Laurel Springs Anthology of Scary Stories

By Brian Hofacker

The Laurel Springs Anthology of Scary Stories is a frightening and fun collection of terrifying tales from the quaint and curious town of Laurel Springs. What did Professor Angell discover when he came to the small South Jersey town Laurel Springs in 1915? What was Samuel S. Cord, the man that would make Laurel Springs a town, doing in Innsmouth a week before his murder? Who is the strange woman called Annie by the lake? What are the dark things that drink from spring? What is the thing upstairs?
From an investigation into the mysterious murder of Samuel S. Cord to a phantom train that travels by in the middle of the night, this anthology reveals what lurks in the dark of a small town and its connection to the characters, situations and monsters of by H.P. Lovecraft.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Nov 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312661110

Brian Hofacker

Adventurer, writer, hard traveled hero. Brian Hofacker survives on a pulp diet of old fashioned cocktails, classic cartoons, comic books and vintage surf boards. On the weekends he can be found cruising the highways of South Jersey in his El Camino and, with his trusty ray gun by his side, doing his best to save the world from the ever looming threat of space monkeys, zombies and killer robots. In his spare time he surfs the waves of the Jersey Shore (not very well) and writes books.

Book preview

Laurel Springs Anthology of Scary Stories

The Laurel Springs Anthology of Scary Stories

Unaccountable, I know there is a place where the laurel grows by the lake. Where a poet sits and monsters drink. I say, beware, these haunting things where the laurel grows by the springs

—Robert Blake (1915)

The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown. These facts few psychologists will dispute, and their admitted truth must establish for all time the genuineness and dignity of the weirdly horrible tale as a literary form.

—H.P. Lovecraft (1925)

Supernatural Horror in Literature

The Laurel Springs Recreation Commission Presents:­

The Laurel Screams Anthology of Scary Stories

2014

Text © 2014 Laurel Springs Recreation Commission. All Rights Reserved. No copying or redistribution of this text may occur without the consent of the LSRC. This is a work of fiction; all resemblance to actual people, names, places and events is coincidental. ISBN: 978-1-312-66111-0

Thank you to the all the ghosts and goblins of Laurel Springs. Thank you to the midnight trains that make things go bump in the night. Thank you to Walt Whitman, H.P. Lovecraft and Harry Houdini.

Chapter One: The Invisible Houses by Anonymous Entry

You do not know me, but what I know of our small town is most shocking.

There are houses in our quaint and curious town of Laurel Springs that we do not know. Like volumes of forgotten lore placed upon the shelf for a dreary midnight read, these houses nap behind the trees around the lake, on the other side of the tracks, and down your own avenue—yet these dwellings remain unseen. Such places have an uncanny quietness about them, and little attraction even for the most meddlesome mind.

These old houses have old souls and know many Old Things. We see them in a stray glance, and never consider them long afterwards as they are quick to become lost in reverie and routine until one’s memory is jogged in just the right phantasmagorical fashion; a chill on a summer day; a bizarre scent on a baseless breeze; a nostalgic conversation in the bright of day. Was that old house by the lake but a dream? This may seem impossible, but these houses are here, I assure you, because now I see them.

We trudge past these lurking walls when we walk our dogs by the dawn’s early light. On our bicycles we cruise by these ill-omened abodes in the pleasant afternoon. During the cool evening, we stroll with neither a sneer nor a leer toward these dark dwellings. There is no attraction to an unlit window beyond the place where the sidewalk ends, so we pay that world no mind. I have watched crowds gather nearly on the stoop of one such address, year after year, to watch our Fourth of July Parade march along. I know people that have never looked beyond the wire and briars behind their yard—have you?

It is the Springer, as we are called, the person whose father or father’s father took residence on Stafford Ave or Tomlinson Ave, or any other old lane in Laurel Springs, who finds these invisible dwellings most startling. You are going along the usual path in the usual way, when suddenly the shadows move and the sun falls short of your inner eye, allowing you to see clearly the dark house on the next street over. We pause, and we ponder…

Have I ever seen that house before? A tree must have fallen in the storm. The place has a balcony and a strong curved door. But the weather has been clear for days. I’ve lived in Laurel Springs all my life—my father lived here all of his life, and now my children live here—how do I not know these dark quarters in the middle of my block?

Is the lawn mowed—does it even grow? A newspaper rots in a bag on the lawn. There is nothing obvious about the place. I would think it empty, but I know it is not.

With my brothers and sisters I fished Laurel Lake and plowed the snowy trails of Crystal Springs—so how is it that I don’t remember that rusty shack behind the trees on the hill. Is that laundry on the line? It has a porch from which I am sure I could see through the entire woods—clear across the lake.

How many little league games have I played on this field—and yet, I’ve never noticed that house back there? I have no idea who lives there—watching us.

Did I knock upon that door for tricks-or-treats when I was young? I must have! But you did not, because our younger selves see in the dark much clearer than we care to remember.

You can be sensible as to why you do not recall this dark house or that old shed. Maybe it has been painted a new color, vinyl siding added, or new windows installed—but there is no fresh paint on this place. The windows are dark, some shattered—the attic window on the west side is open? The wooden shingles are split, moldy and dangling off the sides of the porch. Perhaps brush and trees have been removed from the property. From March to October landscapers assault the town on a daily basis—but there is no evidence of this kind of work; no stumps or overturned earth.

Ah, perhaps you are just off the typical course. Yes! But unlikely when the land area does not reach beyond a half square mile.

In a moment, you will figure with commonsense why you have never seen that old shack in the woods or that abandoned estate behind the ball field. You’ll probably forget about it before long and sleep