Tag: Kentucky

The Cottage – Part Nineteen – (Short Story)

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Stories, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment
Image result for metal barrel at night
Part One | Part Two |Part Three |  Part Four |Part Five |  Part Six |Part Seven |Part Eight | Part Nine | Part Ten | Part Eleven | Part Twelve | Part Thirteen | Part Fourteen | Part Fifteen | Part Sixteen | Part Seventeen | Part Eighteen

There it was balanced just so on the couch’s arm. Everything was the same. Manila colored, red lettered, and all – it was Hant’s letter. The very correspondence he’d so recently consigned to the fire.

“No.” He said rising to his feet and reeling.

“No, no, no, no , no….”

‘They drugged me.’

‘Keep it together.’

He once again unfastened the pin.

“I know you are a fool…” That first familiar line struck him like a blow.

He tossed it onto the coffee table. Some of the topmost pages scattered.

“Shit.”

There was that poem.

“They dance and play,

They with silver skin,

Sleek in the twilight,

Far from the day,

Children of the black sun,

Spirits so bright,

See how they run,

In rings,

Round,

Though without wings,

Flit overhead,

Above all kings,

Twilight world,

That sprang all this,

Symmetry unfurled,

By a distant kiss,

Apollo, o Apollo, appeal, to the maze of Saturn’s weal,

And send them as a dance

To heal

From this morbid trance

For mid-summer,

For mid-summer,

Give a root,

For the runner,

For the runner,

Dangerous,

Just so,

But just so,

Be sure to do,

Only if you know,

The black sun,

O the black sun…”

‘Must be the way the page is weighted, or the way it’s stapled, for it to fall open like that.’ Jim frantically theorized as his fracturing psyche grasped for the convenient nepenthe of amnesia. The document’s recent destruction was forgotten. After all he did drink heavily. He may well have dreamed the whole thing.

He looked out his window at the early evening. There they were. Rings, those damned rings, spread concentric and overlapping, in a dizzying maze pregnant with suggestion.

Jim shook his head and looked away.

But, his ears were still open. The sounds that sauntered through them were not pleasing. Amidst the incessant buzz of cicadas there was an occasional chirping.

Jim considered scattering the hicks with the Mossberg. But last night’s ordeal or… nightmare had dampened his spirit. He put on the nearest record.

“Abasalom, Absalom, why do you not heed?” A familiar nordic lilt flitted through the mystic stillness.

Jim arrested the spin with his finger. There was a green apple there in the center. It was Abbey Road.

Jim was about to play the record again, to confirm that he hadn’t hallucinated the obviously dubbed-in intro, when he heard three steady knocks.

He grabbed the Mossberg left leaning on the couch.

“Who is it?” He asked fingering the trigger.

“Dutch.” Came the plain clear answer.

“What the hell are ya doin’ here Dutch? Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

“I got somethin ya need.”

“I doubt it.”

“Ya really wanna disappear into the Earth?” Dutch asked coldly.

Normally Jim would have written this off, and told him to go fuck himself but too much had happened in too quick a succession.

As the giant entered Jim was overwhelmed by a strong chemical odor.

“Ya smell like a fuckin’ janitor…what the hell is up man?”

“Hant’s way is better, but this should work for ye… for a time.” Dutch said in a concerned tone.

“Huh?”

“Hold on.”

The giant leaned through the still open door and wrestled in an enormous metal barrel that wobbled and came to rest with a liquid thud.

“The fuck is that?” Jim demanded pinching his nose at the pungent present.

“Clorox.”

“….Clorox…do I look like a maid…isn’t this place clean enough?”

“It’s for them.”

“Them?”

“The goblins.”

Jim laughed. “I thought they were fairies.”

“Goblins, faeries, demons, it don’t matter. They love this stuff. Gets em drunker than a striplin ater his first moonshine.”

“Uhuh…” Jim laughed. This he could handle. It was actually amusing. Even if his immideate suspicion regarding illicit drug manufacture were true. The story was adorable.

‘Drunk fuckin goblins…’ He continued to chuckle.

“Ja, they love the smell of it. I left trails n cups o the stuff all through the wood. Keep em distracted till ya do yer homework.”

“Uhuh…” Jim said glancing at the letter.

“Mmmhmm, I’d suggest ya read that real careful like. Gonna take ye a bit to digest. In the meantime do like I did put this out in tins or whatever. Spray it in trails. They got a nose for it. For as smart as they are they’re kinda like bugs…it’ll send em in a tizzy. Kinda funny to watch em run ater it.”

“Ok.” Jim said smirking.

“Ye don’t believe now. But ye will. Ye’ll make real good use of this.”

“I’m sure.” Jim said.

The giant gave him an appraising look.

“Ya want a drink buddy?” Jim asked good naturedly. The story had amused him and he didn’t want solitude to bring fresh worries.

Dutch shook his massive head slowly.

“Nah, I must get goin’. Gotta look after Ma.”

“Ok…then…”

“Afore I go…we need to put this in the basement. Otherwise this’ll just bring em here.”

“Ok.” Jim said. He had no complaints about removing the eye watering cleaning product as far from his living spaces as possible.

Jim nearly fell as he and Dutch double-teamed the unwieldy demon booze down the steep stairs.

He really wasn’t keen on being alone despite the rise in spirit that the comical redneck lore had caused.

“Ya sure ya don’t want a drink?” Jim said pointing to the mantel.

Dutch simply shook his head and departed in that charecteriscally efficient manner.

Jim shook his head. “Where the hell do ya get a barell of fuckin Clorox…Boy, am I gonna have stories to tell…”

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The Cottage – Part Eighteen – (Short Story)

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Stories, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment
Image result for sagittarius constellation
Part One | Part Two |Part Three |  Part Four |Part Five |  Part Six |Part Seven |Part Eight | Part Nine | Part Ten | Part Eleven | Part Twelve | Part Thirteen | Part Fourteen | Part Fifteen | Part Sixteen | Part Seventeen

Jim did not see. His return to the cottage was not accompanied by a deepend reverence. Quite the opposite, his recklessness increased.

“This is all bullshit.” He said as he tossed his uncle’s letter into the fire.

Whenever he heard the chirping he’d run out like a wildman, Mossberg in hand, and fire wildly at the trees. Wooping profanities that would put any sailor to shame.

“I can always get more shells, cocksuckers!”

It did seem to work.

“Goblins my ass…hicks with whistles aren’t about to make a heel outta Jim Cleary.”

He actually considered burning the wood. His life had not been easy and, once kindled, his nihilistic rage was capable of profound wickedness. He wasn’t unfamiliar with a cellblock nor much afraid of returning to one.

But the pay was good. And despite Lizzy’s warnings it had not ceased.

He kept finding those strange heel-less tracks. But remained unphased. Figuring it was just another trick.

It was weeks since the ordeal that had found him on the shores of Luckadoo’s lake that denial began to grow impossible.

First, his temper finally began to subside, allowing for a touch of introspection. He felt bad for consigning crazy Hant’s ramblings to the flame. It was like sucker punching his spirit in the gut. The old nut meant well.

It did not help that Jim received a sudden fortune. A turn of luck that explained everything and could only mean one  thing.

On his return from the post office, bank statement in hand, he heard an inhuman wailing.

It made his heart sink to the very depths of his stomach.

Lizzy was at the stump doubled over and shreiking into the evening. Her long gray locks hung in ragged clumps completely obscuring her face.

A twig snapped as Jim approached to comfort her. She gazed up. And he turned to go.

All the fire was gone from her eyes. The spry twiggy motions had given way to shivers and sobs. He could not bear it and fled into the wood.

He sat by the cold stones a long time. Staring at the bit of paper that informed him that he was a sevenfold millionaire. It gave him a stomach ache. He actually felt naseaus.

He’d done nothing but surreptriously mock the old man his whole life. To reveive such a kindness after burning the last bit of spirit that Hant had passed on was flooring. Jim lay on the cold granite, too callous for weeping, too penitent for comfort.

The heavens that peaked through the swaying trees were agonizingly bright. With a cheerful beauty that mocked the mercenary hideousness of his soul.  Sagitarius with his bow was hypnotic.

He did not know how long he lay there staring till thirst took hold. He tried to rise but to his horror found himself unable to move at all.

It was then that he realized it was absolutely silent.

The buzz of the cicada had ceased. No more did he hear the song of the owl and whippoorwill.  Not even the strange chirping could be heard. Normally he would have been greatful for this fact. Especially given his current handicap. But, the damnable sound was replaced by something worse. It was a low and subtle sort of hum accompanied on occasion by light stealthy footsteps. As if a troop of children were playing hide and seek. Except the gait suggested by the footfalls was all wrong.

Jim could not move his head. But his eyes rolled freely. He gazed left at the sound of a snapping twig and beheld a silver head. A small bald thing was bobbing in his direction with several more in tow.

They stopped just beyond his line of sight and began to sway rhythmically. To his horror he found himself sinking into the stone. He tried to cry out but his dry constricted throat failed to produce so much as a chortle. Slowly, agonizingly, he felt himself becoming one with the granite.

Then quite suddenly a booming voice burst through the nightmare. “Fool!”

It was Hant’s voice. But the figure he glimpsed was not Hant. It was not the clean cut rustic but a wild bearded silver haired apparation.

The wicked dwarves scattered before the cold grey light of the wizard.

“I hope ye choke on drink. All that I gave ye..may you drink up…to the dregs…you fool.”

Jim felt a vicious kick in his rib.

But the pain was soon replaced by pleasure as he realized he could move again. He raced homeward not heeding the briars. Collapsing on the soft leather of the couch Jim fell into the deepest sleep of his life.

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The Cottage – Part Seventeen – (Short Story)

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Stories, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment
Image result for victorian hunting lodge
Part One | Part Two |Part Three |  Part Four |Part Five |  Part Six |Part Seven |Part Eight | Part Nine | Part Ten | Part Eleven | Part Twelve | Part Thirteen | Part Fourteen | Part Fifteen | Part Sixteen

Stone, oak, leather, and mahogany gave the lodge a Victorian feel. Jim wasn’t sure if this was whimsy or the place was truly that ancient. Everything was well kept and tidy. Maybe it was the real deal. With enough care something a hundred years old could be kept new.

He looked at the calendar, ‘1986 …more like 1886.’

A bell chimed and the host indicated it was time to leave the smoking room.

The household consisted of Jonas, Elsa, Mrs. Luckadoo, two servants, a silent old man in a wheelchair, and a large hound.

Mrs. Luckadoo was a petite blonde from Nice. The two made a comical pair at the head of a table surrounded by highbacked chairs.

Jim sat beside Elsa. A fact that he found thrilling. Especially since every time he was passed a victual, he caught a glimpse of thigh protruding from an almost modest dotted dress. The only female contact he’d had was his aunt. So, despite being pleasant it was also somewhat unwelcome since it made conversation difficult.

Fortunately, it seemed that the greater part of conversing was meant to take place after dinner. Elsa and the help were the most loquacious. That is comparatively. They did not talk much but compared to the stoic silence of the other diners their occasional banter was downright giddy.

While he was by no means comfortable Jim felt grateful. Especially for the bathing and bandaging of his mutilated feet. An expertly executed service by Mrs. Bostridge the wife of the butler who’d been a nurse in WWII.

She had an easy manner and one of those pleasantly plain and open English faces. It was a welcome contrast to her husband’s hawk nose and arrogant air.

Due to Jim’s recent travails the aristocratic repast left him hungry. But he refrained from complaining. ‘Lost losers can’t be choosers.’

After the Tarte Tatin, a desert that Jim found only served to make him hungrier, the help gathered the plates and Elsa wheeled away the strange old man.

The host approached Jim’s chair and laid a massive hand on his shoulder.

“I take it a man of your size is still hungry.”

Jim nodded.

“Charlotte likes to cook but unfortunately her portions while exquisite are as tiny as she is.”

“It is not good to be piggish.” She retorted from her seat.

“It is if you’re a pig.” Jonas said patting his stomach.

Mrs. Luckadoo rolled her eyes and departed.

“Speaking of pigs, I have an excellent boar butchered and hanging in the smokehouse. I was going to save it till my brother arrived. But I suspect I’ll be able to outwit another one before the week is up…So, what say you and I roast it on the pit?”

“I say right on.”

First, they visited the smokehouse. It was amply stocked with game. Jonas unhooked the ribs, rear hams, and a backstrap wrapping each in some paper. Jim helped him place their hefty after dinner snack in a wheelbarrow and the pair departed for the garden.

“The meat is not yet cured. But it should still have some of that smoky savor. We’ll cook the rest here.” He said tapping the pile of stone and brick with his foot.

The sound of the owl and whippoorwill were interrupted by that chillingly pleasant chirping. Jim was glad for the garden walls.

“Seems they’ve followed you.”

Jim nearly spit out his cigarette. “They!?”

“So, you haven’t seen them?”

“Them?”

“The mine fairies.” Elsa’s answer almost caused Jim to topple over as she approached with a tray of beer.

As Jim recovered and the contents of her answer registered, he burst out laughing.

“You’re fucking with me…did you say fairies?”

“Ja.”

Jim howled with laughter.

“I guess he really did not see zem.” She said without a hint of mirth as she placed the tray on a metal table.

“Yes, but I’m sure he has heard them.”

“Hmm…” Elsa said leaning back in the chair she’d just claimed and sipping a beer. She crossed her legs.

‘Jesus, that was intentional.’ Jim said staring.

The brunette smiled cynically, “Maybe naught. There are so many dingz that a make a man go deaf.”

Jim was too horny to be witty, so he helped himself to a beer and thought of Sister Beatrice, the old nun that had beat the shit out of him at St. Joseph’s. It worked. Even the briefest recollection of that stern scowl and garlic breath could nuke his libido from orbit.

“Nah,” he said as he regained his composure. “Old Hant might fall for that sorta thing…and I might not be the most educated guy…but fukin fairies…get wrecked.”

“Education largely consists of just enough information to make a man useful. Especially since we adopted the Prussian model.”

“Prussian model…?”

“Never mind that. It’s a bit beyond you. But that cheery sound you hear. It has everything to do with you.”

“You mean that fuckin’ chirping?”

“Yes.” Jonas said as he lit the spit he’d been preparing. “Sit, make yourself comfortable, this is going to take some time.”

Elsa drummed her fingers on the chair beside her. Jim plopped down awkwardly almost spilling the stein and very nearly choking on his cigarette. She laughed.

“Be nice.” Jonas said. “Your old habits aren’t proper. Besides, you don’t want to arouse the passions of a hermit.”

“Hey, I’m not a fuckin’ hermit. And it’s not like I haven’t had pussy before.”

Jonas chuckled. “Yes before…I take it you’ve been round Reed long enough to disobey. So, you should be good and bothered by now. God knows I would be. There’s nothing shameful about being a man. And nothing good about being a tease.”

Elsa stuck out her tongue.

Again, Jim almost didn’t catch the weird detail among the banter. “Disobey?”

“You’re a Cronin boy, aren’t you? I believe you told me as much.”

“Well…yea…on my mother’s side.”

“Your uncle and my father met during the war. They were both occultists.”

Jim laughed again. “No fukin way…my mom used to call the guy reverend. He makes Cotton Mather look like a heathen.”

“Occult simply means hidden. And your uncle became the keeper of secret things hereditarily. Just as I came into this land. Just as you will come into the ways.”

“Oh, Christ…you’re one of them.”

“Them?”

“You’re just like Dutch and Lizzy. With the ways and all that crazy hick bullshit.”

Jonas shook his head. “The world is not as plain as my brothers would have you believe.”

“Your brothers?”

“Again, that is beyond you. But, let me ask you a question…”

“Ok shoot.”

“How do you suppose Von Braun got it off the ground?”

“Von what…it…?”

“The flying disk. The one near the camp that my father’s regiment liberated. The camp where your captured uncle was made an officer…”

Jim was beside himself with laughter.

“Ok…brother…shit…I don’t remember much from history class…but I think you just told me old Hant was a fuckin’ Nazi.”

“Conscription doesn’t make a man fascist any more than a Janissary is a Turk.”

“Man, this is some bogus shit…what the hell are you trying to tell me?”

“I’m trying to tell you that there are certain covenants that had best be honored. Covenants that are passed by blood. Things that can only be officiated by the offspring of a particular alchemical marriage. It’s why your uncle was snatched up by German intelligence. At the behest of Himmler himself.”

“I’m not drunk enough for this.” Jim said reaching for another beer.

“It’s going to get worse if you don’t listen. The time has not yet come for them to cross the threshold. Though they are eager. Though they ply the weak among us with gifts.”

Jim just sipped his beer and rolled his eyes. “I still have no fuckin’ idea what you’re trying to tell me.”

“I’m telling you that you’re a druid.”

Jim spit. “Uh-uh…no way…that’s that Wicca bloodletting shit that crazy bitch Heather was into.”

“This is far from childish pretense. You have priestly duties.”

“I got yer duty right here.” Jim said letting out a fart.

“In front of a lady…” Elsa said disdainfully.

“That’ right toots. HAH! Toots…”

Jonas shook his head.

“Anyhow, I thought it best to tell you plainly. To warn you. Since you were almost taken. They are cautious by necessity. The gulf is difficult to cross. But they are old and clever.”

“They…?”

“The Coblynau.”

Jim sighed. “Look, I might not be religious but I ain’t into that pagan shit either. Grew up Catholic and Irish enough to know what kinda fuckery the druids got upto. And I get it. Ya got yerselves some weird cult out here in bumfuk Kentucky. Probably some kinda cover for a drug operation. I bet she’s your honeypot…” Jim pointed to Elsa.

Jonas shook his head again.

“I’m trying to make all of this easier on you. The rites no longer include human sacrifice. That covenant has thankfully been renegotiated. Thanks in part to the efforts of your family.”

“Uh-huh.” Jim said facetiously.

“Why deed that funny man naught have a son. This boy is blot. Wee’ll be neck deep in zem at this rate.”

“He’s sterile I’m afraid. Result of the radiation from the disk.”

“We’re fucked.” Elsa cursed for the first time since Jim had arrived.

It stung his pride a bit.

“Now hold on…if I can help…but…umm…NAH…you’re both full of shit. I’m not smuggling moonshine god damn it.”

Jonas laughed. “It’s alright. You’ll either see or you won’t. I think that the fact that you lasted this long means you got a good chance of surviving.”

“Surviving!”

“Yes, but don’t worry about that for now. For now, let’s just enjoy the evening.”

It was Jim’s turn to shake his head.

“See…why couldn’t we have done that before the crazy story.”

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The Cottage – Part Sixteen – (Short Story)

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Stories, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment
Image result for potsdam giants
Part One | Part Two |Part Three |  Part Four |Part Five |  Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight | Part Nine | Part Ten | Part Eleven | Part Twelve | Part Thirteen | Part Fourteen | Part Fifteen

“How the hell did you get this boat here?” Jim wondered out loud as the lake’s utter seclusion fully registered.

“I didn’t.”

“Ok…so your family did?”

“No.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I had it built here.”

“Oh!” Jim said smacking his head. Despite being a simple enough thing to guess the economic disparity between him and the giant was as great as the ratio of their height. Making it hard to see eye to eye on several levels at once.

Jonas Luckadoo was taller than Dutch. Jim guessed he must be pretty close to seven feet.

“Did you ever consider playing basketball?”

“Now that wouldn’t be very fair would it?”

“Guess not,” Jim said as he recalled that even Lizzy was atypically tall. She stood just below Jim’s nose. This was a feature he rarely encountered in women.

Elsa, the young woman who was piloting the boat as Jim and his host shared a pipe was the first person of average height he’d encountered. She had chestnut brown hair and the greenest eyes he’d ever seen. He figured she was a lot closer in age to him than her apparent lover.

But he had no time for romance. Much less rivalry. He was curious. Never had he seen a man of these dimensions. Let alone one from the leisure classes.

“Say, Mr. Luckadoo, why is everybody round here so god-damned tall?”

His host shrugged and grinned wryly, “Must be the mountain air.”

“Nah.” Jim said letting his intuition guide him. “There’s something real weird going on out here.”

“Says the man washing up barefoot on private property.”

“Ach, komm off it Jonas, tell heem…it is such a interesting story.” Elsa interjected.

“Quiet whore.”

“HEY!” Jim exploded rising to his feet.

Elsa laughed.

“I see you have the famous Celtic temper.” Jonas said coolly as he ruffled Jim’s hair.

“Do not mind heem. It is joke between us.”

“Some joke.” Jim muttered as he attempted to hold his chin aloft through the embarrassment.

Luckadoo chuckled. “I’m afraid I have a threefold advantage. Don’t let it sting your pride. I did not earn it. Neither this wealth, nor this body, nor the strength within it are to my credit. It is all utterly hereditary.”

“Ja, Jonas tell heem. He knows much now. Already seen dem.”

“Them?”

Jonas shook his head.

“That is for another time. I suppose I must apologize for baring a familiarity that you weren’t prepared for. Elsa is a whore…or rather was.”

“So, it’s not a joke.”

“It is a fact. Facts can be funny.”

“I don’t find it funny at all.”

“My mother was a whore.” Jonas stated matter of factly. “I collected Elsa from the same Bavarian brothel in which I was conceived. She is my third cousin.”

“Luckadoo don’t sound like a kraut name to me.”

“My father was Scottish. Though I’m not entirely certain as to the actual origin of the name.”

“So, you’re a literal bastard as well as a metaphorical?” Jim ventured a liberty.

“No. My parents were lawfully married before my birth.”

“Isn’t that taboo with ya rich folk?”

“The marriage was arranged.” Jonas answered as they came to rest at a dock.

“An arranged marriage to a whore?”

“Yes, my family has always been eccentric. Now, you asked about height. The early 20th century had a fascination with eugenics. It especially effected aristocrats who were already accustomed to obsessing over lineage…I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of the Potsdam giants?”

Jim shook his head.

“When King Frederick the first was prince of Prussia he formed a peculiar unit. A taller man could more easily operate a muzzleloader. Being German old Freddy took everything to the extreme and founded a regiment of giants. It included tall men from many countries. Some like my maternal ancestor James Kirkland came from Ireland.”

“So, you’re not a kraut at all.”

“My father is Hessian.” Elsa said with wounded pride.

Kirkland’s heir chuckled. “Yes, Hessian. Notice how you didn’t say German. It is small wonder that they succumbed to Rome. The fireworks of the Reich were the consequence of overcrowding. The Teutonic will has a profound dispassion for unity. A nation of warring princes as Lord Russell put it.”

Elsa stuck out here tongue.

“That’s how we the posterity of the forcefully conscripted came to be. Through three violent centuries much of honor fell by the wayside in favor of survival. The sons and daughters of Kirkland were scattered throughout the continent. That is until my father’s clan began collecting them.”

“I see.” Jim said as his head spun from the sheer madness of it all.

“That, my boy, is why despite our common national origin I could toss you like a hammer at the games.”

“And you plan to do that nasty upper crust thing and bang your cousin? Keep them freak genes goin?”

Elsa laughed.

“I doubt my wife would be very happy about that.” Jonas grinned.

Jim’s heart thrilled at the news. “O.”

“Yes and speaking of Charlotte…let’s get of this damned boat. I do believe I smell duck à l’orange.”

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The Cottage – Part Fifteen – (Short Story)

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Stories, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment
Related image
Part One | Part Two |Part Three |  Part Four |Part Five |  Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight | Part Nine | Part Ten | Part Eleven | Part Twelve | Part Thirteen | Part Fourteen

Shock was the first sensation that greeted Jim, followed closely by nausea. He blinked stupidly in the harsh noonday sun, choking now and again on some cool unidentified liquid that rolled down his face.

The strong smell of rich tobacco caused Jim to cough.

“That’s done it then. Cough it up. Didn’t mean to choke you, boy.” Said a cool peculiar voice.

Jim rose slowly. Only to collapse again immediately as the pain in his mutilated feet was registered by his gradually waking brain.

“That’s unwise.”

Jim propped himself up by the elbow to behold a tall, stern, middle-aged man bearing a rifle. Clad in tweed and smoking a pipe the guy would have been a comical anachronism anywhere except the woodlands that surrounded Reed.

“Why did you decide to go native?”

Jim stared in confusion.

“Your shoes, where are they?”

“..huh…ho…home.” Jim replied stupidly.

“Now there’s a fool idea if I’ve ever heard one. Where pray tell is home?”

Jim shot a lackadaisical thumb backward towards the fall.

The stranger shook his head.

“You probably need drinking more than bathing.” The cool voice said as a long limb dangled a canteen in front of Jim’s face.

He drank greedily.

A lengthy silence followed.

“How long have you been out here?” The stranger asked.

“…I…I don’t know…a day…two days…”

“Romping about the wood unshod for two days is a bizarre hobby, young man.”

Jim had no defense.

“Did you come from town or were you dropped from the sky?”

It was a strange question.

“Tow..town…sss..sort of.” Jim said amid fits of coughing.

“Sort of?”

“My uncle…his cabin…near that hick shithole…Reed.” Jim’s caustic tongue returned.

“Reed is thirty miles west of my lake.”

“Your…lake.”

“Yes, you happen to be trespassing.” The stranger stated matter of factly.

Again Jim had no defense.

“Though, it by no means seems intentional. Which is why you’re still alive. Most poachers don’t go bare-foot.”

Jim was still grappling with the idea that this vast patch of water belonged to a single man.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Luckadoo. I have a lodge here.”

“A lodge..?”

“Yes, I come here on holidays to hunt.”

“At your lake…?”

“My family’s to be more precise. This was all appropriated before statehood. The Luckadoos have been here before Kentucky was Kentucky.”

“So you’re one o dem Brahmins.”

A thin lipped smile played across the stoic angles of the aristocrat’s face.

“I figured you were a Boston boy.”

“Let’s go Bruins!” Jim chanted with fatigue-drenched bravado.

The stranger laughed coldly. And Jim thought he noted a glint of curiosity flicker through the icy blue eyes. Eyes that seemed so very familiar.

“Well, I must say that you’ve certainly intrigued me. What’s a street urchin doing in Appalachia?”

The question and the manner in which it was asked was too direct for Jim to take offense.

“…caring for the cabin…”

“The cabin?”

“Yea, like I said. My uncle’s cabin.” Jim said covetously eyeing the thistle bearing flask on the strangers hip.

“Uncle?”

“Yea…uncle Hant…lived bout fifteen miles from Reed…has some tumblers…with that weird weed on it…” Jim said pointing to the strangers flask.

Luckadoo inclined his head slightly leftward, a motion that coupled with his hunter’s cap, gave the impression of a curious bloodhound.

“Does your uncle have a surname?”

“Cronin.”

The strangers eyes narrowed and he turned.

“Elsa!” He cried.

“Jonas!” A voice responded from somewhere beyond the shore.

“Be a dear and bring the boat round!”

“Heez naught dehd?” The Elsa voice inquired.

“Close…but no cigar.”

“Tak heem hom den. You sadist swine.”

“That’s exactly what I intend, dear.” Luckadoo retorted lifting Jim’s six four frame like a ragdoll.

“Hey..!”

“Sorry lad. I don’t have much in the way of stretchers.”

Jim fumed. He was unaccustomed to being outclassed in the physique department. But on the bright side, the guy probably had some whiskey.

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The Cottage – Part Fourteen – (Short Story)

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Stories, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment

 

Image result for kentucky caves
Part One | Part Two |Part Three |  Part Four |Part Five |  Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight | Part Nine | Part Ten | Part Eleven | Part Twelve | Part Thirteen

The sting of sunlight was welcome.

Jim blinked away the shock as the thrill of escape settled to a bitter-sweet sensation. He was simultaneously glad to have escaped the abyss and worried by the dawning realization that he was still lost.

There was no way that he had entered this way. Else, he would have recognized something.

‘How many miles did I go?’

He risked the water. It tasted sweet.

To his left was a hill. To the right a limitless wood. He sighed.

There was nothing in his pocket except a soggy pack of Pall Malls.

The only comfort was the fact that the Zippo miraculously still worked.

‘Well, I don’t think that I went that far. There’s really no way.

He looked in the direction from where he had emerged.

The mouth of the cave that the stream fed into was set into a hillock. He guessed that his best bet was to retrace the steps he took belowground, aboveground.

This took him the most part of what he guessed was afternoon. He wished that he had drunk more because he was very dehydrated.

Slumping against a pine he tried to keep panic at bay. Reed, Kentucky was in the middle of nowhere. It may as well be a ranger station in a national park. There really was nothing to do except walk. Jim may have had street-smarts but he was no survivalist. The best that he could hope for was rain.

After the span of a half hour he rose and trudged further into the unknow.

Evening was setting in. He considered the benefits of a nap. But, decided against it. At least until it was so dark as to render the forest unnavigable.

This decision was soon rewarded by a welcome sight. There was another stream. This one wider and more robust than the one that had guided him out the cave. He dipped his hand greedily and lapped the refreshment with gusto.

‘This one probably feeds that little one… If not outright than through some underground channel.’

It was a thought that filled him with hope. He could follow a stream even in the dark. As the arresting thrill of discovery subsided, and his atheist hymn of thanksgiving tickled Jehovah’s bemused ear, he embarked.

The going was rocky and rough. At times thick bushes grew right down to the shore. He cursed every time he had to work his way round one. Jim walked on for a long time. Long enough for the ambience to shift.

Right as the first twinkling of starlight, heralded the approach of the actual night, something strange caught his eye. ‘That is the weirdest damned track I’ve ever seen.’

He flicked on the Zippo.

It was human looking but strange. So strange, in fact, that there was no way it could have been human. First, there was the size. It was too small. Then there was the absence of a heel. To add to the mystery the thing presented only four toes. With no big toe in sight.

‘What in the hell?’ Jim shrugged. He didn’t really have time to worry about it. Even if it was a predator his priority was to keep moving.

Jim had enough Daniel Boone in him to know that rivers always led to civilization.  Or for what passes for civilization out in Bumfuck, Kentucky. So, he soldiered on through yet more of the same arduous terrain.

It must have been two or three hours since the sun had set that the song of the owl and the whippoorwill was joined by that damnably sweet chirping.

‘No bird makes that sound…’ Jim lamented. It was a suspicion bordering on fear. A suspicion that drove him on despite the immense fatigue and overwhelming desire to lay down and sleep.

A quarter hour more of the dogged march found the trees thinning. He probably had nerve damage because his feet combined with the adrenaline of expectation made it possible to run.

“Hooooly…shiiiiiit….” He cried out as he threw himself backward grabbing whatever hold he could.

In his haste for comfort he’d grown nearly deaf. So, he did not hear the thundering rush of water as it fell into a sleepy mountain lake.

He’d saved himself some serious injury, and possible death, but just barely. This was the fact that bore itself into his brain as he looked at the craggy doom some forty feet below.

Panting he worked his way down to the shore of the lake. He looked around and was dismayed. There were no piers, no boats, no cabins. Just a vast lake amidst foreboding mountains. It was too much, and Jim didn’t even try to get another sip of water before he fell fast asleep.

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The Cottage – Part Thirteen – (Short Story)

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Stories, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment
Image result for granite boulders
Part One | Part Two |Part Three |  Part Four |Part Five |  Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight | Part Nine | Part Ten | Part Eleven | Part Twelve

Pain, fatigue, and cold screamed through every sinew. He raised himself by the elbow wincing at the sensation of rough stone on that tender joint. It was absolutely pitch black.

If he were any less than completely exhausted, he would have panicked.

Holding his hand mere inches from his eyes, he saw nothing. He fumbled through his jeans. And he praised God for his addiction. For there in his right pocket was the more than half spent pack of Pall Mall’s and within the comforting smoothness of metal.

The Zippo was a small comfort. But it was comfort enough.

The dimensions of where-ever the hell he was were impressive. He walked forward cross stony dust littered ground and found no wall. He walked backward and got the same result.

His feet screamed.

‘Where the hell are my shoes…’

He slumped down and laughed as a sharp pain shot through his ass.

He brought the Zippo down. It was a stalagmite.

“Great. I’m lost in a fucking cave in Frog Balls, Kentucky.”

There had to have been something more than whiskey in those bottles.

‘Probably all part of their little plan. Clever fucks.’

Jim was never one to feel sorry for himself. He’d done too much sinning for self-pity.

‘Well, I got in here somehow. So, I’ll get out of here somehow.’

He tried to recall how he’d gotten here. But to no avail. It was that same chasm of ignorance that always followed a night of getting black-out drunk.

He absent-mindedly picked up a stone and chucked it into the yawning depths that drowned him.

To his great surprise he heard it splash.

Slowly, painfully, he rose to his raw-worn feet and advanced in the direction of the invisible oasis. Though he heard no stream, where there was a pond, there was a chance of one.

He walked forward for what seemed like eternity. It was good that he was a stubborn proud son of a bitch. Because a meeker man may well have wasted precious time repenting for ending up in hell.

“Oh, fuck yea.” He said dipping his feet into cold water. The smooth silt was such welcome relief from the rough and recent passage to this haven.  He lingered there for a bit at the shore of some great subterranean indoor pool.

‘Might as well head left.’ He gambled and began to trace the shoreline with his feet as he ambled awkwardly along.

Tracking time was impossible, so he tracked footfalls. Though this too proved futile after the first few hundred. So, he walked, and he walked.

At first, he thought he was hallucinating.

“What in the fuck is that…”

Far from the shore where the depths of the lake should be, he perceived a strange blue shimmer.

Yes. It was unmistakable. There in the path of his current direction and outward past the shore was a light that grew brighter as he advanced.

He stopped when the brightness reached what he guessed was peak luminescence. After taking a few moments to ponder he said, “Fuck it.”

Jim waded till the water reached his waist and began to swim. Stopping just above the brightest shimmer he could see clear down to the bottom. Though the source itself was nowhere to be seen.

Curiosity overtook him and Jim dove.

He opened his eyes and thanked God that the liquid didn’t sting them The water was clear so very clear. It was uncanny. It stirred some vague memory.

And slowly he recollected the contents of that recent dream. Though he couldn’t breathe the water, everything else, was the same. There were the myriad submerged islands bearing stones with strange reliefs.

He surfaced and rested.

‘Well, I guess swimming is easier than walking.’ And he continued his leftward course.

After some time, he began to hear a gurgle. A sound for which he was grateful because the light had dissipated long ago. He swam towards it blindly.

It grew louder.

‘Fuck. Which way is the shore?’

He guessed and swam. But it was too long.

‘Fuck.’

He was beginning to feel the first stages of panic.

He had no clue which direction to take. He was surrounded on all sides by pitch black water. The strange blue light was long gone, and he was utterly alone without a thing to guide him.

‘Well, I can sit here like a bitch and drown, or I can drown trying to get to a tumbler of whiskey.’

He chose the latter.

And after three unsuccessful forays he finally reached the shore. Plodding along where the water met silt, he advanced towards the gurgling sound.

When it was as loud as daytime TV he inclined towards the sound with his Zippo.

Sure enough there was a small brisk stream flowing into the lake.

Jim followed it up a gradual incline.

Hope began its cautious return. And its return wasn’t in vain.

Because soon he beheld a greying in the blackness.

And then something far more beautiful than anything he had ever beheld.

There just a few hundred yards ahead was an aperture. Bright daylight revealed the verdant Kentucky green just beyond the man-sized opening through which the streamlet flowed.

Jim howled in glee.

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The Cottage – Part Seven – (Short Story)

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Stories, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment
Image result for kentucky cave
Part One –Click Here | Part Two – Click Here Part Three – Click Here | Part Four – Click Here | Part Five – Click Here | Part Six – Click Here

The basement was impossible to open from the outside. It was as stealthy an aperture as the access in the kitchen. Presenting itself as nothing but a flat slightly raised patch of wild grass.

‘I just don’t get this place.’ Jim shook his head as he looked at the pile of logs, he’d cut to replenish the ever-dwindling supply.

Sighing he made his way into the house. Making sure to flip the external switch by the nearly invisible door before descending into the basement.

He crossed the ample floor and ascended the opposite stairs. He cursed aloud at the convoluted lock as he worked the odd latch mechanism and swung the heavy grass bearing door open into the Kentucky sunshine.

‘Fuck.’ He said massaging his shoulder from the strain of exit.

It took almost as long to carry the logs down as it did to procure them.

A satisfied fatigue set in. He’d never felt this way in Boston. Though the feeling was similar to coming home from the various construction odd-jobs he’d done; there was a subtlety in providing so directly for ones needs which city life just couldn’t match.

So, as he settled into the couch with the now familiar thistle tumbler, he felt sublime. He felt downright esoteric.

The mountains were a throng of steeples. The hills a fragrant incense giving worship to the host of heaven. Which gleamed its blessing in return.

He was lounging on a celestial pew. A parishioner in a hurtling temple that arced its grand procession round manifold and Holy gifts. It was a sacrament to live.

So were his thoughts as he settled into slumber.

The owl, and the Whippoorwill, were joined by some novel pleasant chirping in a nocturnal hymn that sent Jim to dreamlands wilder than he’d ever dreamed before.

He saw glints of blue grey luminescence on the opposite shore of a subterranean lake. A lake in whose crystal clear and balmy waters he felt no hesitancy to bathe.

He dived. And oh, the depth of the thing made his heart race with an electric joy.

There was a moment of confusion when he realized that he could breathe. And he swam on into illimitable depths.

There were islands. There were stones. Stones with glyphs that sat among vague ruins that tantalized.

All the surfaces were smooth so perfect smooth. As perfect smooth as the crystal water that slipped through his fingers as if it were just another form of air.

He woke with a sweet feeling of steady energy. He was hungry but the hunger was secondary to the overpowering urge to wander.

So, with a sip of water, a ruck full off food, a canteen, a flask, and a flashlight he set off into the late morning etching notches and tying ribbons round the trunks of trees.

He was keen on knowing the whole of the valley.

Since he lacked a compass, he improvised his own system of cardinal navigation.

The three peaks, big blue, horizon, and broken pine were his north, south, east, and west. As his first formal foray he picked big blue.

Maybe cause he was a yank and the south was more exotic.

The wood thickened, the wood thinned, here and there were groves, gullies, and ditches. He delighted in the wonderful variety of landscape. But he did not allow it to distract him from marking his path.

A city wasn’t entirely different than a forest. Graffiti, broken sidewalks, and construction cranes were comparable navigational aids to ribbons, oaks, and streams.

It was midafternoon when he came on an odd collection of rocks. A few of these were so chair like that he couldn’t help but pause. The sudden stop made him recall the rumbling in his belly. And so, he ate the wild turkey sandwich he’d brought.

After a while he noticed how odd his picnic spot felt.

Was the air here cooler?

He walked well beyond the perimeter of the granite formation.

Yes. It was warmer there.

He walked back to the rocks. Yes. It was definitely cooler round the stones.

Jim circumnavigated the geologic caprice. This exploration yielded a discovery. There was current of the strange cool air which seemed to come from the opposite side of the stones as the last marker he placed.

He followed it for maybe a quarter of a mile when he suddenly shrieked. He was sliding. Sliding down fast through damp leaves and mushy moss.

“Shit…shit…shit…shit…!” He cursed as his descent accelerated.

Finally, after what seemed like an aeon he caught sight of an approaching rock. Though he knew it was going to hurt he swung his foot to catch it as he flipped onto his belly and dug his screaming fingers into the hard black twig littered earth.

As he sat on his haunches giving himself a damage report he gasped.

At the foot of the hill that had almost killed him sat the mouth of a cave.

‘How the hell does cool air rise?’

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The Cottage – Part One – (Short Story)

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Stories, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment

Image result for kentucky mountain

Appalachia spreads itself in grey and green a few hundred miles inland of the Atlantic. Its mountains, caves, lakes, and fields are a delight. It is a garden. It is a temple.

It is where Jim found himself that summer.

His uncle who went by the name of Hant had got a blood clot in the lung. His modest dwelling on the opposite side of a miniscule Kentucky township was always immaculate. And it was in his untrained hand that Jim had received the instruction to keep it that way.

Jim Cleary was a bit of a layabout. Not even committed enough to be a drunk. And though he knew next to nothing about country living the small stipend and the opportunity to daydream made him keen on fulfilling his relatives desire.

If this wasn’t enough to seal his fate. Then the nagging of his equally indigent roommates certainly drove the last nail into the coffin of his urban malaise.

“Where da hell ya goin again Jim?” Tony inquired in his brusque Boston brogue.

“Kentucky.”

“And what the hell for?”

“Family shit…changea pace..ya dig?”

“Hell no, I don’t dig how’s me ‘n Harry gonna keep up with the rent.”

“I already told ya I’d be sendin my share.”

“I dunno Jim you’re always late with that shit.”

“Yea…cause that rat fuck boss o mine thinks it’s cute to take my tips cause of a coupla late deliveries.”

“That old song ain’t gonna help here…So lateness is a habit…how the hell am I supposed to trust ya? We still have four months till the lease is up.”

“Cause my Uncle squirreled away a fortune getting black lung and sellin ginseng. And he’s gonna share so long as I keep the house his dad built from turning back into woods.”

“Hmm…I don’ know man….”

“You’re just gonna have to deal cause there’s no way ya can keep me here anyway.”

“Whatever man….do what ya want…but if we don’t get that rent…I’m gonna tell old Barragan ya flew the coop. And you know his IRA ass is crazy enough to find ya in whatever kind of deliverance style backwoods hollow ya hidin in . YA DIG?”

“Yea, man what the fuck ever.” Cleary said exiting the door.

“Fuck you Jim.” Tony said with a grin.

“Fuck you too Tony.”

And with a double bird salute, Jim Cleary set of for Logan International.

He was unaccustomed to the luxury of flight. He distrusted the cleanliness of first class. Nor did he like the look of the silent burly tour guide that his uncle had sent along.

The guy had a beard that would make Euripides jealous. Went by the name of Dutch and had a pensive air like a wild dog that had found its way into the city.

Made it damned hard to flirt with the stewardess.

After a half hour, Jim gave up on making small talk. A guy that talked less than Hant was a lost cause. He didn’t know why he’d even bothered.

It wasn’t gonna be too long of a flight so Jim just sank into the mind-numbing arms of an inflight movie.

It wasn’t long before Rob Schneider forced his brain to shut down.

It was switched back on by the deep thundering simplicity of. “Wehere, let’s go.”

And indeed everybody was busily extracting luggage and making their exit in that leisurely, orderly, upper middle-class way.

‘Yuppie schmucks.’ Jim couldn’t help but chuckle at the collection of khakis and polos mixing with folk who should also be wearing khakis and polos but were trying their hardest to appear like a Bluegrass revival.

A battered pickup pulled up to them outside the parking lot. It was driven by a spry old bat with icy blue eyes that went by the name of Lizzy Jennings. Said she was a Viking and that Jim had better watch his manners.

“Don’t got any.”

“Well learn ya sum. Hant told me ya were a thick one.”

Jim ignored the insult and wen to light a cigarette. Only to have it smacked out of his hand.

“Don’t ya bring dat filth in my car.”

“Jesus Christ! I just got off the flight lady…”

The steely angular framed gaze never changed as a wiry freckled arm shot forward and twisted his ear hard.

“Don’t ya be blaspheming in here neither!”

“Ahh…god damn you old bitch…”

This only made her tug harder.

She stopped just shy of tearing his ear off.

“Fuck I shoulda stayed in Boston.” He muttered under his breath.

The drive from Louisville to Reed was five long hours.

Five long hours with two rustic sentinels whose eerie silence was only matched by the eerier economy of motion in their smooth efficient movements.

‘At least it’s pretty.’ Jim mused as he gazed down into the sleepy verdant valleys that flitted beneath the fluctuating elevation.

It was dusk by the time they arrived at the half dozen or so buildings that comprised the township of Reed, Kentucky. He guessed the thing with the spire was a church, the square thing was a post office, the colonial thing was the town hall, and everything else was shops.

‘Where the hell are the houses?’ He mused.

“Ya ever been on a horse ‘fore?” Asked the sun-dried Valkerie.

‘O fuck…’

The old bat laughed in an innocent girlish sort of way that threw Jim off even more than the prospect of riding a horse.

What was even more disturbing was the perfect, gleaming white, set of teeth that laugh revealed.

‘This crazy crone has better choppers than me…’

“I’m pullin’ at yer leg. I know a fool like you ain’t got no useful habits. You gonna wish you had a horse tho. Cause that four wheeler is a sight more likely to flip than my Sadie.”

Cleary heard a roar from the building that Dutch had disappeared to.

“Don’ be lookin so down. It’s only fifteen miles afore a warm bed and some whiskey.”

“FIFTEEN!”

She laughed that weird coquettish laugh again that was so at odds with her appearance and behavior.

He didn’t have too much time to puzzle over it though cause his carriage was already by his side.

Jim reluctantly took a seat behind Dutch wrapping his fingers tight around the luggage mount.

He was surprised by the rough feel of an old rope round his kneck.

He looked down to see a sack swinging down to his solar plexus.

“Now lemme tell ye bout Thursdays.” Lizzy Jennings said.

“Aha..”

“That’s ginseng in that pouch there.”

“Ok…”

“Today is Thursday and I put some out on the stump. Dutch will show you the stump. Startin next Thursday you’re gonna have to put some seng down afore dusk.”

“Umm…ok.”

“I suggest ya follow what I tell ye. Cause ye don’ wanna learn it from another.”

“What…?”

“Just put the root down on the stump. Or else there’s gonna be trouble. ALRIGHT BOY?” She stated with vehemence.

“Put the ginseng on the stump…on Thursday…before dusk…I get it.”

She smiled oddly and whistled.

Jim barely had time to get a fresh hold on the luggage rack before he and the giant roared into the inky mountain.

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