The Disappearance of Stewart Randolff and Other Tales

By Jared Criswell

Monsters dwell in tunnels beneath the earth. An artist obsesses over a painting. Somewhere, a college professor careens from universe to universe and dimension to dimension, completely alone and helpless. A picture found in a closet takes on a life of its own while a man comes face to face with some former pets. Welcome to Silas, Kentucky, a small town where darkness lurks. Stewart Randolff may be missing, but his wife has the opportunity to live a life of her own, a life that will take its share of twists and turns. The eleven stories in this collection are an insight into rural lives, but these are not your typical country folks. Some of them are good, some are evil, some are curious, and some have chosen to close their eyes to the bizarre nature of the world around them. (Cover art by Charlotte Carroll)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Dec 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781365387579

Jared Criswell

About the Author Jared Criswell grew up on a farm in Iowa, back when VHS tape rewinders were luxury items for home entertainment. He obtained a master’s degree from Iowa State University and spends his days as a chemist. When he isn’t working or writing, Jared is probably learning a new board game that will likely only ever be played once or trying to cajole his wife and daughters into becoming Star Trek fans. About the Illustrator Olivia Hucke is from Aledo, Illinois, and is currently attending Northern Illinois University completing her bachelor’s degree in illustration. While in school, she also is involved with the Huskie Marching Band. She loves bringing stories to the visual eye and hopes to do the same with her own personal stories and characters. Through her work, she wants any viewer to learn something new, feel certain emotions, and be inspired. In her free time, she enjoys many hobbies including crafts like crochet, long distance running, collecting Funkos and figures, and playing Xbox. She also loves cats.

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The Disappearance of Stewart Randolff and Other Tales

The Disappearance of Stewart Randolff and         Other Tales

Copyright © 2016 by Jared Criswell

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2017

ISBN 978-1-365-62187-1

This book is dedicated to those who have woven their own stories into mine.  Some of you have made your way into this book in one way or another.  You know who you are.

Acknowledgements

Over the years, so many different people have in some way contributed to my growth as a writer.  Though the stories included in this collection may not necessarily be incredible, they have been shaped by all of those people who have, at one time or another, placed the pen of correction on my writing and pointed me in the right direction.  The things these stories do well, then, can be attributed to them.  The many ways in which they lack can be attributed to me.

A word of thanks is necessary, then, for all of those teachers, peers, and friends who have helped me to grow in my writing.  There have been a handful of proofreaders who have done their fair share of ripping, tearing, and excising over the years, and those folks deserve my gratitude, as well.

I would like to thank all of those folks who diligently worked at the last minute to get this volume out there and into the world.  I appreciate you more than you realize.

Lastly, thanks to all of those who have taken the time to pick this book up and page through it.  I hope that you will stay awhile and that you like what you find within.

Preface

This collection has been a long time coming.

I have written for as long as I can remember.  Many of my earliest efforts were, admittedly, very juvenile and feeble at best.  The stories included here were penned over several years, and though they’re nothing astounding, at least by my estimation, each one of them does something that I am proud of.  It may be that I was really married to the original idea that inspired a particular story, or that I liked where the characters took the action by the end.  Either way, each of these stories is significant for one reason or another, and I feel perfectly content to send them out into the world for your entertainment.

Most of these stories are set in and around the fictional town of Silas, Kentucky.  Silas is a special place, at least to me, and has been the go-to location for most of my tales, at least those located in the rural area of Kentucky that has inspired so much of my thinking.

The stories included in this collection do not depend upon one another, but they mesh together and interact in their own ways.  This collection also introduces my only character that has ever spanned multiple stories, Mrs. Jennifer Randolff.

There’s something about Jennifer Randolff that I find particularly endearing.  I didn’t intend for her to turn into what she has, but she has demonstrated several times that she has a certain quality of permanence.  I don’t know what she’s going to do next, but I don’t think we’ve seen the last of her.

Enjoy your time in the world I’ve worked so hard to create over the years.  These stories are just a few of those I have churned out over the past ten years or so, and I have the suspicion that, as with Jennifer Randolff and her adventures, there is more to come in the future.

Down Below

Whispering winds blow through the dark silvery leaves of the deepest recesses of the woods.  These winds carry with them, upon leaving their close confine of trees, a sweet smell of dampness and greenery.  They reveal what’s lost beneath the shelter of trees, lost for innumerable ages beneath the mossy, compost-strewn ground.

These winds blow across the field, gracing the silently whispering grass with their secret.  They tell the world exactly where they’ve been and what they’ve seen; but the world doesn’t listen.

In the shadows of the night, beneath the light of the waning moon, mankind doesn’t hear their call.  We live on a plane of reality far removed from that which is most important.  The whispering wind tells us not of things that we should fear, because they are things we can’t even see. 

Deep down beneath the forest, the origin of the whispering wind, there lie more secrets than we can ever hope to comprehend.  They are dark, they are horrid, I have seen them.

That particular night was much like any other.  The summer was still going on around me in the darkness, and I sat with my back to the rough wood of the porch, exhaling plume after plume of smoke into the air.  I watched it rise, expanding and swirling, into the darkness above me.  No matter how long I sat, or how long I smoked, I couldn’t get enough of the night.

I looked up at the stars with a sense of awe and, perhaps, fear.  The stars, from what we can see, appear to be both insignificant and un-important.  However, if just one of those tiny pin-pricks of light were to suddenly vanish, to disappear from the universe completely, total chaos would ensue.  Our marvelous universe would collapse upon itself, pulling our galaxy and our planet into an abyss deeper than the darkest recesses of hell.

These thoughts, dark though they were, were with me always.  I couldn’t seem to get away from the thoughts that stuck with me.  The porch and the solitude of the night had nothing to do with my feelings.  I felt more alone yet more together on that porch than at any other time of my life.

What I longed for, even then, was someone to share the sights and sounds of my country home with me.  I wanted another person to share the field that stretched several acres from my doorstep to the woods, the woods which ringed the property and came within spitting distance of my bedroom window.

The property was desolate, yes, but it was my home.  I didn’t relish the trips into town that were inevitable every few days.  People I’ve known for years spoke to me, I spoke back.  However, none of them were who I really wished to speak to; I longed for someone to understand.

With my thoughts of solitude and the marvelous nature around me, I had even more accursed thoughts inside my head.  I couldn’t seem to stop thinking about that one, that one person who I know was meant to be with me.  This depression and longing caused me to be susceptible to some rather strange ideas from time to time as I wallowed in these feelings.

We were supposed to sit and talk, me and this other, both of us watching my smoke rise into the sky.  We were supposed to laugh together, walk through the woods together, and spend nights together.  No matter how hard I tried, I could not stop thinking of her, and what at that very same moment she was likely doing with someone else.  These thoughts consumed and tormented me for reasons I cannot fully explain or understand.

I was lost in thought on this night that I speak of, looking out across the field but not seeing.  Everything was still, and the movement that suddenly disturbed the solitude suddenly caused me to focus.  The field in front of me drops roughly ten or fifteen feet at its center in a sort of low valley.  It was on the near side of this dip that I saw a dark shape disappear.

I stood up, flicking the cigarette into the grass.  I had no clue what the disturbance had been at that time, but I was determined to find out.  I went inside and grabbed a flashlight from its accustomed place on the shelf, and started across the field in the dark.

I didn’t use the light until I got to the very top of the hill that descended down into the small valley.  Once there, I turned it on and cast its beam about the bottom and the rising other side.  What I saw didn’t surprise me: nothing.

I sighed and started to turn back to the house, thinking of the stray dogs that I often heard barking in the woods.  Out of the corner of my eye, however, I saw movement once again, this time at the top of the hill where I’d previously shined the beam.

I didn’t even turn on the light, but instead began sprinting down the hill and before I was even aware was up the other side.  I crested the rise and flicked the beam on, and this time I was met with a small reward for my trouble.

What I saw I immediately took for a large dog.  It moved as if injured, limping on one side.  It moved fast though, gliding quickly through the tall whispering grass and towards the edge of the woods.  Most people at this point would conclude that pursuing the animal was pointless.  I have never been described, however, as most people.

I set off after it, dashing through the grass as quickly as I could.  The light bobbed in front of me, sliding periodically over the still moving back haunches of the animal.  I debated turning it off, but doing so would result in my losing my quarry.  So I left it on, and I must admit the light helped me navigate the tussocks and holes on the edge of the field.

When I heard the crash of brush at the edge of the woods and the quick pace with which the wounded animal seemed to navigate it, I stopped in my tracks.  Pursuit now would be pointless.  There would be no way I could catch an adept and instinctive animal in his own territory. 

Shouldering this small defeat I started home, feeling the ache in my legs from the sudden burst of unexpected activity.  I flipped my watch over and from the light saw it was pushing three in the morning.  I sighed, not for the first time that night, and reached into my jacket pocket for a cigarette.  I put it in my mouth as I descended the slope to the bottom of the valley.

When I reached the bottom the temperature dropped roughly twenty     degrees.  It was actually chilly.  No matter how many times I walked the field at night it always caught me off guard.  I decided to stop, right where I was, and light my cigarette.  I assumed I might as well savor the cold night air, because the next day would likely be a scorcher.  I fumbled in my pocket for a light, and when I struck the match and looked up to light the cigarette, my breath stopped.

The tip of my cigarette and the dancing flame of the match hung right before my eyes.  Beyond them, at the top of the valley closest to the house, was the object of my fixation.  Standing there, clearly illuminated against the light from the house, was a human silhouette.

It startled me at first because of all the times I had put trespassers off of my property one was now so brazen as to stand and look at me, not fifty feet away.

I inhaled off the cigarette and dropped the match at the same time, and within a fraction of a second was sprinting once more.  I was clearing the distance and was close enough to see the shape more clearly.

It was indeed a man, possibly a woman.  The figure looked to be wrapped in a blanket or wrap, cloak style.  It was wrapped in such a way that its head appeared to be hooded, shielding it from my view and eventual identification. 

All of a sudden, my reflexes and stamina suddenly gave out on me.  I tripped, sprawling into the hillside within feet of the shape.  I got up as quickly as possible, but could do nothing but stand there once I did.

It was gone.  All traces that any human being had ever stood there had completely vanished.  I picked up the flashlight from where it had fallen and flicked it across the field in desperation.  Nothing.  I knew that for someone to disappear within two seconds from the middle of the field was physically impossible. 

At this point, I felt that it would be best to return to the porch.  I was tired, and though I usually sat up well past this time I very rarely exerted myself this much.  I walked back through the field, the grass rubbing against my pants in a mimic of the