Beyond the Veil

By L.F. Falconer

Prepare to journey inside the pages...

 

Meet a vigilante killer who speaks with the dead. Discover how an opium den in the Comstock becomes a newsman's final story. What secrets hide within the American wilderness? How powerful is a mother's love? Can anyone survive an isle that only welcomes the dead? Do you truly feel secure within the privacy of your own home?

 

The answers to these and more await within these thirteen tiny windows that open to the dark side. Come, take a short journey Beyond the Veil.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L.F. Falconer
• Release date: Mar 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393248774

Book preview

Introduction

It’s often been said that no story truly lives until it is read by another. In this collection, I am fortunate to have ten living tales, thanks to the intrepid editors which saw them fit to be published the first time.

In the writing world, editors are powerful people. My enduring appreciation goes out to Doug Draa, editor of Weirdbook Magazine, published by Wildside Press, who was the very first to offer this old storyteller actual money for one of my early works. And he chose not just the one, but seven stories in all over the years, six of which are included within this collection. To editor Joe Mynhardt of Crystal Lake Publishing, for including several of my flash fiction pieces in his ongoing Shallow Waters flash fiction anthologies. To editor Joshua Sorensen of War Monkey Publications, for having selected two of my pieces for his From the Yonder anthologies. And finally, to the editors of the Literary Taxidermy Competition, sponsored by Regulus Press. I was excited to be a finalist and be included in their 2020 anthology.

Because of these wonderful editors, I have been encouraged to continue my love affair with the short story form. I offer now, a selected variety within a single volume. If, like me, you’re a fan of short tales of darkness and oddities, I encourage you to check out the aforementioned publications that have offered support not only to me, but to many other lesser-known, emerging authors.

This collection, Beyond the Veil, contains ten of my previously published pieces and three new ones. A few stories are related. A few are quite short. Some are inspired by actual settings and events, reimagined. And one flips the script with a work of my own self-inspired fan-fiction. The stories span from the past to the present—from fantasy, to creepy, to almost humorous. (Note the word almost here. I wouldn’t want to spoil anyone’s image of my dark soul.) The one thing I hope they all have in common though, is entertainment value. If it cannot entertain, what’s the point of a story?

While editors deserve their kudos, I appreciate and value you, the Reader, most of all. Without you, my stories fail to live. And that’s some special kind of power you have!

PREVIOUSLY PUBLISHED works in this collection:

Burn on the Bayou, first published in Weirdbook Magazine, Issue 36

Neighborhood Watch, first published in Shallow Waters, Vol. 6

Wild Things, first published in From the Yonder: A Collection of Horror from Around the World, Vol. 1

The Good Samaritan, first published in Shallow Waters, Vol. 5

The Children Must Be Hungry, first published in Weirdbook Magazine, Issue. 32

The Witch of Skur, first published in Weirdbook Annual #1: Witches

That Which Makes Me Happiest, first published in Shallow Waters,Vol. 4

Wings of Twilight, first published in Weirdbook Magazine, Issue 41

Tuama, first published in Weirdbook Annual #2: Cthulhu

Lucien Greyshire and the Ghost from Applebee’s, first published in Weirdbook Magazine, Issue 43

Burn on the Bayou

Fortunate is the man who can make a living doing what he loves and Lucien Greyshire is a fortunate man, despite having risen from the dead. 

Pickering Manor hides among ancient cypress and sprawling live oaks on the edge of the bayou, the yard tangled in rhododendrons and creeping vines.  It once served as the main house on a modest plantation, yet early during the Civil War the property had fallen into disuse. To this day it remains empty, locked in a state of perpetual desperation behind an eight-foot brick wall enswathed in cobwebs and mold.

A sepulchral squeal slices through the silence as the massive wrought-iron gate is pulled across the drive.  A treasure, these rusty hinges, Lucien notes with a thin-lipped smile.  No need to make any adjustments to this sound effect.  In the darkness, beyond his limited field of view, a crisp rustle in the grass swallows his attention before drifting back to silence.

Thank you, he whispers with a nod.  Well done.

According to local lore, rebellious slaves had murdered the entire Pickering family in their sleep.  Night shrieks, moans, wails, and thundering footfalls racing across the floorboards have since punctuated every ghostly tale the manor is featured within.  Pain lives here.  Wild seclusion coupled with its sordid history makes this an ideal choice for Lucien’s Smashing Halloween Bash of the Year.

Never has one of his soirees been a failure—his fame legendary.  Clients scramble for a booking and demand only the best haunted experience as they throw outrageous funds his direction in order to impress their peers.  He sets his fees high.  They still pay.  They will always pay.

Each Halloween presents a new challenge as Lucien strives for proper orchestration.  Selecting the express location, perfecting the ghastly props, and inviting the precise guests to pull it all together makes the passage from one Halloween to the next seem but a blink in time.  This undertaking ensures each event is unique, lest a staleness or predictability begin to dampen the excitement and diminish his list of well-paying clients.  The one standard which endures from year to year is his costume.  He has only to don an old ulster and top hat.  Horrific burn scars, a natural limp, and a tall, gaunt frame exquisitely complement his duty as host.

Tomorrow is All Hallows Eve.  Everything is set.  With his single good eye, Lucien glances back at the manor.  A squint of moonlight illuminates three of five gables in shades of wet clay.

Tomorrow ... The song raggedly escapes his lips while he locks the gate.  Tomorrow ...  Hobbling toward the idling van, his thoughts begin to process the planning tasks which will comprise the coming year ahead.

He sleeps well now, no longer troubled by his dreams.

BROCK HENNING’S ROLEX watch reads Oct.31, 6:06 PM.  He stands before the dressing room mirror, adjusting the black pirate hat atop the long dreadlocks of the wig, cocking it first this way, then that.

Are you certain you don’t want to come? he calls out to his wife.  You’ll never have another chance at a party like this.

As if on cue, Vivian appears in the dressing room doorway.  Don’t be absurd.  I can’t believe the amount you paid that man.  It’s positively criminal.

Inwardly, Brock smiles.  It would ruin everything if his wife broke character and chose to accompany him.  He already has a date.  And Deseriah Jolly is a far more delicious piece of arm candy that this prim dowager he’d married could ever hope to be.  There isn’t enough plastic surgery in the world.  But after three years of marriage, he believes he knows his wife well enough.  Vivian will never lower herself to attend an event for the sheer fun of it.

You are aware of the notoriety of a Greyshire Halloween?  He prods gently, knowing he must keep up a modicum of husbandly concern, yet not so much to actually change her mind.

What I’m aware of, Brock, is the ridiculous waste of it all.  But since you’ve already deemed it worthy of my late daddy’s money, there’s little I can do about it now.  But keep in mind that as of tonight, the purse strings close.

He moves to the doorway and attempts to embrace her, but Vivian sidesteps, evading his grasp.

Don’t be so testy, dear.  Brock reaches out ever so slightly.  There’s no need to punish me too harshly.

Oh really?  First it was the yacht that never leaves the marina.  Then the summer house in Naples which I have yet to even see.  That damn Maserati.  Two loser race horses.  And now this!  I’ve had more than enough, so go enjoy yourself while you still can.  I will be contacting the lawyer tomorrow.

My sweet pet, don’t act this way.  Brock makes another mock attempt to soothe her.  You’re absolutely right—I’ve been a fool with some of my spending.  But I promise, I’ve learned my lesson.  I’ll be better in the future.

What you do in the future is no concern of mine. I’m through.  My daddy didn’t leave me his estate just so you could blow it all in a few short years.  Get out.  Go.  Don’t keep your guests waiting on my account.  Vivian wheels about and strides from the room, slamming the bedroom door on the way out.

Brock relaxes and steps from the dressing room.  At the bedroom window he glances out at the hedgerow along the far edge of the yard beyond.  Before drawing the drapes, he unlocks the window latch, then turns and removes the buccaneer jacket from the costume box.  With a wink of approval to his mirrored reflection, he tucks his cell phone and wallet away and departs his wife’s ancestral mansion.

The drive to Deseriah’s home is uneventful and he whips the sleek black Gran Turismo into the open driveway, making certain to lock it upon exiting.  This neighborhood seems plucked straight from his past, teeming with the lower middle-class and their wall to wall tract homes. Thanks to Vivian, he has finally moved above all this. He plans to stay there.

Before he can knock upon his paramour’s front door, it opens, revealing the comely young woman clad in a velvet bustier, mini skirt, and over-the-knee, black leather boots.

Ah, now there’s a fair wench if ever I’ve seen one.  Brock sweeps her into his arms, drawing her back inside the privacy of the house while he closes the door behind him with his foot.  I could devour you right here and now.

Any other time and I’d let you, Captain Hook. But I’m pretty anxious to get this night over with.  Is everything set?

Brock nuzzles her neck.  It’s Jack Sparrow.  Not Hook.  And yes, I have a man named Watts who will come in to burglarize my home.  It’s a damn shame Vivian will only get in his way, but such things can’t be helped, can they?

Deseriah purrs against his ear.  No, they can’t, and I can’t wait to move in.  I’m dying to get my hands on that place and we’ve been waiting way too long.  She clutches onto her lover’s hand and accompanies him to the door.  After settling into the car, Brock programs the GPS for directions, and they’re off.

LUCIEN WAITS AT THE gate in the dark, a battery-operated lantern held in one hand.  Created by strategically placed machines, low fog shimmers in the distance.  It resembles smoke to the point that he can actually smell it—the rank odor of charred wood and plaster as the smoke billows beneath the locked bedroom door.  Beyond the door, echoing through the inferno, the maniacal shouts of his father.  Footfalls heavy—running the wrong direction.  Help me, Daddy, Lucien’s cracked, frantic cry.  Eyes and throat afire.  Hands beating at the hot door.  Don’t leave me!

Lucien snaps to attention—driving the mordacious memory into the shadows as the engine whine of the approaching Maserati binds him fully back into the present.

The gate screeches as he opens it wide, and after his client drives through, he follows the red tail lights up the lantern-lit drive, limping toward the vehicle as Brock and Deseriah ungracefully extricate themselves from the low-slung car.

Good evening.  Lucien gives a courteous bow, doffing his top hat for a moment before righting himself.

This place?  Brock shakes Lucien’s hand.  My man!  This all looks spectacular so far.  Downright haunting all on its own.  Show me what you have in store.

Keeping close to Brock’s side, Deseriah gazes around the empty drive.  Isn’t anyone else coming?

The party doesn’t actually begin until ten, Brock explains.  But I want to see what all Mr. Greyshire has planned for our night’s entertainment.

Sir, Madame, shall we go inside?  Lucien leads the way, and Deseriah and Brock follow their host.  The flickering lantern light commands grim shadows to skitter through the unkempt yard.  At an oak door burnished with time, Lucien hefts it open, motioning his guests inside.

By the way, great costume, Deseriah says as she steps over the threshold.  You look kind of like Dr. Hyde.

Mister, Brock corrects, examining the cobwebs evident within the white light of Lucien’s lantern.  "It’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde."  Musky dust rises up, making his nose itch and threatens a sneeze.

Deseriah grasps onto Brock’s arm.  Whatever.  It’s still a pretty cool makeup job.  Really gross.

Lucien pulls the door closed behind them.  Forgive me if I appear unhandsome, my lady.  It was a childhood misfortune.

Deseriah purses her lips.  Oh.  Sorry.

No offense taken.  Lucien ushers them through the foyer.  Please, let’s make our way to the reception parlor shall we, for that is where the main activities will be taking place.

Deseriah glances up and shrinks back against Brock with a shriek. He holds her and scans the staircase.  Amid the darkness upon the top step, a hazy male figure clearly manifests.  One hand holds a bloody axe.  A woman’s severed head dangles from the other.

What the—?  Brock shoots Lucien an acerbic glare.

A simple projection, Lucien tells him as the figure fades away.  A lovely effect, don’t you agree?

The figure appears once more.

That’s ... pretty gruesome all right.  Brock blows out a foiled whistle, mere breath between his lips.  I’ve got to hand it to you—you know your stuff.  The figure fades out again.

My research uncovered the estate’s true history, Lucien explains as they proceed toward the reception parlor to the left of the foyer.

Brock notes the eyes of the portraits on the walls following their every move.  Clichéd, he thinks, yet still unsettling.

Evidently, it wasn’t the slaves who murdered the Pickering family. Lucien leads his guests through the parlor door.  The butchery was done by Master Pickering himself.

Lucien sets his lantern aside and pulls a small box of matches from his coat pocket to light the wick of a lamp ensconced upon the wall.  Please forgive the lamplight, but the house has never possessed electricity. 

Is this place safe? Deseriah asks.  I mean, it’s been deserted for like, a hundred years.

One-hundred-fifty-two.  Brock spews his stifled sneeze.

Bless you. Lucien pulls a tissue from his pocket and hands it to Brock, clicks off the battery-operated lantern and steps