|
The Spook Who Sleuths by Daniel P. Douglas Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai podcast.
MY OFFICE WAS darker than FDR’s fireside chats and twice as smoky. That’s how I like it—keeps the clients on their toes and the spirits at bay. Name’s Roxie Hart, and I’m what you might call a supernatural tomfoolery private dick. Some folks get their knickers in a twist over that last word, but in my line of work, you gotta call a spade a spade and a detective a dick. I kicked back in my chair, feet up on the desk, pondering life’s great mysteries. Like why dames always fall for the wrong guy, or how Spam manages to be both a wartime delicacy and the bane of future generations’ inboxes. That’s when she walked in—a real looker, the kind that’d make Betty Grable green with envy. “Are you the... paranormal investigator?” she asked, her voice shakier than a G.I. on his first day in boot camp. I tipped my fedora back, giving her the once-over. “That’s what it says on the door, doll face. What’s your tale of woe?” She was a maid, worked up at the Wackerman Estate. Seems the big cheese, Cornelius Wackerman III, had kicked the bucket under some hinky circumstances. As she spilled the beans, I reached into my trench coat, pulling out the Ectoplasmic Resonance Detector—a contraption that looked like it fell off the set of “Metropolis” and got jiggy with a transistor radio. “Whoa, Nelly!” I said, as the ERD lit up like Times Square on New Year’s Eve. “You’ve got more paranormal residual energy floating around you than a séance during a full moon. I’ll take the case, toots.” The maid blinked, more confused than a coal miner at a debutante ball. “I... I’m sorry. What did you just say?” I sighed. Nobody appreciates the classics anymore. “I said I’ll investigate. Now scram, sister. I’ve got work to do.” As she hightailed it outta here, I gathered my gear and weapon of choice—the Spectral Spook Zapper (patent pending). I slid it into my left inside coat pocket, right next to the lucky rabbit’s foot I’d lifted off a less-than-lucky leprechaun way back in ‘47. I adjusted my tie, straightened my hat, and headed out to face the music. The Wackerman Estate loomed ahead like the Devil’s own summer cottage. As I approached, a chill ran down my spine colder than a G-man’s stare. This joint was surely more haunted than my high school reputation after that unfortunate incident with the principal’s toupee and a jar of molasses. The door creaked open before I could knock, revealing a butler so stiff he made Buster Keaton look like a Lindy Hopper (look it up). “You must be the... investigator,” he said, eyeing my trench coat like it might bite him. “That’s right, Jeeves. I’m here to solve your spectral shenanigans. Now, where’s the grieving widow? I need to pick her brain like it’s the last rationed can of beans.” He led me to a parlor where a dame sat, draped in black like she was auditioning for a walking shadow puppet show. The widow Wackerman, I presumed. Next to her stood a gardener who fidgeted more than a pickpocket at a cop convention. “Ma’am,” I said, tipping my hat. “I’m here to get to the bottom of your husband’s untimely departure from this mortal coil.” The widow’s eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon. Are you quite alright, Miss...?” “Hart. Roxie Hart. And I’m as right as rain on a duck’s back, sugar. Now, let’s get down to brass tacks. What’s the skinny on ol’ Cornelius’s last night on earth?” Before she could answer, a vase floated by, casual as you please. As the vase left the room under its own power, the gardener yelped like he’d just seen Rita Hayworth in the flesh. I smirked, reaching into my coat. “Well, well, well. Looks like this shindig’s about to get interesting. Hold on to your homburgs and pillbox hats, ladies and gents. Roxie Hart’s on the case, and we’re gonna paint the town red... or maybe ectoplasm green.” From the parlor, I drifted down the hall into the dead guy’s study, my gumshoes quieter than a Nazi spy at an Allied command post. The room, swankier than a Hollywood big shot’s ego, held more books than the Library of Congress after a shopping spree. “Alright, let’s see what my little friends have to say about this joint,” I said, muttering and whipping out the Ethereal Essence Evaluator. It looked like a lovechild between a Geiger counter and a waffle iron, but it could sniff out evil spirits faster than a bloodhound on a catnip bender. The EEE started clicking like a tap-dancing telegram operator. “Well, well, well,” I drawled, “looks like old Corny was into some hinky business. More nefarious vitality here than a ghost’s laundromat.” As I poked around, the widow Wackerman slunk in, looking like she’d just lost a staring contest with Medusa. “Have you... found anything, Miss Hart?” I targeted her with a look that could strip paint. “Listen, sugar, I’m gonna level with you. Your hubby was dabbling in some dark arts darker than a black-market coffee bean. Care to spill the giggle water on that?” She blinked like a burlesque dancer under a spotlight. “I... I’m not sure I understand your vernacular, Miss Hart. Are you implying Cornelius was involved in... the occult?” “Bingo, doll face. Give the lady a cigar and a one-way ticket to the Copacabana.” I paused, cocking an ear. “Did you hear that?” A low moan shimmied through the room and steadily grew louder than a foghorn with indigestion. Suddenly, a book flew off the shelf, missing my noggin by a hair’s breadth. “Duck and cover, sister!” I yelled, shoving the widow behind an overstuffed armchair. I whipped out my Spectral Spook Zapper. “Alright, you ectoplasmic mook, let’s dance!” The room erupted into more chaos than a Keystone Cops reel. Books flew, curtains flapped, and somewhere, a ghostly voice belted out a tune that’d make Stephen Foster (look it up) roll in his grave. I blasted left and right, my Zapper illuminating the place like the searchlights at Alcatraz during a prison break. “Take that, you translucent troublemaker!” I hollered, nailing a particularly nasty wraith. It vanished with a pop, a whimper, and a puff of green smoke, leaving behind a stink that reeked like burned toast and regret. As the dust settled, I turned to the widow, who was peeking out from behind the chair like a groundhog with stage fright. “Your house has more spirits than a speakeasy on Saturday night, Mrs. W. You mind telling me what your husband was up to?” She flapped her gums faster than a gossip columnist with a spicy scoop. Turns out, Cornelius had been trying to summon some big bad from the great beyond, looking to strike a deal for power and wealth. Classic mistake. You’d think these rich types would learn, but they always want more. I needed more hot poop, so I cornered the butler in the kitchen. He was stiffer than a starched collar in January, but I could see the sweat beading on his upper lip. “Alright, Jeeves,” I said, leaning in close. “Time to sing like a canary at the Met. What do you know about the boss’s late-night activities?” He gulped, his Adam’s apple doing the jitterbug. “I... I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Miss Hart.” I smiled, all teeth and moxie. “Come off it, buddy. I’ve seen more convincing acts in a high school production of ‘Hamlet’. Spill it, or I’ll have my friend here do some redecorating.” I patted my Zapper meaningfully. The butler’s resolve crumbled faster than a sandcastle in a tsunami. He babbled about secret meetings, strange chants, and a final ritual that went sideways. Corny had bitten off more than he could chew, and whatever he summoned had bitten back. Armed with this info, I headed to the basement. If this was a horror movie, the audience would be screaming at me not to go down those stairs. But hey, a dame’s gotta do what a dame’s gotta do. The basement was darker than a Mickey Finn’s intentions and twice as disorienting. My Ectoplasmic Resonance Detector was going haywire, its needle spinning like a drunken ballerina. “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” I called, voice echoing in the gloom. “Let’s have a little chat, mano a monster.” That’s when it appeared. A shape darker than a moonless night, with more tentacles than an octopus family reunion. It roared, a sound that’d make Sinatra lose his voice in envy. I stumbled back, fumbling for my Zapper. “Well, ain’t you uglier than a bulldog chewing a wasp. Let’s see how you like a taste of Roxie Hart’s special sauce!” I fired, the Zapper’s beam flooding the underground hideaway with more light than a night raid over Berlin. The creature howled, tentacles flailing. For a moment, I thought I had it on the ropes, but one of those slimy appendages knocked the Zapper from my hand, sending it skittering across the floor. The monster loomed over me, its maw gaping like the entrance to the underworld’s least welcoming honky-tonk. I gulped, backing up against the wall. “Well, sweet cheeks,” I muttered to myself, “looks like this might be your last curtain call.” But as the saying goes, it ain’t over ‘til the fat lady sings. And honey, I was about to belt out an aria that’d knock this palooka’s socks off—if it wore any. As the tentacled terror approached, I knew it was time to pull out my ace in the hole. Or should I say, my ace from the hereafter. “Alright, you overgrown calamari,” I growled, “you wanna dance? Let’s cut a rug.” I closed my eyes, concentrating harder than a code breaker at Bletchley Park. Suddenly, the air around me shimmered and sparked like a technicolor light show at Emerald City. The monster hesitated, its tentacles freezing mid-flail. If it had eyebrows, they’d have been raised higher than a cat’s back at a dog show. “That’s right, buster,” I said, smirking, my voice echoing with an otherworldly resonance. “You’re not the only spook in this rowdy scene.” My body glowed hotter than the Chicago steel mills working overtime for the war effort. The creature shrieked, sounding like a thousand nails on a chalkboard orchestra. “What’s the matter, ugly? Can’t take the heat?” I taunted, floating a few inches off the ground. “Let me introduce myself properly. The name’s Roxie Hart, class of 1945—and I don’t mean high school, sweetheart.” With a gesture that would’ve made Houdini green with envy, I let fly with a wallop of phantasmal pizazz that made the basement look like Coney Island brought Times Square to a hot date on a Saturday night. The monster didn’t stand a chance. It dissolved faster than a sugar cube in hot coffee, leaving behind nothing but a stench of low-tide and broken dreams. As my glow faded away and I floated onto solid ground again, I heard gasps behind me. Turning, I saw the widow, the butler, and the gardener gawking at me like I was Eleanor Roosevelt doing the jitterbug in her studded leather underwear. Now that’s a picture. “Close your mouths, folks,” I drawled. “You’ll catch flies.” The widow stepped forward, her eyes wider than dinner plates at the Ritz. “Miss Hart... what... who are you?” I straightened my fedora, which had somehow stayed on through the whole shebang. “Like I said, doll. I’m Roxie Hart, paranormal investigator extraordinaire. I just happen to have a bit more... personal experience with the other side than most.” “You mean... you’re a...” the gardener stammered. “A ghost? Well, butter my biscuit and call me impressed!” I said, winking. “Been haunting this side of the dirt since 1945, when a Jerry and I did the razor fandango in Kraut country, and I missed a step. Figured I’d put my unique secret agent talents to good use, so I started solving cases no living gumshoe could crack.” The butler, looking paler than usual, which for him was quite a feat, cleared his throat. “But... how are you... solid... and a woman?” I shrugged, straightening my trench coat. “A dame’s gotta have some secrets, Jeeves. Let’s just say I’ve picked up a few tricks since shuffling off this breathing business. Now, about your late boss...” I explained how Cornelius had accidentally offed himself during his little summoning ritual. The big bad he’d called up had been more than happy to stick around and make itself at home, feeding off the fear and confusion of the household. “So, that’s the skinny,” I concluded. “Case closed, and your house is officially de-ghouled. My bill will be in the mail—and don’t worry, I accept most forms of payment in this realm.” As I turned to leave, the widow called out, “Miss Hart! Will we... see you again?” I paused at the door, tipping my hat with a smirk. “Sugar, in my line of work, you never know where or when I might pop up. Just keep your eyes peeled and your Ouija boards handy.” With that, I sauntered into the night, my form slowly fading like mist in the morning sun. Another case solved, another day... well, not lived, but you get the picture. In this town, the streets are dark, the dames are dangerous, and the dead don’t always stay put. But as long as there are phantoms causing trouble, Roxie Hart, the ghostly dick, will be there to crack the case and save the day. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a hot date with eternity—and maybe a cold glass of spectral gin. This ghost detective’s work is never done, but hey, that’s the breaks when you’re the spook who sleuths. 💀💀💀 Daniel P. Douglas is the pen name for identical twins Phillip and Paul Garver. Phillip, a U.S. Army veteran, former intelligence analyst, and retired federal government employee, and Paul, with 30 years in the museum profession including the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum, write science fiction, suspense, and thrillers. Their award-winning works include Truth Insurrected: The Saint Mary Project, about an extraterrestrial contact cover-up, and the Richter's War series. Named a 2014 Foreword Reviews IndieFab Finalist and Readers’ Favorite Award winner, they reside in New Mexico with their families. Find out more at https://authordanielpdouglas.substack.com/.
0 Comments
Stairway to Death by Alice Baburek Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai Podcast.
Heinrich Klein could resist no longer. He was one of the many who had slipped away undetected—a new life and identity. He never faced his unwavering involvement in war crimes and atrocities committed against humanity. Many times, he had visited his fading memories of Mauthausen, which was one of the most horrific German Nazi concentration camps erected in Austria. He became a mere German camp guard at the ripe age of only fourteen. With his tall, lanky frame, no one questioned his intense longing to serve his Führer, Adolph Hitler. His Jewish ancestry had been traded for a German uniform. With no living relatives, he gladly welcomed the German invasion. Heinrich served under the direction of SS Captain Otto Schwartz—overseer of Mauthausen. He admired the exuded evil and sadist aurora surrounding the small but powerful captain. So when Heinrich was asked to help manage the prisoners for “the stairway of death,” he gladly accepted his newly ranked position. Now, more than half a century later, he shuffled slowly through the remains of what was left of the Mauthausen concentration camp. Memorials were erected for those who died at the hands of the German Nazis. Heinrich didn’t bother to read any of them. He was not interested in the suffering and pain inflicted upon thousands of innocents—no, he was interested in remembering his participation. As he finally rounded the corner of the collapsed prisoners’ barracks, he could see the immense stone block stairway leading up the hill in the distance. A wicked smile crept across his aged, wrinkled face. His fellow German soldiers nicknamed it “the stairway of death.” Many of the prisoners of Mauthausen were used to carry immense blocks of granite on their backs and walk the steps to the top of the hill. These huge stones were then used for the building of other German concentration camps. Very few prisoners survived the stairway of death. They would crumble and die under the intense weight. Some would drop the rocks behind, crushing their fellow prisoners who were climbing the steps behind. Others who dropped the stones were punished severely or shot dead on the spot. Heinrich lifted his hand to cover the sun as he gazed at the stone stairway. He could still see the thin, ravished men desperately trying to keep balance with an immense load of stone shifting on their shoulders. He chuckled. Memories flooded back to when SS Officer Wilhelm Klout allowed him to execute the weak and worthless for days on end. Often, it took only one bullet to the prisoner’s head. His chest swelled in pride by the abuse of power over human life and how he missed those precious days. Now, after all these years of living incognito, the former concentration camp had been dedicated to those inferior beings who had once dared to walk the sacred grounds of German territory. As he watched the visitors going up and down the stairway, a slight shiver ran down his bent spine. The air had grown dry. A wind unexpectedly swirled the dusty ground, and his throat felt parched. He closed his eyes from the beating sun. As quickly as the unusual weather emerged, it receded into silence. Heinrich opened his grainy eyes. He stood alone at the bottom of the stairway to death. His old heart skipped a beat. He glanced around at the emptiness. Where had everyone gone? “Du!” [you] shouted a man. Heinrich slowly turned to face the German. The SS Officer was moving quickly toward Heinrich. His rifle outstretched. “Hebe den Stein auf!” [pick up the stone] yelled the SS Officer. Heinrich understood him even though the man spoke in German. “Me?” asked Heinrich. He pulled his head back. What was going on? “Beweg dich jetjt oder ich schieBe!” [move now, or I will shoot] The SS Officer closed in. Heinrich stumbled backward and fell. He noticed his clothes were striped, stained, and dirty. His stomach churned. “My name is Heinrich Klein! I am like you—a soldier of the Reich. I worked here a long time ago,” explained Heinrich in a shaky voice. Two others joined the SS Officer. He repeated what Heinrich had said. The three German soldiers laughed. Heinrich could barely swallow. What nightmare was this? “Du bist ein Schwein!” [you are a swine] shouted the other German soldier. Heinrich’s heart raced. This can’t be happening! “I’m…I’m German…Ich bin…Ich bin.” The three looked at one another. “Ein deutsches Schwein, ja?” [a German swine, yes?] questioned the soldier. Heinrich’s German was a tad rusty. “Ja, ja” [yes, yes] replied Heinrich. His left hip began to ache from sitting on the hard ground. The original SS Officer had enough. He lifted his rifle once again. “Hebe den Stein auf, oder ich werde,” [pick up the stone or I will shoot] commanded the soldier. It took Heinrich a few seconds to figure out what the German said. The other soldiers gestured toward the giant rock pile near the base of the stairs. Suddenly, he realized the extent of the order. But before he could get up, two of the Nazis roughly pulled him to his feet. Pain seared up into his spine. The third Nazi aimed the rifle at Heinrich’s head. The old man held up his hands. “In Ordnung,” [alright]. Heinrich searched the massive pile for the smallest stone. As he struggled to pick it up, the soldiers talked amongst themselves. After several tries, he was able to lift the granite rock. One step at a time, Heinrich began climbing the “stairway to death.” With each step, his body protested. The pain radiated throughout his tired, old body. Sweat dripped down into his sagging face. The steps seemed endless. Finally, after what appeared to be a lifetime, he reached the grassy top. Another SS Officer was busy smoking a cigarette. He gestured for Heinrich to place the stone onto the pile. Heinrich dropped the rock only for it to land on his foot. “Ah!” screamed Heinrich. The weight of the granite crushed three of his toes. He fell to his knees. Tears filled his grainy eyes. The soldier tossed the lit ember to the ground. “Steh auf! Steh auf!” [get up, get up] he shouted. But Heinrich could not move. The pain was too intense. His body seized. He jerked and fell forward onto the ground. Dirt and gravel pushed into his contorted mouth. Suddenly, the SS Officer grabbed the back of Heinrich’s shirt and dragged him to the ledge overlooking the quarry nicknamed “parachute jump.” Heinrich, realizing his fate, tried to wiggle free. But it was no use. The German soldier was much too strong. “Springen! Springen!” [jump swine] The words echoed inside Heinrich’s pounding head. “Please, please, don’t do this,” cried Heinrich. He struggled to his wobbly legs. And before he could say another word, the German soldier smiled as he pushed Heinrich over the edge. Heinrich opened his grainy eyes. For a brief moment, his mind tried to focus. He stood alone at the bottom of the stairway to death. He closed his eyes again, hoping it was all just a nightmare. “Du!” [you] shouted a man. Heinrich’s heart raced. It can’t be! The SS Officer was moving quickly towards him with the outstretched rifle. “Hebe den Stein auf!” [pick up the stone] yelled the officer. Henrich could not believe it was happening again. How was any of this nightmare possible? Why can’t he wake up? “Beweg dich jetjt oder ich schieBe! [move now, or I will shoot] The officer lunged forward, causing Heinrich to stumble backward to the ground. “Please,” begged Heinrich. “This isn’t right…I don’t belong here…please, you’ve got to believe me,” sobbed Heinrich. The other two SS Officers strolled up. The one soldier pointed at Heinrich. “Du bist ein Schwein!” [you are a swine]. Heinrich clasped his hands as if in prayer. “Don’t do this…I am German.” Tears streaked his filthy face. “Ein deutsches Schwein, ja?” [a German swine, yes?] laughed the officer. By now, Heinrich knew what came next. Either he lifted the stone and started the journey up the stairway to death or let the German soldier shoot him in the head. Would it finally stop the horrific nightmare? But for some odd reason, Heinrich was terrified of what would happen if he did choose death by rifle. Is this how the prisoners of Mauthausen felt each day? The tortures were beyond comprehension. “Steh auf! Steh auf!” [get up, get up] shouted the Nazi. Heinrich’s body screamed out in agony. He could barely lift the weighted granite. Once again, he took one step at a time. *** The Austrian police taped off the area. Visitors gathered to glimpse the tragic accident. Several witnesses reported to police that an old man just jumped from the top of the stairway into the quarry below. As the medical technicians loaded the mangled and crushed corpse onto the gurney, one of them searched the deceased body for information on his identity. Inside, they found a faded identification card that bore the name Heinrich Klein – Mauthausen Guard and a faded photo with his rank, unit, birthdate, and a Nazi validation stamp. 💀💀💀 Alice Baburek is an avid reader, determined writer and animal lover. She lives with her female partner and four canine companions. Retired, she challenges herself to become an unforgettable emerging voice. Transmitter by Nick Porisch Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai podcast.
This text is a series of open letters written to the citizens of Manitou Falls, Wisconsin by Walter J. Sundquist, published in the Manitou Telegraph between February 9th and March 31st, 2025. Feb. 9, 2025. Has anyone else found their morning commute disturbed by the hideous shrieking of a long-dormant god’s sycophantic acolytes? Particularly, on the corner of Barstow and Clairemont. You know, between the Hardee’s and the Evenox Motel. My name is Walter J. Sundquist and, as many of you may know, I manage Bradley’s Ace Hardware on Grand Street. I’m reaching out to you, the public, in the hope that we may be able to mount some sort of petition for the city to take care of this terrible problem. I know what you might be thinking; if the shrieking is such an issue, why don’t I adjust my route to work to avoid it? See, after my wife passed away and my daughter left for college, I downsized into an apartment in Cannery Heights and, the fact of the matter is, there’s just not another convenient way to get to Grand Street without passing through the Barstow and Clairemont intersection. Especially with that horrendous construction by the middle school. Not to mention, the shrieking is taking up quite a large bandwidth on public radio space and that really ought to be the city’s responsibility to take care of. If you’ve also noticed the unearthly wails and guttural howls near the Hardee’s on Clairemont, please let me know if it was prior to the date of January 3rd, 2025. That was when my sonic encounters with this quasi-religious group began. The sun was still beneath the horizon as I drove from Cannery Heights to Grand Street. I was listening to music through my car’s speakers, thanks to a device that my daughter, Hailey, gave me during her Christmas break. It was a small, plug-in transmitter that she explained would connect to my smartphone via Bluetooth and then emit a short-range FM signal that I could tune my car’s radio to. Hailey told me that the transmitter was finicky and only certain FM channels would get a clear signal. I eventually narrowed down a very small handful that work well with the transmitter and are usually vacant, so my music isn’t disrupted and so that I’m not disrupting the transmissions of others. However, when I pulled to a stop at the traffic light that bridges the gap between the Hardee’s and the Evenox Motel on the morning of January 3rd, my music began to shudder and warp, interrupted by harsh spikes of static. I tuned my radio a few clicks to the right, and heard the first whispers of the acolytes broadcasting their sermon from the corner of Clairemont and Barstow. They spoke in strange ancient, tongues, older than anything Indo-European, older than Persian or Hellenic or Egyptian, maybe older than Sanskrit. Words that you don’t hear so much as you feel in your stomach. They spoke, and I understood. I understood that there is a great beast under the lakes and the hills of our land and it’s hungry… so hungry. That it carves its way beneath our roads and buildings with the great ambivalence of something that was here before the first stone of human invention was cast and will be here long after the final nail is hammered into the final coffin. That its stomach quivers and its maw salivates with an eager, insatiable gluttony for everything we love and hold close. That it wants, or maybe needs, to be starved until the day arrives when it can resurface and feast in all the decadent pleasures of our world. I understood, without a doubt, that our souls will be the first course. Then the light turned green and I arrived at work four minutes later. I can’t help but think that my encounter with the disciples’ prophecy at the traffic light contributed to my generally grumpy disposition for the remainder of the day, which in turn may have affected our daily sales at the hardware store. On days when I’m lucky, I meet a greenlight at the acolytes’ intersection and catch only a small sliver of their cursed broadcast. A single beat of a thundering drum, one verse from a esoteric tome. Other days, I am subjected to up to three minutes of mind-warping chants that taunt me with omens not meant for the human mind to consume. So, if your morning commute has also been disrupted by the occult ravings emanating from the corner of Clairemont and Barstow, please reach out to me so we can organize some kind of action in city hall and put a stop to it. You can see my contact information below, or come find me at Bradley’s Ace Hardware on Grand Street. Mar. 19th, 2025. My name is Walter J. Sundquist and, as many of you may know, I am the now infamous “FM transmitter guy.” Last month, I submitted an open letter in this newspaper that outlined my experiences intercepting the sermons and prophecies of an ancient, evil religion centered somewhere between the Hardee’s and Evenox Motel. Apparently, this was a somewhat unique experience. However, the February 9th issue became a record-breaking sales hit for the Manitou Telegraph and they have graciously allowed me to publish another letter begging anyone out there who may have shared these experiences to reach out. For decades, the radio in my pick-up remained completely and totally silent. Many of you knew my late wife, Mary C. Sundquist, before she passed away last Spring and, if you did, you would know that she was the finest singer in the Ojibwa River Valley. She was a concert soloist, a music teacher, and an avid member of First Lutheran’s choir. During the thirty years I shared my life with Mary, there was never a need for a radio because she was always there to fill the air with music. When my daughter, Hailey, gave me the FM transmitter, she said that Mary would want my life to still be full of music. I’ve started to hear her voice again, at the traffic light between Clairemont and Barstow. Her singing — that gentle, beautiful singing — is woven into the moans of the acolytes echoing there. In between their encantations and curses, her gentle melody injects a dose of golden ichor. I decided that I must find the source of the signal myself. By tweaking my position and tuning the channels of my radio, I slowly triangulated the emanation of my wife’s voice to be from inside the Evenox Motel. I don’t know what is inside that building, but, next week, Hailey comes home for spring break and I’ll tell her what has been happening here in Manitou Falls. Please, please, if you have shared any of these experiences, help me convince the Manitou Police Department of this situation’s urgency, before it’s far too late. Mar. 31, 2025. My name is Walter J. Sundquist and, as many of you know, there is something powerful beyond our capacity for understanding inside the Evenox Motel at the corner of Clairemont and Barstow. I write this as an email attachment that I will send to the Manitou Telegraph from the cab of my pick-up, in the parking lot of the motel. My radio is tuned to the shrieks of the acolytes. Earlier this week, Hailey returned from university in Northern Michigan. I told her about these experiences and, when she asked me to show her, I brought her to the traffic light where I’ve heard the slumbering god’s worshippers. I waited with apprehension as their rumbling whispers cut through the radio’s static… and Hailey smiled. “She’s waiting for you.” Hailey explained that this has all been for me. She said she met some people, deep in the North Woods, who showed her old, powerful things and told her that they were everywhere, even in her own hometown. They could help her find things that were lost. People who were lost. Hailey said that the transmitter was designed to guide me to this channel that only I can hear, at this exact place in this town that I love. Hailey says that I’ll find Mary at the signal’s source. So, now, I’m here in the parking lot at the corner of Clairemont and Barstow. The cultists’ prayers shake my cochlea and send horrific vibrations through the canals of my grey matter. I see great waves of thunder and lightning descending upon Manitou Falls and figures with purple, bruised skin emerging from the woods. I hear the interminable, deafening call of the great beast within our earth and our hearts. I feel the end boiling beneath our feet. Something is waiting for me inside the Evenox Motel. Mary is waiting for me inside. The beast is waiting for me inside. None of you can help me. I open the car door and turn the radio off. 💀💀💀 Nick Porisch is a writer based in the Northern Midwest. Most of the time you can find him just sitting around someplace, potentially writing genre fiction and screenplays but usually just sitting. On the rare occasion he’s not sitting around, he might be rock climbing or running. But most likely he’s just sitting somewhere. Expectations by Deborah Sale-Butler "Expectations" first appeared in the 2024 Dead Girls Walking Anthology. Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai podcast.
The lake closed over her nose and mouth. Sara sucked in a lungful of cold, black water. On her next breath, she opened her eyes and saw the numbers shining on her LED clock: 12:02 AM. Again. Three nights in a row -- same dream, same time. Sweat drenched her hair and nightgown. She stumbled down the hall to the bathroom, turning on all the lights to chase away the aura of the dream. Steam from the shower filled her lungs. She closed her eyes and let the warm water wash over her. Suddenly, the drain at her feet turned into a hissing vortex, sucking all the steam from the room. Something icy-cold touched her shoulder. She screamed and threw her body against the tiles, knocking the shower handle to the left. Hot water scalded her neck and shoulder. She battled with the knob to stop the flow. She shuddered. Her burned skin tingled where she wrapped the towel to warm herself. She headed to the kitchen for the emergency kit. On the counter, she found burn-salve and fresh gauze already laid out. The old woman standing by the stove flickered like a lamp with a loose wire. “Here, let me get that for you. It was my fault. So sorry, but it is difficult to get your attention.” Sara froze. The woman placed a cup in her hand. “Here, drink this. Coffee. You need it.” Sara cradled the cup. Am I still dreaming? “I can’t stay long,” said the old woman. “Manifestation takes sooo much energy. Easier to show up in a dream, but you kept drowning on me!” She dabbed salve onto Sara’s burns. The pressure of the old woman’s touch triggered a twinge of pain. Sara hissed and pulled away. Dreams don’t hurt. “Well, you’ve got my attention, now. What do you want?” The old woman clapped her hands. “Excellent question. Straight to the point. You’ve always been such a good reporter. All right then, straight to the answer — I want you to write a story about me.” After twenty years as an investigative journalist, Sara was used to people pitching her story ideas, but this was a first. Think of it as a normal pitch. How would I approach the story? Ask the questions: who — a ghost, what — asking for an interview, where — in my kitchen, when — just after midnight. That leaves — why?“I’m a journalist. Why would I write about a ghost?” “Why do you think? You are witnessing proof that there is life after death. I think that counts as pretty big news. Most people would love to know they can go on after they die, which you are scheduled to do at 12:02 on Friday.” “Die??” Sara felt the blood rush from her head. The old woman appeared behind her to offer a chair. Sara sat down, dropped her head and forced herself to take deep breaths. When the light-headedness passed, she addressed the old woman, who appeared in the chair across from her. “Even if what you say is true, who would believe me? I’m not sure I believe it myself.” “People like you, Sara. They trust you. You’ll find a way to tell them.” “Really? Because what I have right now is, “An old ghost lady showed up in my kitchen and told me that we all go on after we die, and if I’m not around after 12:02 on Friday, look for me in your kitchen.” She collapsed into hysterical laughter. The old woman smiled. “Something like that. Except you don’t all go on after you die. That’s the story.” Sara stopped laughing. She remembered the clock. Drowning. Darkness closing in. “What do you mean?” “You only go on if you expect to go on. Consciousness can continue, but only if you’re connected to the idea of something after death. It’s why most religions mention some sort of afterlife. It’s like hidden code embedded in humanity to remind them why they’re here.” Sara stared at her coffee cup and tried to process what the old woman said. She had never been religious, never believed in heaven or hell or reincarnation. Her whole life was based on analyzing facts. “What happens if we think death is the end?” “The universe recycles what’s left of you for parts, but your consciousness is lost. We’re meant to share our collective experiences after death, but these days too much knowing simply disappears — forever.” The sadness in the old woman’s eyes reminded Sara of the fathomless emptiness of the lake in her dream. It felt as real to her as the pain in her shoulder. “What if they don’t believe me?” “Some of them won’t. But many will. More than you’d think. You’re a good story teller. That’s why you were chosen. That and yourmanner of death. It’s important to write exactly when you’re due to die. As you always say, ‘facts matter’.” Sara closed her eyes, not sure if she wanted the answer to her next question, “How will it happen?” “I can’t tell you that, but I will say nobody will think it’s a suicide.” Sara had been in one car accident in her life. She remembered the point at which the collision was unavoidable — when fear turned to surrender. The same feeling settled on her now. “So I have to die.” “Child, everybody dies. I’ll see you on Friday, now that you have certain expectations.” The old woman flickered like a flame and was gone. For the first time in days, Sara felt calm. She draped a terry cloth robe over her freshly-bandaged shoulder, took another sip of coffee and wrote, “I never believed in ghosts, until one appeared in my kitchen to tell me I’m going to die at 12:02 AM on Friday. . .” 💀💀💀 As someone who was born on Halloween, I love spooky stories and much of my short fiction has supernatural elements. My stories have appeared, or are forthcoming, in dozens of publications including Twisting, Turning Timeshifts, Dead Girls Walking and Three X the Fun anthologies, Flash Phantoms, Flash Fiction Magazine, and Amazing Stories. You can find links to all of my published work at https://deborah-sale-butler.com. |
AboutLinda Gould hosts the Kaidankai, a weekly blog and podcast of fiction read out loud that explores the entire world of ghosts and the supernatural. The stories are touching, scary, gruesome, funny, and heartwarming. New episodes every Wednesday. |
RSS Feed