Tales from Midnight's Graveyard

By Pete Clark

15 tales of horror, fantasy, science fiction, and the supernatural. A collection of stories that will leave you laughing, scared, or asking "what if?"

• Language: English
• Publisher: October Leaves
• Release date: Mar 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781502214072

Book preview

Also by Pete Clark

Midnight Riders

Backward Compatible: A Geek Love Story

Across the Barren Landscape: Volume 1

Table of Contents

The Phantasm or Ghost or Whatever

Level Nine

The Attic

There Can Be Only One

"Arcolyte"

Dead Hemingway

Cunningham versus the Aunts

Death, the Salesman

The Silent Laughter

Face-Off

Download the Sky

Whisper My Freedom

The Dead Owe Us Nothing

Contract on Love

Botch!

The Phantasm or Ghost or Whatever

It was a dark and stormy night. 

Really? That’s how you’re gonna start the story?

What’s wrong with that? It’s called establishing the mood.

Yeah, with a cliché. Come on, Grandpa; you can do better than that.

His sister nodded.

Fine then, Timmy. How about this? It was fifty years ago that Hector Luna last set foot-

Doesn’t he play for the Astros?

I don’t think so.

Why do you always use middle infielders in your stories? Timmy asked.

All right. Scott Fletcher was known for having evil intentions, but no one ever suspected-

He played for the Red Sox, Lyndsay announced proudly between the massive gap in her front teeth.

Good job, Lyndsay. Expos also, I think, added Timmy.

How do you guys know so much about baseball? What are you, ten and six?

Baseball is all you talk about.

You sound like your grandmother.

I sound like a dead old lady?

You know Scott Fletcher but not tact, huh? Kids.

He sighed and a flash of lightning reflected off the sliding doors in the kitchen, which stood adjacent to the dark living room in which they sat. Grandpa adjusted his lantern to allow a bit more light to stream into the room.

Why do you have a lantern? Lyndsay asked.

Kids always have a million goddamn questions, he thought. Because the power is out and you’re afraid of the dark, so I thought some light would be good.

Yeah, but everybody else uses flashlights.

Because I’m old and old people have lanterns. Now can I get back to the story please?

What’s an Expo? Lyndsay asked.

What do you mean?

Earlier, Timmy said Expos. What’s an Expo?

Oh. Well, I guess it’s like a fair.

A what?

You know. Kind of like a bazaar.

Stop making up words.

Why do I agree to babysit you guys? A loud crack of thunder shook the house. And why do we always have a thunderstorm when I do.

Mom says it’s because you dabble in the occult, said Timmy.

What’s that now? Tanya – uh, your mother - said that? Grandpa asked.

Yeah. She likes to talk smack about you, nodded Timmy.

Daughter-in-laws can be real pains in the sciatica, thought Grandpa Roger. Why did his son have to pick such a whiny tart for a wife? And why, for all that is holy, did she have to like all these horrendous country music singers who apparently had huge concerts every damn week that could not be missed? ‘Roger, could you please, please watch the kids?’ ‘Sure,’ he’d say every time. And he hated children, he admitted to himself. But at least I don’t have to sit here alone, he thought.

She also says you’re a witch, added Lyndsay.

A witch? Now that doesn’t even make sense. Witches are girls. If she said warlock or ooh, necromancer... that would have been something. But witch? No, I’m not a witch. If anybody is a witch, it’s your mother. And I know she doesn’t cast any spells, either.

Lyndsay did not detect Grandpa’s subtle rage and so she just scooted up closer to him on the couch.

Are you gonna tell us a story or what?

Yeah. Get to the story, Grandpa. No more lollygagging.

Lollygagging, thought Roger. Where the hell do these kids go to school? Okay. Now... Another lightning flash turned the living room to noon for a brief second before the cooling darkness curled back amongst them. Even Timmy got up close to Roger. Good ole Gramps was stuck in the middle of a grandkid sandwich. Many grandparents the world over would love this, but as he admitted earlier, Roger hated kids.

Relax. A little lightning never hurt anyone, he said in a weak attempt to sooth the quaking children.

I heard that thousands of people get killed by lightning every year, said Timmy.

Yeah, and some of them that get hit get superpowers. Lyndsay was pretty stupid, even for a little kid.

No, not thousands. Maybe a few. So I guess we can say that not that many people have their bodies scorched and explode in a painful and horrific matter by lightning. He leaned to look closely at Timmy. But some do. Wah ha ha. The thunder crashed on cue this time and Timmy screamed.

Roger laughed; he couldn’t help it. Relax, Timmy; you’re safe in the house. Unless you start running around outside with a big metal pole, chances are you won’t get hurt. He looked at Lyndsay, who still appeared to want an answer to her comment. And sorry, but lightning does not give superpowers. Also vampires don’t sparkle in the sun; they explode. He nodded and she winced. All was good.

So everybody all snuggled in? They nodded. All right, time for a story.

He cleared his throat and dimmed the lantern. Marty Barrett was a fine young man with forearms like Popeye. He had left his house just after dinner to go and meet his sweetheart. They-

Who’s Marty Barrett? asked Lyndsay.

He’s the main character in the story, sighed Grandpa Roger.

He played second base. Of course. But who is Popeye?

You guys don’t know who Popeye is?

I heard of the chicken, but that doesn’t seem right, Timmy said.

I thought you guys watched cartoons. In fact, every time I come to visit there is some kind of animated animal on the T.V.

Like SpongeBob, cheered the epically dumb Lyndsay.

Popeye is a cartoon? I never heard of him.

Fine then. He had forearms that looked like he was on the juice, but I’m pretty positive Barrett was not on the juice.

I want some juice.

Was it wrong that sometimes Roger wanted to place Lyndsay into the path of an oncoming combine? Maybe it was, but damn it, he just wanted to tell them a scary story. Was it really so much to ask that he just be allowed to tell a scary story during a thunderstorm?

Instead of dragging her out to the nearest farm, he said, Sure. I have grape or orange.

I like cranberry.

Well, that’s great. But we have grape and orange. Cranberry? Do you have bladder troubles or something? I’m old as polio and I don’t even drink that stuff.

She looked sad. But in an odd moment of heroism, Timmy saved the day. Boy, I sure do love grape juice, Grandpa. I’d love some.

To wit, predictably Lyndsay said, Oh, grape juice is yummy. Can I have some, too?

Timmy could be a bit of a bastard sometimes but he came through there. The last thing Roger needed was some kid crying because he had the wrong kind of juice.

Excellent, grape juice all around. I’ll go get it. He got up off the couch and, while holding out the lantern, he began to walk carefully toward the kitchen.

Oh no, cried Lyndsay.

Roger stopped. If I throw this lantern in her face, would she burst into flames? Probably not. Plus think of the screaming, he told himself. What is it?

The lantern, Grandpa, said Timmy. We’ll be sitting in the dark if you leave with it.

Stupid kid was right. Okay but I can’t pour juice when I can’t see. Do you want to come with me?’ They shook their heads. Typical kids. Pointing out the problems but never, never having a solution. Fine. Let me light a few candles to leave with you. I’ll only be gone a minute anyway."

Roger tracked down the candles that he’d put on the nearby coffee table. He lit three of them, leaving one on the table. It was central and so provided a decent shell of light for the room. He gave one of the other candles to each of the kids.

Now be careful. Don’t drop them or touch them other than with the holder.

Roger had the traditional cup and saucer style candleholders. None of that Yankee Candle horseshit for him. He wasn’t about to spend any money some place that put Yankee in the title anyway. Stupid Yankees, he thought.

Okay, so I’m going to get the juice. I will be right back. Don’t move.

Roger went into the kitchen. In his mind, he could see the likely fire that would be started when Lyndsay the idiot tried to eat the candle or something and set herself on fire. He tried to care but couldn’t manage it. Meh, he had insurance.

It took him a minute to bumble about in the fridge to find the juice. He confirmed its grapeness by holding it up to the lantern. Success. He got three glasses, poured the juice, and put the rest back in the fridge; he did it all without breaking or spilling anything.

He then went to grab the three glasses. That was when he realized that he did not have three hands. Damn it. He could make two trips, sure. I mean, the living room was maybe an eight yard walk. But no, he was too lazy and it was too dark. The lantern! Damn it; that meant three trips. Well, three trips could go to Hell.

Timmy, he called. I need you to come help me carry the juice.

Okay, he heard Timmy call back from the darkness of the living room. The small amber flicker of the candles could be seen pushing against the black. Pushing but failing.

Roger thought he saw something move by the window. He paused and looked again. His eyes strained against the dim light of the night sky. Out the window was his front lawn. Wet, black, and empty. In the distance was Canal Street, upon which he lived. Canal Street was a stupid name as there was no canal to be found anywhere along it. Perhaps it had been discovered by some guy whose last name was Canal. But Roger had never heard of him.

The street was quiet. A storm of this ferocity always cut back on traffic and Canal Street was pretty low on travel at its peak.  Roger kept looking, then he felt a hand touch the flesh of his arm.

Ah, he yelled.

He stepped back and prepared for, well, he didn’t have time to think through what it would be; he just cringed and shut his eyes. After a moment of not being killed, he opened his eyes. Staring at him in bored befuddlement was Timmy.

Where’s the juice? he asked, his candle dancing in his left hand.

On the table. Lyndsay still in the living room?

Yeah. She whined about being left alone, but I pointed out that we would only be in the other room. She wanted juice more than she was afraid of ghosts, I guess. He shrugged and grabbed two glasses with one hand and the candle with the other. He had huge hands for a ten-year-old.

All right, let’s go. Hopefully I can finish the story. Or at least start the story.

Roger grabbed the last glass of juice and his lantern and followed Timmy back into the living room. They carefully made their way between the furniture to the couch. And sat down. The candle on the coffee table was still burning but that was the only light.

"Um?’ said Timmy.

Um? What um?

I don’t have anybody to give my juice to. Roger stuck the lantern in Timmy’s face. Lyndsay is gone, Timmy said. Then he took a big sip of juice. He looked down at the glass. This is iced tea.

Damn it, Roger said. I didn’t even know I had iced tea. He sighed. Let’s go find your sister. She probably went to the bathroom.

She may well have gone to the bathroom but when they reached it, there was no one there. The lantern’s glow bounced off the empty walls and the shower curtain of the tiny room. Something caught Timmy’s eye and he dashed to the window and peered out.

Do you see anything? Roger asked. This window faced the backyard. The yard was large and wide open. There was a small shed for his lawnmower and a much larger shed that held other tools. The larger shed was about the size of a small barn. Beside that was the small homemade baseball field that he had made years ago. He still kept it up, although it rarely got any use. In the distance, the tree line of the neighboring forest swayed with the wind and rain. Another jagged bolt lit the scene.

Hey, I think that’s her. Timmy went to point and jammed his finger on the glass of the closed window. Ow.

Roger shoved him aside and looked out. There, in the thick rain and the pitch night, scampered Lyndsay. It looked as if she were holding her candle, although it was out. Probably from the rain.

What the hell is she doing?

Mom says only witches say hell as much as you.

Well, your mom is a bitch, Roger said without thinking. That was bad form and he’d hear about it later, but he was angry. Now he had to go out in the rain and bring her back. With his luck, some lightning would probably blow her up first.

Timmy was laughing.

What’s so funny?

Bitch, he giggled.

Maybe Timmy wouldn’t rat him out after all. Who am I kidding? thought Roger. What kid doesn’t share all of their curse word experiences? I have to go and get your sister. Do you want to come with me or stay here? If you stay, you-

I’ll come. It’ll be a haunted adventure.

No, it will be a wet, stupid adventure. But fine, you can come.

Roger got his raincoat and an umbrella. He remembered what he had said earlier to Timmy about walking around outside with a metal pole. He put the umbrella back.

Did you bring a raincoat?

You mean a slicker? Mom always calls them slickers.

Another reason to hate that bitch, he thought. Fine, where is your slicker?

I didn’t bring it.

Roger’s backyard was big. He could fit a couple bodies back there no problem. You’re going to get wet then.

That’s okay, said Timmy. If I get a bad cold, maybe I can miss a day of school.

You can miss school for a cold?

Uh huh.

Well that is stupid. Roger stopped himself. This was a futile conversation for another time. Come on. He pulled the basement door open and they descended down the steps. The rain had made the basement dank and musty. The door to the backyard was through the basement and next to the laundry. I need to do laundry, Roger thought. The thunder roared again.

Roger reached the back door, unlocked it, and was about to open it when Timmy tapped him on the arm.

What if I get hit by lightning?

You’ll explode. Roger was enjoying this too much.

They went outside. The rain was heavy and cold enough to shock the flesh. Big thick drops smacked Roger in the face. He put on his hood. This killed his peripheral vision but it was better than getting a nonstop rain facial. He looked down at Timmy. The boy’s candle was already a smoking husk of darkness.

Come on, Roger said around the waterfall that cascaded down around his hood. Hold my hand. We’re going to the shed.

Timmy grabbed his hand and Roger dragged him along. Timmy had to walk with his head down to avoid choking on the water. A rapid-fire series of thunderclaps dented the sky; the sound was dazzling out in the open yard. Roger let go of Timmy’s hand to cover his ears, but Timmy squeaked in fear so he grabbed him again. By then, the thunder had subsided. But the lightning appeared again, this time in a double blue fork just above the top of the tree line. The beauty and the power were terrifying. Roger looked to his lantern. It was holding up well. The flask within was well shielded by glass and screen. His courage reinforced by light, he made his way to the shed.

About halfway there, his hood started to play tricks on him. He had tunnel vision due to the large floppy plastic rain gear and it was making him paranoid. He kept sensing something was moving just at the edge of his peripheral vision. But when he’d turn, nothing. Then he would sense it on the other side. Same thing. The result of this was that he kept swinging his head from side to side and spinning around in a never-ending quest to see the thing that was stalking him that almost certainly did not exist. Timmy was not enjoying this.

Stop that, he said, his voice scratched with fear. What are you looking for? What do you see?

Nothing. Roger tried to make his voice sound calm but it came out in a barking shout. It’s this stupid hood. I feel trapped in it.

Here’s the shed, Timmy said.

Thank God, thought Roger. He’d had enough of this ceaseless rain. He grabbed the metal latch and saw that it had already been released. For some reason, this caused his spine to scream something about terror. But reason reminded him that it was just Lyndsay, thereby confirming she was inside. So shut up, spine.

He yanked open the heavy wooden door and slipped inside with Timmy behind him. He pulled the door closed to seal them off from the weather and pin them in the dark mystery of the shed.

Roger lifted his lantern to light the interior. It was a large shed with three rows of shelves that lined each side. The middle was a menagerie of hand tools and larger equipment. Some of which, Roger had to admit, he had not used