Anomalies and Aberrations

By E. Floyd Phelps

Nine tales of horror beginning with a novella about a married couple who decide to move to the country to get away from the pollution, noise and the crime only to find that the peaceful village of Jacobs Crossing has its own secrets and problems.

Some of the other stories include:

The Anomaly A noise in the garage precipitates the discovery of a strange creature that comes for a visit and doesnt seem to want to leave.

V A shipwrecked yacht captain is rescued by a passing cruise ship and his salvation does not go as planned.

The Cats Meow A small college has a feral cat problem that is controlled by an old lady who cares and feeds the animals. When she dies, the cats go in search for the missing necessities.

Chocolate A NASA scientist goes in search for life on other planets. His research using space rocks, allows him to reach his goal with surprising results.

Swamp Magic A college biology professor doing field research in the Louisiana swamps to discover the source of a new amphibian species. He discovers that magic not science controls the swamp.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781467854672

E. Floyd Phelps

He was born in West Texas on Flag Day. His fascination with horror began as a child. He looked forward to Saturdays, when he would take his 50-cent allowance and spend the day going from theater to theater watching movies. He especially enjoyed horror movies. In the early fifties he became interested in acting, first in community theatre, then summer stock. In college he met his wife in a play. He has probably worked at more different jobs than probably anybody. So when he writes about something, he has probably done it. Although he had written over thirty articles for trade magazines, he did not tackle fiction until 2004 when his first horror novel, The Obsidian Serpent, was published. That was followed by Night Wolf’s Song, and now this collection of short stories. He has authored five screenplays. He starts his day writing in the wee hours of the morning, when the house is quiet. He encourages everyone who has an itch to write, to go for it. His four kids are grown so he and his wife spend time traveling with their dog, Chevy.

Book preview

Jacobs Crossing

CHAPTER ONE

The trees whipped in the wind like a woman tossing her hair. A constant sheet of rain flew sideways. Sarah Cunningham huddled on a bench in the white gazebo at the center of the park. The structure was finished with white lattice siding and afforded little shelter. Streams of water ran down her glasses and continued in a zigzag pattern along her cheeks, onto her chin, where large droplets formed and fell on her gray raincoat.

She sat alone. Her stare was fixated on the church that towered over the small town of Jacobs Crossing. It sat directly across the street from the park. Sarah wondered what time it was. It’s got to be after midnight, she thought. She couldn’t check. They were forbidden to carry or wear watches. She continued to sit, trying to build up her courage.

A cold shiver ran up her spine. Sarah was not sure if the spasm was caused by the thoughts of what might await her or the chilly January rain blown by its gale-force wind. It had been raining most of the night and the dead grass that covered the park was almost submerged in water.

A flash of lightning with a hundred fingers streaked across the dark sky. The massive black granite structure across the street appeared more ominous when illuminated by the temporary burst of light.

Bracing herself on the slippery back of the bench, she slowly pushed her body to a standing position. Her knees were weak, though not from age or lack of exercise. She had worked on a farm all of her life and under the slicker was a muscular body. She was only forty-five but they were hard years. Each year was a year spent plowing, tossing bales of hay, and pulling a living from the soil with both of her calloused hands. She and Joshua had given their lives to the land. The years of toil lined her face.

She was scared but there was nothing else she could do. She had to try to save her son. She had to appeal for mercy. She had ignored the situation when it was the sons of others. When it happened, there would be whispered rumors for a couple of weeks then life would return to normal. Now it was Josh, her son.

Bracing herself against the wind she made her way across the park using the raised cobblestone walk.

She stood before the formidable wooden doors, gathered her courage, gave a sigh and reached for the black iron handle.

The hinge creaked as Sarah pulled it open. A flickering candle provided light in the vestibule as she entered. The force of the storm outside slammed the massive doors, creating a loud echo from the bowels of the church. Then all was quiet. She stood there listening to the silence as water dripped from her coat, creating a pool on the stone floor.

Mentally, she grabbed the lapels of her coat and pulled herself the remaining distance down the dark hallway to the double doors of the sanctuary. They, too, gave a whining sound, amplified by the quietness of the empty church.

Within, the sanctuary was lit by a single large candle mounted atop a tall black iron pole, placed in the center of the altar. It emitted enough light to allow her to make her way down the aisle to the railing that ran along the front of the altar. She slumped forward, her knees coming to rest on the cushion at the bottom of the rail. Her hands were clasped in a posture of prayer.

She began to pray – her words slow and well chosen. I have come to beseech you not to take my son, Josh. He is all I have. I was young and foolish when I made the agreement. I cannot live with the thought of what I have done if he is taken from me.

As she spoke the doors to the sanctuary swung open, then closed with a slam. She turned to look. There was nothing, yet she could feel a presence approaching her.

As the force hovered around her slumped body, a feeling of dread filled her soul. The manifestation constricted the space around her, making it hard to breath.

Please have mercy on us. Banish us. Take the farm for your use but leave us alone. It is bad enough that my husband, Elijah, was taken by you. Let my son and I live in peace.

She heard the sound of a soft laugh. Sarah felt an unseen hand grasp her left breast. Then there was a sensation of pressure building up in her chest. Her heart began to throb. She could hear it, like a base drum beating, faster and faster. It felt as though her heart was swelling, the muscles of the life-giving organ straining as it engorged with blood.

Please.

Sarah grabbed her chest as though she were holding herself together. Her mouth opened to scream but no sound came out. Her eyes widened in a prolonged stare.

There were two gasps and another faint, Please, as her body slowly slid down the front of the altar rail. Her face slapping against the slats of the railing as her body slipped sideways.

Her head came to a stop on the red padding. Sarah’s hands were still grasping her chest, her eyes and mouth were wide open…but there was no life in her body.

CHAPTER TWO

It was Saturday. Shelli and Brandon had spent the day driving through the countryside Northwest of Philly. They had looked at four nice houses, but for one reason or another, none of them seemed right.

Brandon had grown up in Philadelphia so he was used to the rat race. Shelli had been raised on a farm outside of a small town in upstate Pennsylvania and, although she rarely mentioned it, she hated city life. In the five years that they had been married they had talked often about moving to the country and living in a small house on several acres of land.

They had met at the University of Pennsylvania in their junior year. Shelli was a perky energetic blonde, a little on the short side. Brandon was a business major and on the basketball team. He was tall, had dark brown hair and warm brown eyes. His eyes reminded Shelli of a puppy’s but she only told him that once. He didn’t take it too well. They got engaged their senior year and were married the summer after graduation.

Brandon got a great job as an account manager at a large brokerage firm with offices in downtown Philadelphia.

After another full day’s search they arrived back in town. It was already dark. They parked their car in their reserved space at the apartments and walked two blocks to their favorite restaurant, Fu Manchu’s.

It was cold outside so they both ordered hot tea. They both ordered their usual fare; Shelli, Egg Foo Yong, and Brandon, Kung Pao Chicken, spicy. Their conversation began with the same theme it always did after they had spent the day house-hunting, without success.

I don’t understand why you’re so gung-ho to get out of the city. If we move to the country we’ll be giving up Chinese food, Brandon said.

First of all, we won’t be giving up Chinese food because we both have jobs in the city.

The waitress returned with their hot tea and fried Won Ton chips.

Shelli continued, What we will be giving up is pollution, crime, noise, traffic and we will have a great place to raise the children.

What children?

The two point five children we are supposed to have to keep up with government statistics.

Luckily the waitress arrived with their food and the ping-pong one-liners stopped and the hungry, on-edge couple started devouring their food.

However, once they stepped out of the restaurant the conversation picked up exactly where their hunger stopped it.

I thought you were going to work from home, Brandon said.

I am but I promised Natalie I would be in the office one or two days a week.

Out of the corner of her eye, Shelli noticed they were passing a convenience store. She added, Could we stop in the store for a second?

Not wanting to miss a comeback, Brandon replied, Sure. By the way, there won’t be convenience stores in the country.

Shelli shook her head as she opened the door of the store. I just need a carton of milk. With a smile on her face she added, You can get FRESH milk in the country.

With Salmonella, Brandon called out to Shelli as she started down the aisle to the back of the store. She pretended not to hear him.

As promised, her trip was quick and they joined the line at the register. They were second in line, behind a man who was wearing a hoodie. The cashier, who looked to be in his 60s, quickly rang up the man’s items and put them in a plastic bag. The customer reached for his wallet but instead pulled out a large gun.

From the depths of the hoodie the gunman said, Clean out the register and put it in my sack. The wide-eyed cashier immediately did as he was told.

The gunman turned to Shelli and Brandon and with a gesture of the pistol said, Get up here, against the counter, where I can see you. Actually all they could see was the black hole of the hood.

Brandon quickly replied, Anything you say.

While the gunman was turned to Brandon and Shelli, the clerk reached under the counter, pulled out a gun and fired three rounds into the gunman.

Shelli screamed!

***

As they entered their apartment, Shelli looked at the clock. In a disgusted tone she said, It’s two o’clock. I can’t believe it! The cops held us as witnesses for four hours and the suspect was dead. He got out of there quicker than we did! Damn!

What?

I left the milk on the counter.

I don’t want to hear I told you so.

About what? a bit of sarcasm in her voice, Oh, you mean the crime thing? Would I stoop to that?

Brandon unbuttoned his shirt and headed for the bedroom.

From the living room, he heard Shelli say, I told you so. I’m going to be on the phone first thing in the morning with June. Keep your weekends free.

Brandon was already in bed when Shelli crawled in. She turned out the lamp on the night stand and lay there in the dark.

I’ve never been so scared in my life, she said.

CHAPTER THREE

Brandon and Shelli had been driving for an hour or Brandon was driving and Shelli was curled up asleep. Currently they were on a paved country road. At least, Brandon thought, there’s no traffic. Adding, Of course it’s 7:00 in the morning…and it’s Sunday.

Shelli sat up and looks at the scenery. Where are we? she asked.

Pennsylvania.

Cute. Want some more coffee?

Sure. I may forget how to play golf by the time we find a home.

Shelli reached for the thermos. Quit your whining.

Would you take a look at the directions June sent us? We should be getting close to the turnoff.

Shelli filled his travel mug and picked up the pages of computer generated instructions. What road is this?

148.

She went down the line listing. Got it. We need…

She looked up just as they passed an intersection sign that read, FM2159. Turn here!

Brandon slammed on the brakes and pulled to the side of the road. A car passed them. The driver honked his horn and gave them the finger.

That’s the only car I’ve seen in twenty minutes, Brandon said, backing up along the shoulder to the intersection.

Guess he’s not going to church, Shelli said. Looking at the directions, It shouldn’t be far now.

As they started down the one-lane paved road it began to snow.

Swell, said Brandon.

CHAPTER FOUR

They couldn’t have driven over a mile when the road dead-ended onto another paved roadway. Across from the intersection was a sign with an arrow, pointing left. Below it were the words Jacobs Crossing.

We go right, directed Shelli.

The snowflakes were really coming down. The road remained clear but the white particles were beginning to cover the countryside.

At the spot where they turned was what appeared to be a pecan orchard. Because it was winter the trees were stripped of leaves. The trunks were bent and gnarled. The tall sentinels looked more dead than alive. The snow had already started leaving a coating on the branches. The north side of the trunks was being encrusted with a white cover by the force of the wind.

They passed a weathered sign which read, Nemecek Orchard, and underneath in smaller letters, Since 1810. About a hundred yards further was a deserted fruit stand. Here, there was a fence-line and the orchard ended and a field of dry and lifeless corn stalks, outlined in snow, began.

There on the left, Shelli called out.

Not knowing if that was a direction or the warning of an elephant in the road, Brandon applied the brakes.

Just ahead was a he saw the black wrought-iron archway, also etched in white by the snow. There were patches of white pickets of the fence-line, almost invisible, because they were mostly covered by bushes which he guessed were of the flowering kind, but undecorated this time of the year.

They pulled off the road and on to a long dirt drive. Brandon stopped the car and they looked at the scene before them. The entryway was lined on either side by trees which created a canopy of limbs that covered the drive which ended in a circular drive and behind it a wonderful white house with shutters, gables and gingerbread trim. The farm house and surrounding trees were covered with a light dusting of snow.

Looks like a Norman Rockwell painting, Brandon said.

We might have hit the jack-pot this time, Shelli added.

They got out of the car and just stood there in the falling snow, staring at the house. The stone and wood structure was typical of the Pennsylvania Dutch architecture that was prevalent around the countryside. Many of the old structures were constructed in the 1800s and the care and precision of the builders made them far superior to the homes that were hastily being slapped into place in the suburbs around Philadelphia.

Shelli noticed a wooden disk, with a strange painted symbol, attached to the front of the house, above an attic window. Pointing it out to Brandon, she asked, Wonder what that means?

Beats me.

The snow made a wonderful crunch under their feet as they walked to the porch.

Looks like we beat June, again, Shelli commented.

Shelli was drawn to a bronze plaque on the wall next to the front door. Although most of the print is too small to be read from where she was standing, the words PENNSYLVANIA HISTORICAL SOCIETY were easily visible.

She ambled to the plate and started to read. Pretty darn impressive, she called to Brandon. It’s a historical marker. Says the place was built in 1807 by Julius Percy Oliver, who served in the first Continental Congress in Philadelphia. Unbelievable.

Let’s see how much it costs, Brandon said.

Waving away his comment, Shelli said, Details…details.

Over Brandon’s shoulder, Shelli saw June Parker’s dark green Audi speeding up the road. It made a bank and turned into the unpaved drive, hardly slowing down, and came to a sliding stop just behind their car.