hand corner.  To most, the immaculate workspace would have seemed shocking.  But to those familiar with the ways of Pennsylvania Dutch craftsmen, this garage was more the norm. Old Pappy Zanders was no exception.  His garage was a model of cleanliness and order – the pride of the Pennsylvania Dutch.
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“Sit daun!” he snapped and waved his cane toward a bench against the wall.
We complied and Pappy slowly approached, tapping the cane upon the shiny concrete floor.
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I saw a grin begin to twist it’s way across Pappy’s gnarled face and I stared up at him, my mind racing with images of a sadistic old man beating the consciousness out of my head and then burying me in the back yard – only to have my own father dig me up and rescue me so that he could beat me again for my indiscretions. I heard a  raspy chuckle wheeze it’s way through Pappy’s leathery throat.
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“So yous like my apples, huh?”  Pappy reached up and pulled a dark, dusty bottle from a high shelf.  “Me too.” he sniffed and pulled the cork from the top with hollow “plunk.”  “Bet yah never had apples like these!”  He handed the bottle to Ritchie.
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“Go ahead, have a swig – puts hair on your chest.”
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Ritchie took a sip and grimaced but managed to swallow a solid gulp.  He coughed and sputtered.
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“Ha!”  Pappy laughed and took the bottle back.  “Here, you try it!”, he said and handed the dusty bottle to me.
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I looked down the barrel at the silvery liquid and gave it a sniff.  It smelled good, like apple cider.  I put the bottle to my lips and took a mighty swig.  Instant fire raced down my throat and spread warm fingers through my stomach.  I felt my dinner begin to stir and try to come back up but I managed to cough and choke back the urge to vomit.
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Pappy chuckled again and yanked the bottle away. “Naw that’s good apple jack!” he hissed.  It was Steve’s turn.  Pappy pressed the bottle into his hands and bade him drink. Steve took a big, deep swallow.  He paused and looked up. His eyes began to tear, his face turned pale and his stomach began to heave.  He dropped to his knees and spewed a seemingly endless waterfall of chicken pot pie all over Pappy’s clean garage floor.
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“Naw you’re cleanin’ that up, yah hooftie!”  He snarled and tossed a shop towel to the wretching boy.  And then Pappy began to laugh.  He swung his can back and forth and laughed loud enough to echo through the rafters of the garage.
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I glanced at Ritchie who shrugged.
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“I remember ven I vas your age.  I used ta do the same dumb stuff as yous do.”  the old man mused. “I would hop on da trains and ride ‘em all da way to Wilkes-Barre and my mom would give me such a beatin’ ven I got back!  Onced, I even stole da cow from Shitzy Emery’s barn.”
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He pulled a stool over and sat down.  He pointed a crooked finger at me.  “I know you, your Cheralt’s son from up the hill on first awenue.  I know your pop.”
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I nodded.
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‘Well naw.  Tell yous what.  Sit here for bit and listen to an old man’s story and maybe I’ll keep dis incident chust between us.  ‘stehen sie?
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We all nodded.
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“Vell then.  I’ve got a real good one for yous today.  You know that mound up the hill in the cemetery?”  He pointed his cane out the window toward the graveyard beyond the woods.  “Ever vonder vat’s inside that thing?”
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We nodded again, recalling the thirty foot hump of grass in the middle of the graveyard affectionately known as “the mound.”  It looked like a big sodden pimple in the middle of Fairview cemetery.  We had tugged on the chains that kept the massive gray slate doors of the crypt closed.  We’d even shouted down the vent in the top – calling to the dead that we presumed were listening and waiting patiently for someone to set them free so they could haunt the tombstones and neighboring woods.  We all imagined hideous things run amuck inside the mound after sundown.
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“Ahh, I see yous all know the mound real well.  Did cha know I was the caretaker when I vas younger?”
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We looked at each other.  Steve was still a bit pale, but he shook his head.  I nodded and spoke up.  “I think my dad may have mentioned it to me.”
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“Vell, what dit he tell ya?”
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“Not much, just that you worked up there when you were younger.”
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“Ha – I worked up there every summer until I vas twenty-two.  I used to clean that mound every other Saturday.  One Saturday, July 7th, I got locked in that place ower night.”
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Once again, old Pappy Zanders had us – but this time, we were happy prisoners of the old man’s story.  We leaned forward, eager to hear the secrets we had only been able to imagine.  Even Steve managed a grin through his vomit flecked lips.
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“It was summer, so I was up there later than usual.  I always kept the mound for last – I don’t know why.  Naw yous boys know that place is cursed, doan cha?”
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We looked at each other.
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“Well it is.  The West Catty Witch cursed that whole cemetary in the early twenties.  And the Delaware indians before dat.  Ever notice how cold it is up dere?  Always a good ten degrees lower than the rest of da woods around.  But that’s another story.”  He shifted in his seat, settling in for the long haul.
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“So it was gettin’ dark and I was chust finishin’ everything up for the evening.  I unlocked the padlock on them big chains and pulled doze heavy slate doors vide open.  Naw remember, there was no real lock on them doors, chust the chainz and padlock and I always brought dem inzide with me.”
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Steve cocked his head.  “How could you get locked in then?  And what’s it look like in there?  Are there coffins and stuff?  Can you see dead bodies?”
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Pappy’s eyes became slits and his nostrils flared.  He thumped his cane into Steve’s chest.
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“You gonna yap all through MY STORY?”  he snarled.
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Steve clutched his chest and recoiled, shaking his head. “No” he sulked.  “I was just curious…”
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Pappy interrupted, “That’s Okay.  Everybody wants tah know what it’s like in there, but I’ll get ta that in a minute, chust keep your shirt on, Gibby.” He pointed his cane at Steve who returned a nervous grin.
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Pappy took another swig from the bottle and exhaled.  “So, I remember takin’ them chains in with me that night too.  I put ‘em on da bench chust inside the doors. But when day showed up to get me aut that night, they was on the outside, wrapped up und padlocked shut chust like I vould ah done.”
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Ritchie had recovered from his shin whippin’.  He leaned forward.  “So what happened in there?” he queried.
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Pappy’s face seemed to change before our eyes.  The ruddiness of his skin gave way to a more ashen tone and his eyes softened.  His voice changed as well.  It no longer carried the ferocity it had moments ago.  Even his shoulders seemed to slump forward as he rested his cane on the garage floor.
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“Yah sure yah vanna know?” whispered Pappy.
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We glanced at each other and nodded “yes” in unison.
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“Vell alright then.  I’ll tell yous the story.  Like I said before, I saved cleanin’ up the mound for last.  It was around sewen-thirty or so und the sky was getting that pink glow chust before the sunset.  I unlocked da doors and took them chains in an set ‘em on a bench in the back.  Now it’s alvays dark in the mound ’cause there ain’t no lights, but with da doors open and the sunlight comin’ in, you can see pretty good in there.”
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Steve raised his hand.  “What’s it like in there, Mr. Zanders?”
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“It’s like nothing you ever seen.  There’s one big room in there with wooden drawers all round da sides.  The ceiling is made of big wooden arched trusses, all hand carved with the strangest stuff I ever seen.  Old pagan symbols from ancient times, indian words, stuff in languages I never recognized.  Looks like a bunch of weird totem poles them indians used to make.  In the middle was this brass bowl on a vooden stand and a five pointed star was painted on the floor – musta been five feet across – in dark red, like blood it looked.
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“Now them wooden drawers along the edges, that’s where the bodies are.  And the fronts of them is all carved up wit strange symbols and other words I couldn’t make no sense aut of.  I didn’t like to get too close to them anyways ’cause I know them bodies were right there.
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Pappy took another swig of apple jack and swallowed.  “Anyhow, I went over to the right side where I kept the broom and I headed to the back of the mound – I used to sveep it aut from the back to the front an chust sveep all the dust aut them doors.  But when I got to the back and before I could turn around, them doors slammed shut and I heard the chains bein’ wound around the handles.  Everything vent pitch black chust like that” Pappy snapped his fingers.  “The only light was chust that little sliver that leaks through the vent way at the top of da mound.  I thought “somebody is playin’ a joke on me.  And not a wery funny one”.
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Ritchie spoke up.  “What did you do?”
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I ran in the darkness to them doors and threw my veight against those big slates.  I pushed and pushed but I could hear them chains clinkin’ on the other side, so I knew I was locked in for good.  But I kept on pushin’ until I chust about passed aut.  I slid down against the cold doors and sat on the damp floor.  And that’s ven I heard it.”
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“What?”  I gulped. “What did you hear?”
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Pappy’s eyes narrowed and he took another swig.  “I heard this soft swishin’ kind of sound.  All muffled, like sandpaper rubbin’ together inside a shoebox.  I thought maybe it was rats scratchin around in the dark but then I realized what it was.  It was breathin’ –  real slow and raspy, comin’ from inside of them coffin drawers.”
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Steve shook his head.  “You’re fulla crap.”
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“Naw, you’ll change your tune whan I’m done, I’ll guarantee that!  ‘Cause then I heard them drawers slidin’ open.  I couldn’t see nothing in the dark, but I could hear everything and it vas comin’ from all around me – all da drawers was creakin’ and slidin’ open.  I grabbed my broom, the only thing I had to defent myself with.  And then I heard this other sound – like a long hissing visper.  And I smelt da most awful smell I ever smelt.  It was like earth and rot and mildew and sawdust all rapped up in one – and it was gettin’ clozer und clozer.”
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“Holy cow”, I muttered and looked at Ritchie.  He was leaning closer to Pappy, his eyes wide.  Steve had a smirk on his face.  “I’m not buyin’ it,” he whispered.
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“So I stood up and and kept my back against the doors and started screamin’ and swingin’ that broom.  I could hear what I imagined were five or six pairs of rotted feet, shuffling across the floor – all headin’ straight for me.  So I started svingin’ as hard as I could.”  Pappy demonstrated with his cane, swinging it wildly through the air of the garage.
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Ritchie was smiling.  “Did you hit any of ‘em?”
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“Well”, Pappy stopped swinging his cane. “I ain’t sure ‘cuz of the darkness in there, but I hit somethin’ and I swear I knocked somethin’ loose, cuz I heard it fly off and clatter across the floor.  Maybe it was an arm or a hand.  I kept svingin’ an hittin’ and svingin and hittin until my shoulders nearly popped off.  But they kept on comin’ at me – gettin clozer und clozer.  That’s wen the got damn broom snapped in two.”
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Pappy dropped his cane.  So I started svingin’ my fists.”  Pappy threw wild hooks and upper-cuts in the garage air.  “It felt like I was punchin’ flimsy, rotten fabric with brittle twigs packed inzide that would crack with each strike.  The smell was almost too much and I started gettin’ goofy.  I could hear ‘em breathin’, raspin’ and shufflin’ and then, one of ‘em grabbed me by the arm.  The hand vas nothing but bone and dried grizzle but the grip was like iron.  I tried to get loose, but a couple more grabbed my arms and legs and held me still.  Then, dey started to moan.  Low at first, but then they got louder and louder and I could feel my hearbeat gettin’ slower and slower.  My chest felt like it was in a vice and I couldn’t hardly breath.  I remember this burnin’ pain climbin’ up my arms and wrappin around my ribs.  I felt like they vas drainin’ the life outa me and I finally must’ah passed aut.”
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“But how’d you get out?” I asked.
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“My parents called the cops when I didn’t come home at the regular time.  They searched the cemetary and finally got a pair of bolt cutters to get the chains off the doors of the mound.  They said I was layin’ on the floor, unconscious against the doors ven they finally got in.”  Pappy took another swig of apple jack.
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Steve stood up.  “That story’s a load of crap. There’s nothin’ but old, dead bodies in that mound and you were never locked in.”  Steve smirked and walked out of the garage.
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Ritchie and I looked at each other.  “Did that really happen?  Did you get locked in there that night?”, I asked Pappy.
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Pappy frowned.  “What I didn’t tell your goofy friend is that when the cops found me, my hair was the color you see right now – snow white!  But when I went in it was chet black.  It had changed in the time I was trapped in there.”  He paused. “How old do yous think I am?” grinned Pappy.
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“I dunno, Seventy or Eighty?” Ritchie shrugged.
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“I’m thirty-eight” , whispered Pappy, the smile withering from his face.
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“Holy crap, that’s just six years older than my dad!” I said.
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“Them things in that mound drained the life outa me that night.  And anyone who spends any time with me gets drained too.  Every woman I ever courted died after a month.  All my dogs and cats, dey don’t last two veeks with me after I pet ‘em.  Here, look at my arms where they grabbed me.”  Pappy rolled up his sleeves.  I gazed in horror at the black marks that criss-crossed Pappy’s arms.  Deep indentations furrowed his skin where the boney fingers had grabbed.  The black color spread from those furrows like vines winding their up way past his shoulders where they disappeared beneath his sleeves.  He lifted his shirt to expose his chest.  The black vines swirled around his ribcage and encircled the center of his chest – surrounding his heart like a thicket of doom.
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“What da ya think ah’ them apples, huh?”  Pappy chuckled and pulled his shirt back down.
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Ritchie and I backed up towards the door.  “Ah, Mr. Zanders,”  I stammered.  “Um, I think I gotta get home now.  Thanks for the story.”  We ran out of the garage and up the hill to my house, not stopping once to catch our breath or look back.  From that day forward, we never went near Pappy Zanders again.  We would wave to him and say hello if we saw him, but we never played any pranks on him.  He passed away 2 years later – my parents told me it was a heart attack.
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Now it’s possible that ole’ Pappy Zanders had some kind of weird disease or heart condition and very possible that he was NOT thirty-eight years old and that he made the whole thing up.  Perhaps it was the dim light or stagnant air of the garage that made our imaginations run wild, or maybe there were some tailings left in that apple jack that made us hallucinate the whole thing.  Years after that, we ran around that cemetery and played in the nearby woods, but none of us ever ventured anywhere near that mound again – just in case.  To this day I still remain uneasy for having shared a bottle with old Pappy Zanders and I can’t help but wonder if someday the black lines will appear on my skin and begin to drain the life from me just as they had done to that old man.
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Beware the mound

Beware the mound

Copyright SkullDug Films 2013

Jerry SkullDug

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rod Serling, R.I.P.

Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the Night Gallery…

Rod Serling and The Twilight Zone

My kind of TV

Rodman Edward Serling (“Rod”) was a writer, television producer and narrator, best known for taking us on a weekly journey to the wonderfully bizarre, sometimes dark (but always brilliant) place, called the Twilight Zone. It was a television show unlike most others of its time; censorship reigned throughout TV land, yet we find social commentary and moral criticism heavily woven into the science fiction and fantasy fabric of the Twilight Zone. A strong foundation of incredible stories (many of them written or adapted by Serling) and solid acting (from numerous soon-to-be-famous actors) combined to build a thought provoking and thoroughly entertaining series. Among the 156 episodes, those not to be missed: Nightmare at 20,000 Feet (crazy passenger William Shatner has an awful flight), Living Doll (Telly Savalas is a bad dad who hates his step-daughter’s new toy),It’s A Good Life (everyone must think good thoughts, ‘cause little Billy Mumy will be very upset if you don’t), The Monsters Are Due on Maple Street (Claude Akins and his suburban neighbors are whipped into a frenzy of paranoia), To Serve Man (Richard Kiel is 9-foot tall alien who says he’s on Earth to aid mankind), and, perhaps my favorite, Five Characters in Search of an Exit (a heartbreaking little slice of existentialism). The series (which ran from 1959 – 1964) has more than stood the test of time – many of it’s messages are still just as relevant today, and the twist endings still just as impactful – it is quite simply one of the best TV shows ever.

The Night Gallery

Picture if you will…

 

 

 

 

 

 

Then, there was – Night Gallery. Serling’s next project found him leaning away from sci-fi and more towards horror, and, the series may have missed the mark more often than not. Regardless, as a kid, I fully embraced it. My preadolescent brain thought this was one of the best things to ever happen to TV. The music and images of the opening credits alone did (and still does) scare the bejesus out of me (and, call me finicky, but I prefer my bejesus deep inside of me, thank you very much). When I would hear the opening notes of that twisted tune, the tone was set – I knew that I was in for a delightfully disturbing hour of horror. Seen recently thru adult eyes, I’ll say that Night Gallery perhaps hasn’t aged quite as well as the Twilight Zone, but between spying long gone actors and chuckling over hairstyles and fashions of the day (1970-1973), there’s a wonderful nostalgia trip to be had in watching almost any of the episodes. That being said, the show does indeed have moments of true creepiness. In fact, some episodes were quite effective: The Sins of the Fathers (famine forces a boy, Richard Thomas, to become a sin-eater), The Caterpillar (put it in your ear and it eats through your brain!), and perhaps my favorite – The Flip-Side of Satan. It’s a bit goofy (it does star Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In’s Arte Johnson after all), but the story of a late night dj working alone at an isolated radio station has a moment that still freaks me out – the sound of the demonic incantations from the mysterious record he plays continue to haunt me (it’s just as spooky as the opening title score!).

Premature Burial

Funeral for a friend…

Rod had a productive career – ranging from radio to TV to film (he co-wrote the screenplay for the original Planet of the Apes movie). He was the winner of multiple awards (including 6 Emmys) – and thanks to his talent and success (and partly through his many censorship battles and various network struggles), he actually helped to form some of televisions industry standards.

Friday, June 28, 2013 marks 38 years since Rod Serlings’ passing. He died of a heart attack at age 50. As Rod said in the Twilight Zone Ring-a-Ding Girl episode: “We are all travellers. The trip starts in a place called birth – and ends in that lonely town called death. And that’s the end of the journey, unless you happen to exist for a few hours in the misty regions of the Twilight Zone…”

-Seymour Blood

Serling's grave

Mr. Serling’s final home