Though I have never understood the fascination with death, the stories of the executions sell papers. Journalistic standards require us to write the truth, though I fair doubt any will believe the tale I will be writing today that was not there to witness in person. I wonder if I shouldn’t just give up the fight and sell the tale to the penny dreadfuls and be done with it. It might end up there anyway.
I have dutifully witnessed nearly a hundred hangings at the old tree in the town square, all with a sour stomach. I have recorded each scene down to the last detail, including the final words of the condemned. It has begun to feel like I was Charon ferrying the lost souls to their final destination.
Normally I am not as free with my prose in the description. This one was different. It hit harder.
Firstly, It was the first woman I had seen meet the noose. Secondly, the weather was odd. If I didn’t know any better I would have claimed that the sky mourned her death afore she had the chance to die. And lastly, She wore the habit of a nun. Everything about this felt wrong.
The whole week has seemed off. The nun had come to town alone. That was strange enough. She set herself up at the local church to help those who needed her. I am still struggling to understand why she ended up hanging from the noose. The day she arrived in town we had another execution. A killer, He deserved to hang…there was no doubt in anyone’s mind. The nun insisted that the man at least deserved his last rights. There had not been a proper priest in town for a while, as the last fellow had died of cholera. The magistrate did not seem to know how to deal with such a pushy nun. Women were not allowed to be acting as clergy. At least that is what the whispers around town said.
Now, don’t misread me here. She did not immediately end up at the noose’s end. Still, her behavior did not put her on the town’s good side. She seemed to have herself opinions, and they were not suitable for a lady…much less a woman of the lord. I believe she irritated the magistrate the most, though only the devil knows why. She was obviously brash and opinionated. She would feed the negros and the good fer naughts. She crafted potions that she claimed would heal the sick. Though I must be plain that I had not tried them.
In another place and time this woman might have been celebrated. This was not such a place nor time. El Paso is barely civilized. Our tiny little town was even worse. The west is still wild, the year of our lord Eighteen ninety five is an innovative time about many a thing…but I believe she was just too much. I am frankly surprised she was not burnt as a witch. I am still unsure if she was a true lady of the Lord or a witch sent from Hell itself. I believe she was a test either way and I am not sure if we passed.
The nun and the magistrate continued to come to terms several more times during the week after she arrived. She was arrested for causing a disturbance of the peace. That has ne’er been a hanging offense afore. Yet, the notice of execution went up immediately after she was detained.
I, as the town journalist, tried to interview the magistrate as to the reasons why he was having her hung. He refused to answer my questions. I was also not allowed to visit her to ask any questions of her. I have often been to the capital to argue for laws about executions. I firmly believe that there should be more involved than just a Magistrate’s ruling and the noose. I have yet to be successful there. I am usually told that there is more involved… but that has not changed the way this town works. I don’t know of anyone else being hung for being a disturbance of the peace.
The wind was strong that day as they led her to the hanging tree. It might have been imagination running wild, but I could have sworn I heard crying in the wind. I swear it should have been called off then and there. The wind was nearly pulling people up and carrying them off, and the clouds were darkening the sky as if night had fallen. The rain had started a slow drizzle coating the entire area in a cold wetness. The dark wetness of the hanging tree nearly looked like it was covered in an unearthly blood seeping straight up from Hell. The crowd that always gathered for these things was uneasy and filled with discontent. A smart man would have cancelled the execution. Our magistrate has never been accused of being smart.
As they walked her to the tree, she was muttering prayers. She walked straight, with her head high. Most cannot face the noose as they approach the tree and watch their feet as they walk. Not her. She walked straight, watching the noose, rattling prayers beneath her breath. I am firmly believing that the way she faced her death was unnerving to the people gathered. It was not long before half the crowd joined her in prayer. Normally I say that the one place I have never seen God is at an execution… That might have changed after hers.
The magistrate forced her to remove the wimple before approaching the noose. He was none too gentle in placing the rope about her neck. Eerily her long hair seemed to reach for the tree.
As tradition demanded he asked if she had any final words. “All are equal in the eyes of the father. what is done to one… shall be given to all.”
As soon as she said that last word he kicked the lever to drop the door from beneath her. The crack of her neck rattled, echoing around the town square. Imagination starts running wild at times like that. Yet, I swear I heard her say she was coming home. I realize it was impossible as with a broken neck she was dead.
Still, I think I’ll not be going to any more executions. I plan to move as I want to be anywhere that the hanging tree is not.
*This one is going to be added to before I publish it. it is done except the feedback has given me ideas for adding to it*
I forgot myself, for a while. It is easy to get caught up in a story and lose yourself in a well spun tale. I believed the image of life that I was given. I played the part of the mild mannered cab driver in the busy urban landscape.
While my life was not perfect, and really whose life is, I found myself content.
When they tell my story I believe they will say that I went stark raving mad. And perhaps it should be questioned when the media paints a portrait that differs from the norm.
I find myself wanting to leave my own version so that others like me don’t fall into the same trap. I think it’s only fair. One taste of freedom is almost enough to incite madness. The truth is not freedom, but something far darker.
I remembered who I was nearly a month ago now. He climbed into my cab smelling like a brewery and yelling at someone over the phone. I always hated the fares like this. I always ended up with a migraine afterwards.
It was the night of the blood moon. I almost didn’t work. The craziest people always came out on the full moon, and the weird moons were worse. The crimson moonlight was mesmerizing as I tried to ignore the smell coming from my backseat as he got himself settled.
He had barely slurred an address at me before he climbed into my cab but otherwise his attention was focused on cursing at top volume at whomever was on the other side of the call.
I pulled out into traffic slowly trying to block out the voice inside my head telling me that he was unworthy of life. I don’t know why I pretended I didn’t see the script above everyone’s heads. I suppose I worried I was insane. Was I ignoring the scripts unconsciously, or was it something that I was not supposed to see. These were things that I did not want to question, I guess I assumed everyone had an inner critic and I told myself that the scripts were just my overactive imagination.
I looked at the rear view trying to understand why I was so distracted. This was just another drunk idiot in my cab. Another day that ended in Y. Yet , something about this passenger on this night had me feeling the need to act.
I nearly swerved as I actually saw his scripts. Repressed memories hit like a tank. It was a good thing for the other drivers on that road that my reflexes kicked in at the same time. The clamoring of horns and cussing told me I had at least been noticed. Remembering who I was, and understanding the situation, I decided it would be safer for everyone if I drove us somewhere more discrete.
The scripts were where each person’s sins are collected, something that I had just remembered. It was meant to be a shadow ledger that directed the universe how to deal with your soul after you died. Before the fall, I was one of those sent to collect the worst of the sinners and carry them to their fates. The scripts on most people were inconsequential anyway. Otherwise they would go through a cleansing and be given the option of eternal rest or trying again. I enjoyed my job.
Before I forgot.
His scripts wrapped around him like a mummy’s bandage, doubling back over itself, and was covered in blood. His soul could never be clean again. I knew my duty. Though many of my brethren have as I had forgotten themselves after the fall, we still existed. This man would have reminded any of the immortal ones. He was a danger to mankind. That could not be allowed.
The only problem was that I no longer had the divine power. All of us lost that in the fall. In order to do the duty ahead I would have to be strategic. By this time he noticed we were not going to where he wanted to go. My only chance was to kill him. It would accomplish the same goal though it would be more effort for me. I was convinced that this was the only way. I was blinded by my own emotions. None of us on earth could even hear the divine voice, much less be given assignments. Still, I was certain that this was my job.
His drunken state would aid me. So would my appearance. I looked like a slender young man. “Sorry sir, I am having trouble with the car. I am pulling off so I can call it in. ” I reached over and killed my meter. “Rides free for the inconvenience.” That seemed to placate him for the moment.
I parked the car and pulled out a phone. Getting out casually added to the deception. I popped the hood, and pretended to call someone. I could still hear him berating his call. I looked around for a quick weapon. He got off the phone, and I knew time was growing short.
The rock I found was perfect. Discrete, and heavy. Something no human could easily lift. I prepared myself. The door opened. My aim was flawless. Between the red light of the moon and the immense amount of blood that spread from his skull as he fell I finally saw what the truth would be. I had, in doing my duty, created a script of my own. My sin was presuming I could know the mind of the divine.
Having a script means I am now mortal. If you find this my brethren, please learn from my mistakes. Continue forgetting.
The old house had many shadows. Some still moved, others had forgotten even how to do that. The child looked confused, and as she did at least once per day, asked the same question. ” Tell me again Grandma, how did we die?” The grandmother sighed. She knew that the child could no longer help her memory escaping, but it was beginning to be difficult even for her. The fog in her memory made the daily story change slightly.
Still, it seemed to calm the child. So she sat down and motioned for the child to join. Then she began. “We moved into this house before you were born. Back then it was your mother, your father, and me. The house had so much extra space and it was so cheap that it felt like a dream. We were here when your mom discovered she was pregnant. We were so excited that you would join us.”
As always the child interrupted. “Where is mommy? And Daddy? Did they not love us anymore?”
Indulgently, the grandmother continued as she had every night before. “They still live child. They love us and grieve for us every day. We have died and we are staying together here. Do not fret child. We have each other.”
Hugging the child close, and being grateful again that ghosts could touch each other, the grandmother continued. “This house had dark things living in the dark spaces. Things that we did not know about when we moved in. You were such a bright light when you were born that we nearly could ignore that darkness. We lived here with you for two years. Then the darkness got worse. We started to react to it.”
The child shivered in her arms, afraid of the darkness that they knew was dangerous. Grandma hesitated, as always afraid that the child may be to innocent to understand the story told. Though she had been telling the story for nearly fifty years, the child was only three when they died. It seemed cruel to her that they remained. She found herself wondering why the hand of death otherwise known as the reaper had not shown themselves to lead the shades to the afterlife. It worried her.
Still, to comfort the child she continued with the story.
The grandma never questioned how she was able to speak. The only thing she cared about was that she could give the child comfort.
“The darkness was something that we didn’t understand. I died first. I died in my sleep. The family was sick with grief, and I was unable to communicate with them. I remained like that for a whole year before you joined me. I did not expect to see you so soon. You were following a shadow from your room and fell down the stairs. Your parents were lost in their grief and left the house. Too much evil hqd happened here. Now we await Death’s Hand to lead us to the afterlife.”
The child looked at grandma confused.”When will they come ? Will we be able to see mommy and daddy again ?”
Grandma smiled softly “They will join us when it is their time..I believe that Death’s Hand will come to lead us home when we four are joined again.”
With the child calmed down and the story done, Grandma settled in with the child and pretended she was not worried about the time they had been there. The house was something outside of time. She was afraid as she didn’t know how to end the eternity of the darkness that they have existed in.
The world seems to be a place where myths are taken for granted. Everyone knows the myth of the pilot of the River Styx. The Ferryman who ferries souls over to the afterlife for a cost. They all have it wrong though. The Reaper doesn’t want coin. They are an immortal being. Such creatures have no need for money. The ferry driver instead takes the best story each soul has to tell. Sometimes just the telling of the story is too much for a soul to bear. Words carry weight. They are the most painful things in existence. They can also be the most gratifying things that life has to offer.
The ferryman has so many names, and most of them are just the myths coming to signify the way the mortal beings see them. For me, they are my creator. I guess you could call me the reaper’s child. It is not exactly correct, but it is the closest term for what I am. I am a story that became too much for even an immortal mind to bear. So, I grew sentience. Now I search the world for the others like myself, dark stories and memories that weigh heavy on mortality. Stories of killers, and crime, heartache, and such twisted thoughts that they are relegated to impossible fiction. That is the sort of thing that I collect. Like the ferryman I take these weights from the ones who cannot bear them any longer. I think of it as saving those souls who would break under such terrible weights.
I save each story in a notebook, lovingly hand written. My creator kept the stories told to them in perfect memory…I am not quite that blessed. Instead I will keep my notebooks…Stacked full of nightmares. The only story I have been able to remember without writing it down is the one that caused my creation. Perhaps someday I will meet the snowman…I would love to collect all of Frosty’s stories. I can only imagine what notebooks I could fill with that.
I have collected the tale of a vampire that would use it’s victims for the creation of art.
And the tale of the ghost who used to be a mercenary in a rainforest expedition that went badly. He was a wealth of stories. He gave me my own nightmares for weeks after taking his stories.
I collected the story of the nun who was cursed with immortality. It drove her mad. She spoke of becoming a killer, and how it was a kindness to save the women from the hands of the priests.
Each tale has it’s own power to describe a different aspect of life, a different aspect of death.
The story of the woman who went back after she died to steal away the child that her husband loved more than he loved her…She sang it sweet lullabies as she took it to the edge of the River Styx.
I could easily entertain so many with my tales. Which story should I share? Perhaps about the creature named Harvey? The flesh-eater that enjoyed driving it’s meals mad first?
I have considered passing myself off as a horror writer. Telling my tales as if they were fiction to see if anyone would recognize. It is not as if I do not have thousands of dark and dismal tales.
There is the one about the three ghosts who tried to get a rich man to change his ways before it was too late. Or the one about the Witch who gave five teens their wish…but at what cost?
My notebooks are a treasure. I do not write the story whilst the teller yet lives. I make sure to leave them a tale to pay the ferry with. I can at least be that kind. Though I have considered what would happen in this world if there where not enough stories left to pay the ferry. Would all of the storytellers end up stuck here? And if they did would that just create more interesting tales?
I don’t dare allow myself to consider it too closely. I might just decide that I want all of the stories.
The world seems to be a place where myths are taken for granted. Everyone knows the Myth of the pilot of the River Styx. The Ferryman who ferries souls over to the afterlife for a cost. They all have it wrong though. The Reaper doesn’t want coin. They are an immortal being. Such creatures have no need for money. The ferry driver instead takes the best story each soul has to tell. Sometimes just the telling of the story is too much for a soul to bear. Words carry weight. They are the most painful things in existence. They can also be the most gratifying things that life has to offer. The ferryman has so many names, and most of them are just the myths coming to signify the way the mortal beings see them. For me, they are my creator. I guess you could call me the reaper’s child. It is not exactly correct, but it is the closest term for what I am. I am a story that became too much for even an immortal mind to bear. So, I grew sentience. Now I search the world for the others like myself, dark stories and memories that weigh heavy on mortality. Stories of killers, and crime, heartache, and such twisted thoughts that they are relegated to impossible fiction. That is the sort of thing that I collect. Like the ferryman I take these weights from the ones who cannot bear them any longer. I think of it as saving those souls who would break under such terrible weights. I save each story in a notebook, lovingly hand written. My creator kept the stories told to them in perfect memory…I am not quite that blessed. Instead I will keep my notebooks…Stacked full of nightmares. The only story I have been able to remember without writing it down is the one that caused my creation. Perhaps someday I will meet the snowman…I would love to collect all of Frosty’s stories. I can only imagine what notebooks I could fill with that. I have collected the tale of a vampire that would use it’s victims for the creation of art. And the tale of the ghost who used to be a mercenary in a rainforest expedition that went badly. He was a wealth of stories. He gave me my own nightmares for weeks after taking his stories. I collected the story of the nun who was cursed with immortality. It drove her mad. She spoke of becoming a killer, and how it was a kindness to save the women from the hands of the priests. Each tale has it’s own power to describe a different aspect of life, a different aspect of death. The story of the woman who went back after she died to steal away the child that her husband loved more than he loved her…She sang it sweet lullabies as she took it to the edge of the River Styx. I could easily entertain so many with my tales. Which story should I share? Perhaps about the creature named Harvey? The flesh-eater that enjoyed driving it’s meals mad first? I have considered passing myself off as a horror writer. Telling my tales as if they were fiction to see if anyone would recognize. It is not as if I do not have thousands of dark and dismal tales. There is the one about the three ghosts who tried to get a rich man to change his ways before it was too late. or the one about the Witch who gave five teens their wish…but at what cost? My notebooks are a treasure. I do not write the story whilst the teller yet lives. I make sure to leave them a tale to pay the ferry with. I can at least be that kind. Though I have considered what would happen in this world if there where not enough stories left to pay the ferry. Would all of the storytellers end up stuck here? And if they did would that just create more interesting tales? I don’t dare allow myself to consider it too closely. I might just decide that I want all of the stories.
Okay….1. That is the first flash Fiction in Stacked Nightmares. 2. How many of Serena’s Stories can you see a nod to in that? I will say that one of the stories she refers to is not Serena’s to tell. It belongs to Malachi Nocturm. However, He is very uncertain about how good his writing is…so I don’t know if I can talk him into finishing it and then allowing me to publish it. So I used a small nod because I love the idea. This is the first thing I have been able to write (Other than Poetry) in 2 weeks. It has a word count of 680. So I had to share it.
Also Serena’s Story Heat & Ice was Accepted by Fractured Mind Publishing for their A Monster I Love Anthology. I will post more as I have details.
Pattimouse 