Don't Go to Sleep:Tales to Keep You UP

By Jason Wallace

Don’t go to sleep. These tales will surely haunt your dreams. No one awakens from their dark embrace. If your nightmares are not filled with a child murderer and a reanimated, murderous corpse, you will never find rest from the deadly secrets of the past, dismemberment, or being buried alive. Sleep, if you dare. Run, if you can. You will never be safe again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jason Wallace
• Release date: Jan 24, 2017
• ISBN: 9780463350317

Jason Wallace

Make sure to check out my other poetry at https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/jasonwallacepoetry. There are books on Amazon that are not shown here because they are offered through Kindle Unlimited. There are also books shown here that are not available on Amazon because they are free at all times. http://www.amazon.com/Jason-Wallace/e/B00JG37PVO/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1399103321&sr=8-1 Jason Wallace is an Indie author from the Midwest, aspiring to bring his works to the masses and through this, bring joy into their lives. He has been writing for more than 20 years, mostly poetry, but since 2011, he has been writing novels and short stories, in various genres. Come check out my new page and see what's going on. https://www.facebook.com/thepageofauthorjasonwallace

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Don’t Go to Sleep: Tales to Keep You UP

By Jason Wallace

Don’t Go to Sleep: Tales to Keep You UP

Copyright © 2016 by Jason Wallace

The Masquerade of Death by Jason Wallace

The Ring by Jason Wallace

The Sins of the Past by Jason Wallace

The Curse of Mary Rawling by Jason Wallace

The Diary of Heather Summerall and the Evil of Adams House by Jason Wallace

The Hatchet Man by Jason Wallace

Bonus Material

You Can’t Hide from Your Past by Virginia T. Watson

The Doll by Virginia T. Watson

The Masquerade of Death

By Jason Wallace

Talis Negary woke up. She woke up in a box. She did not know where she was or why it was so dark where she was. All that could be known was that she was in a very small space, surrounded only by dark and by the reverberation of her own screams, all jolting back toward her from the walls and ceiling of her concealment. At her last reckoning, she was very ill. In fact, most around her were, and many of those died. It was a time of great calamity and upheaval, of not only wars, of victories and losses, but of great and terrible affliction. Even the wealthiest and most powerful, which is what Talis’ father was, were far from exempt from worry, grief, and struggle.

No matter the money possessed by the Earl of Gris, a hodgepodge conglomerate station that held a name borrowed from the place in France from which the family was said to have come generations before, an informal name, of course, he could not buy his way out of this, the death that came to so many, including his wife, and now, presumably, his daughter. Some believed that it must have been the family’s strange and distant connection to faraway lands that caused them such horror, perhaps, even their having once been vassals of the Holy Roman Empire and giving service to the throne of England yet never giving their full allegiance, maintaining innumerable and odd ties to their former home, including the naming of their children in such an odd fashion that no one but those within said family could make pronouncement of the appellations given. In fact, no one knew specifically from where it was that they had come, not even the Earl himself, Targar the Black, Targar Negary, beneficiary of such a grand bestowal of allowance made by earlier kings, all for some ancestor, generations removed, having dedicated himself and then saving the life of that first king, only to be added to in time, though it was stated by some that the entire matter was staged to begin with, the Negarys positioning themselves in a better land, or, at least, a land in which they were not hunted.

No. Talis Negary did not find herself trapped in a box, assuming herself to have been buried in familial vault, because her father’s father’s father’s father’s father gave service to some king whose name she could hardly recall, though it had been so eloquently pounded into her head all of her life, staging himself to become one of the most powerful men in all of England, despite having no English or Norman French blood. He did, however, have enough time in service to the Duke of Normandy, right before the man’s capture of the English crown, and this was plenty to guarantee lands being granted in France, and, for the grandson of this first nobleman, connection to the English throne, and, with it, grants in that land, for services rendered. The lack of bloodline, however, was also remedied, the Negarys marrying themselves to enough noble families, some of Anglo blood, some of Norman, tying themselves to those bloodlines through marriage and birth, though they retained the passed-down knowledge of their homeland.

Talis did not wake up in this box because her family maintained this knowledge of the original language uttered by their forebears and placed upon their children names that sounded as if they were mere gibberish to most or because they were said to practice the black arts that were pure fruition of deviltry, earning reputation and place among only the vile beasts of Hell. Talis woke up in a box because her father, stricken with grief and pain, knew not what to do for his young daughter, his favorite child, the one whom he hoped to, one day, marry to one of the sons of King Edward, possibly, Edward, the Black Prince, if not, even to Edward’s much younger brother, John, though the boy was significantly younger than Talis. She was left for dead, assumed to already be so, locked away in an awful place, that place, Talis presumed, where her own dear mother now was tucked away, obviously, in a different box. This much, Talis knew. She was in this place, far below the upper levels of the family’s main castle, where no one would hear her screams. There was no need to make them; however, she knew that she had stopped, but she could still hear many more of the sounds, plus what appeared to her ears to be clawing at lids. Perhaps, her mother was not dead either and had been prematurely put away. Perhaps, nearly all of her family that had suffered such a fate had actually been put away before their time. Maybe, she could save them all!

Talis heard stories in her short years of her father’s cruelty, of punishments dealt to enemies, domestic and abroad, even of some being walled up in their own dungeons or crypts, never to be heard from again, or, forever bound in stone sarcophagi. Talis imagined that that was exactly what she was in now, a sarcophagus, though she had to wonder if there were any cruelty involved in it. In this day, it was incredibly common for people to drop by the scores, but Talis had shown no signs whatsoever of the illness that plagued her mother and one of her brothers. Unbeknownst to her, however, she had been unconscious for nigh to three days, and this was plenty for Targar Negary to announce his daughter’s death, thinking himself to have lost not only his wife but his second-favorite son, Irtihng, and now, his favorite daughter, his most beloved child, overall, he thought at times. Talis could have no idea of this, of her father’s tremendous grief and assumption.

Talis knew, from many times that she felt claustrophobia, not really understanding what it was, that there was difficulty in breathing if one shouted too much or gasped too often and too hard, choking oneself enormously until there could be loss of all faculty. This happened to her a few times, always waking up some time later or being found by a servant, or, once, one of her older brothers. She knew that screaming would cause this, not to mention that it could not be heard, nor could clawing at the lid do anything. She was trapped, and there was no way out, so ironically bitter and horrifying that, given her lack of the disease that already swept the entire continent, she was, for the most part, healthy. She knew that she did not have the sickness, even though two members of her family had, and if one contracted it, one did not survive long.

It was dark in this tomb, incredibly so. There was only great nothingness all around its inhabitant, staving off any chance of holding out hope. No. Talis was fully convinced that she would die, that she would be dealt the very fate that was already believed to have been dealt to her, but this was worse, far worse. At least, to die from the Plague meant suffering in a bed, possibly, surrounded by others, being treated and cared for, and then, going in a moment, but this death now bestowed so furiously upon Talis required that she be stricken entirely with panic, it sweeping her from head to toe. She hoped that there might be a chance of hearing someone visit the room and being able to call to them, to bang upon the lid of the sarcophagus hard enough that it would be heard throughout the chamber and result in the lid being lifted. If so, Talis would dedicate herself to never being put in one again until the real day of her passing arrived.

Talis found herself praying fervently, even though she had never been sure of God’s answering of prayers. She had spent her entire life as a faithful Catholic, never openly questioning anything, though she wondered how it was that her father could do the awful things that he was rumored to have done and still be guaranteed the salvation that the local priest promised would come. This, Talis knew, must only be because Targar Negary gave immense amounts of gold and silver to the parish, and, more than that, to the Archbishop of Canterbury. More or less, the priest and the Archbishop were subjects of Targar Negary as much as he was of the Duke to whom he owed everything that he had and of the King.

Talis prayed, again and again, that God would grant her deliverance, that this would not be her end, that there could be some form of hope left, but nothing came, no rescue, no answer, still, no hope at all. She was alone, forever so, granted nothing but pain and the creeping upon her of Death’s fingers. Where were God’s loving hands to bring her out from this nightmare? Where were the avengers that would make right what life had done and set in motion the removal of the name of Talis Negary from the list kept by the avengers’ brother, the Angel of Death? Surely, Talis’ name would be kept there, and its removal would require purchase with her last breath, a breath that was quite certain to come soon.

One cannot imagine or surmise the terror set upon the mind in such a state until one has been confined to such knowledge of looming death. Talis knew that her breath was dissipating, that she must soon suffocate. She had heard far too many stories of people passing in such an awful way, though she had never witnessed any such disturbance of life-force. There were rumors that her father, Targar, had, around the time of his daughter’s birth, suffocated a servant that failed to bring him his mead in time, an act, for which, he often bragged when filled with that same drink. Perhaps, Talis paraded in her slipping psyche, that space slowly filling with doom and darkness, taking sane thoughts from their once high station, her father was behind all of this. Perhaps, he had even ordered some affrighted servant to steal Talis from her place of slumber and impart her to the care of this lonely chamber of solitude.

Everything was black, unquenchably and immovably black. The only companion to Talis now was that utter blackness, surrounding her, covering her, raiding all of her last semblances of joy and safety, to put them far away, in some nether world. The black air was, somehow, almost a friend, not because it was welcomed but because it was all that there was. Bit by bit, Talis began to make her peace with it. There was, no longer, any begging of it to surrender its hold or parlaying for pardon. It was now her master and would keep its grip upon her from this moment until the last of all of time.

The girl felt, more and more, that she would bid the darkness to come, not as it already was her ethereal home, all that encompassed her very being, to the furthest reaches of her soul, but as a relinquish to the wait that so plagued her, an end to that pilfering surfeit of it all. At times, there was the haunting sound of clawing, tearing violently at the lid of the box, this sarcophagus, if that was what it was, Talis never conquering her hope that it was not such. The sound grew louder and louder, penetrating the deepest recesses of ear and tomb. A part of the maid believed that it came from without, though another part believed it to come from somewhere within, as if she were not alone, after all. There certainly could not be anyone else in the box with her, but the sound now filled that space.

Whatever it was that occupied that place of entrance to the world of the dead with the girl choked away any aspirations of screaming or making any other noise of the mouth. The occasional cough overtook her, almost to the point of convulsion and vomiting, but nothing more emitted. One scream, one horridly audible scream and a collision of clenched fist against lid might awaken someone to the realization that the sole heir to the estates and fortunes of Negary was not, after all, dead, if that was what had been presumed. If she had been placed into her tomb by point of other purpose, to end her claim and station, no receiving ear would care at all about the fate of the tenant of the box. If, however, it was all based upon presumption of death, there was hope of respite and return to safety.

Talis felt herself scream. She felt the build of the roar from her belly and lungs fueling through her, riveting her body, nearly cascading her upward with energetic thrust, but the only sound, still, was that god-awful clawing. This sound inspired more fear than had the darkness or the thought of suffocation. A thousand fears crept together, summoning one sickening swell, a storm of torment and anguish of body and soul, consuming Talis, writhing her, causing a senseless shaking and further choking. Now, another sound filled the chamber, a commotion of thudding against the lid of whatever this place was, but it was not any pounding of fist. It was Talis’ head, her already aching head, clamoring against the hard surface of the top, gashing its victim across her crown, blood trickling from that spot downward, into the girl’s right eye. This might have blinded her, but she was already unconscious, lost from the cruel thoughts of her fate.

When Talis awoke, she could already feel the desperation of her lungs, the turbulent absence of most of what had been when she last recognized her situation. Her moments were now but few. The next could easily be her last. Her eye felt irritated, swollen, and burned with the fire with which so many supposed heretics had been burned in her time and so many of the infected bodies of the peasantry. Could that be it, she wondered, that she had been labeled heretic, that she had, somehow, uttered some grievance against God, that someone of the clergy ordered her demise, despite the immense power of her father? Surely, her father could have bought her some penance, some forgiveness of her crime. There were numerous instances of the Church positioning for receipt of Negary lands and wealth, and if there were ever to be hope of the granting of these things, surely, no one would ever have dared to place title of heretic upon the only living child of the current possessor of such large titles and castles.

In this region, Targar Negary was a king among kings, answering only to Edward but above all other men. At his bequest, wars could rage, and even men of the cloth could be made suspect. Certainly, no one would cross a man whom Edward called friend and to whom that king came for personal loans. Targar was ruler of all in this land. If he so chose, he could call upon all of his vassals and his kin, raising an army so large that Edward, in his constant attempts at gaining rule of France, could not put down, for that matter, even be likely to put down with all of his forces. Talis knew all of this, and it was for such power above others that Talis was prospected for marriage, firstly, to the sons of Edward. It was only because of her father’s power that she had been able to withstand such possible arrangements. Had she asked her father to allow such a thing, however, she might not have found herself in such a far more fearsome prison than marriage. If granted reprieve from this, she would gladly accept the first contract of marriage offered, even to a son of a much lesser noble than her father, even to the son of a foreign king. She would, quite happily, even let herself be sent away to the lands of her ancestors, lands that she had never seen or even pictured aptly, to live a life of grueling poverty or even one in a convent.

Talis heard the faint visit of a voice from outside of her wretched confine, unsure of who it was that spoke. She thought it to easily be her mind, once again, toying with her, tormenting her further. The Lord says she is to be given proper service and burial befitting one of such station. He wishes it to be in the family chapel, her burial in the mausoleum. There are to be fresh flowers, and he requests minstrels or harpists, whichever we may get at such a time as this, but only those not showing signs of the sickness. There has been enough of that here.

Again, screams would not emit from the throat of Talis. Her arms would not raise. Her fingers would not ravel themselves to make ready for contact. There was no opportunity of making known the life still in her body. She fought with all of her energy to accomplish the task, and it was only at the exit of the voice and another from the room that her almost fist began to grace the lid of her tomb. She tried again and again, finally, forcing the last of her faculties upward, to some place that she could only assume existed. The scratching and tapping caught the attention of the woman that was heard to speak earlier, though she thought it to be, much like Talis thought of so many things, a part of her imagining.

The choking grew worse and began to fully overtake its victim, stealing from her the last instances of breath, just as the servant made her way to find the girl’s father. In minutes, the servant, her companion, Talis’ father, and another man clambered into the room, awaiting hearing of the same sounds that had been reported, but there was nothing to be heard. Targar, in a fit of hope, perhaps, faint desperation and the forlornness of lost fatherhood, tore open the sarcophagus, to, once more, view the body of his last living child.

It was clear that there had been a great deal of scratching upon the lid, and the gash upon Talis’ forehead made obvious the blow that had been had. Upon further