Forbidden Tales

By Hugh M. Withers Jr.

H U G H M . W I T H E R S J R .
FORBIDDEN TALES W I T H E R S J R .
The sun settles beyond the edge of the horizon; an old wooden
door slowly creeks open. You can hear footsteps in the night...and see shadows slinking along the walls. You feel somehow as though youre not alone. An urge to glance over your shoulder permeates your being as you imagine what might lurk in the unknown darkness. The night holds all of our darkest fears, all of those things that chill our fl esh and haunt our dreams. Do any of the old tales or rituals weve heard of have a basis in reality? If you have the courage,
you will fi nd these and many more answers in Forbidden Tales.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 7, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465390394

Hugh M. Withers Jr.

Born on Staten Island in New York, Hugh Withers is a teacher as well as an author. After completion of his Masters’ Degree, he began teaching for the Public Education system. Along with the help of friends and colleagues, he began this undertaking based on the fears that would overtake any mind, no matter how great. “My Father once told me that things can always be worse. I believe he had a point….” As a young writer, Hugh Withers’ work is found to have been clearly infl uenced by the artwork of H.R. Giger and the writings of Edgar Allen Poe and H.P. Lovecraft. Both authors fi nd a way of fi nding the common fears of all men and women, and take advantage of trust gained through character development. By utilizing their style and use of educated, trustworthy narrators and easily understood, common concepts and themes, this book is able to touch on emotions and feelings that many can relate to. While the modern concept of horror is consumed by violence and gore, there is one thing that still frightens us all; fear of the unknown. There are still many things we don’t yet understand, and they are out there...

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Copyright © 2011 by Hugh M. Withers Jr.

Writing and concepts by Hugh M. Withers Jr.

Artwork and illustrations by Rocco LaCapria

Author photo supplied by Alexandra Rossomondo

Library of Congress Control Number:       2011919681

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4653-9038-7

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4653-9037-0

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4653-9039-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

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Contents

Introduction

The Well

The Secret in the Earth

Heavens’ Bastard

Worldscapes

New Life

Nightschool

The Soldier You’ve Never Met

Recon Report 57 on T/D G171-572

The Final Words of Peter Inchogenba

Rain with Teeth

Dust

Words That Stay

The Fall of Metropolis Part 1

Special thanks to those people who have made

this book possible. Mom, Dad, Karen, James, my

buddy Rocco, Ally and all of my other friends; you

have helped me to make these nightmares a reality

for everyone. I can never thank you enough.

Introduction

There have been stories, for a long time, that evoke an instinctual response through fear. Your heart beats faster, then your hair stands on end while your skin slowly freezes. Fight or Flight kicks in; that’s when you reassure yourself that what you are hearing or reading isn’t real. What if it was? Fairy tales and bedtime stories were originally intended to frighten young children into certain behaviors. The concept of some monster taking away small children in the night should be enough to cause a child to stay in bed after nightfall. Every story, however, has some hint of truth; some basis for having been remembered. The possibility of a fictional story being factual, that some monsters ARE real, excites us all. We tell stories by the campfire or during the full moon with the lights turned low and wonder; is any of this real? Could there be something out there that science can’t explain, or are these tales just the result of overactive imaginations? While the modern concept of horror is consumed by violence and gore, there is one thing that still frightens us all; fear of the unknown. The haunting descriptions and settings of this older genre of writing allow the reader to find the fear in themselves, in their own concepts of what is lurking just out of sight. When the creature or spirit, whatever it is, reveals itself… that is when the characters learn that their concepts of reality and existence are directly challenged. The idea that we are not the dominant creation in the universe; that there are things that we have still not discovered in our own world, is a frightening possibility to face. This is when fear seizes you by the throat; when you question your beliefs, every important image in your mind becomes shattered and tossed to the wind. This is truly horror.

The Well

It seems like a long time since it happened, but since then the Maudit (pronounced Mau-deet) family has moved far away from the dismay and loathsome creatures that haunt Boston. You see, Boston was an epicenter of racial tension and discrimination for a very long time. Fortunately for those of my family who came to America after The Revolutionary War, they did not move to Boston until after the Salem Witch Trials and the paranoia which followed—it seems sometimes as if the entire state is haunted by malevolent spirits. These are the type of discoveries you make as you research your family history. Academia had become a total bore after my third doctorate, so I started to look inward. The late 1600’s were the most violent time in Salem, with burnings at the stake or drownings down a well as legal and accepted determination of whether someone was a witch or not. If you drowned or burned, you were a christian and your soul would be saved. And if you didn’t burn or drown, well, it would appear that never happened. Hundreds and even thousands of people, many falsely accused and the rest simply exercising a religion of their own, were punished for nothing. The anguished families were forced to return home with no recourse but to comfort those who remained. And therein lies a tale…

You see, there are traditions which emerged from these days of fear and violence. Ritual helps us to accept and deal with the world, and these rituals are blindly followed today. We’ve all heard of them or seen them—they’ve become a part of our culture. When someone is killed and not placed in a grave, the family will leave mementos at the death-site to remind the spirit that it had been loved. And when someone comes across a well, there’s a pervasive urge to toss in a coin and make a wish. There are few, however, who know where this story comes from. My grandfather, Marcus DeMaudit, was apparently one of them. He is the reason I never go near a body of water, or a well, or anything bigger than a bathtub. Ever. His writing and tales of adventure from around the world are a spectacle all their own. Since their discovery, I feel that his knowledge should be shared with as many men and women as possible. I admit, despite the urge to do so, it is a task which I can hardly pursue. The things he discovered, the rules of conventional reality that twisted and turned before him like a snake, writhing in its’ death-throes. The works in his study were proof of legends and myths, campfire stories and family folklore from days long passed. The Well was the only passage I’ve gotten through to this day. This is his writing of it, word for word.

From the journal of Marcus DeMaudit,

May 12, 1713—Today I beheld a demon. I do not dare tell others about it, for they would surely see me as a heretic or witch. I am no witch, and although I am not one of the sheep to be led by reverend Rutherford, I do no ill toward others. They say that this land is cursed by the blood of innocent men, women and children, but I’ve never seen anything until this day that proved it. I work the land as best I can, and I hope to attract Ms. Abigail Peterson to more than just late meetings in barns. My Grandmother tells me strange stories that I cannot tell anyone, about spirits and openings to other places. She tells me to do things that would be described as almost religious, but it doesn’t seem like any religion I know of. Every day I have to go out to collect water twice, and it costs me two cents a day. I’m not spending it on food, mind you. I’m spending it on the well.

Grandmother told me a long time ago that whenever you take something from the world, you must give something back. She says that for someone to be born, someone, somewhere must die. I never really knew whether to believe her or not, but as a boy, the threat of a whipping had always been enough to make me listen. As a man, you begin to test the boundaries in the world. I woke up late one morning in my fifteenth summer, and Pa was yellin’ and fussin’ that there was no bathwater yet. Ma tried to calm him and get him to the cows while I rolled out of my bed. I remember doing everything as I always did—getting my pants and shirt on, brushing my hair back with the pick that Da had made for me from the hard wood and tying it with a piece of rope. I grabbed a bit of bread from the table, kissed Ma on the forehead, and went to the well. It was a brisk morning, but it was pretty seeing everything come to life after being asleep. The birds were stretching their wings and looking for a meal, and I was still hungry after that piece of bread. I took a moment to watch them. We both seem to live similar lives—look for food, raise a family, stay together. I wonder what kind of things they see that I never do? As I got to the old well, I realized how important it is to the family. It’s squat, and ugly, and not at all fancy like the one’s I’ve heard of with roofs or tall bricks. It’s really just a hole in the ground, with a few layers of brick around it and a rope and bucket tied to a tree. In the morning, I’d always fill the two buckets I brought on the stick, fill the large one at home for drinking and cooking with, and bring two more for refilling the bath. Then I’d go to the fields and help Pa.

When we got back to the house from the field, Ma was making a soup for dinner later, and Gram was writing. Always writing. She says it’s for me, but I think she just likes writing. She hides that book like some kind of animal, burying it under the floorboards at night. I never see it unless it’s in her hands. The soup tastes so good after a long day, even if it’s the same soup we always have, with the same bread. The day isn’t over though. After a little bit more bread and butter, I have to walk back to the well. I hate walking to the well at night. I bring Pa’s pistol in case of animals comin’ out of the forest, because one time he got caught by a big cat without anything but his knife. It tore up his chest really bad, but he managed to impale it when it was on top of him. Ma made that mean ol’ thing into a nice coat for Pa during the winter months. Gram made him bury the head at the edge of the woods, where it came after him. She said it would protect us from the forest, but Gram always tells stories. The gun is big and only takes one shot, but I think it’s better for protection than some cat’s head in the ground. The sun began it’s slow fall from the sky, and then I knew that it was time to go. I grabbed the buckets and put them on my shoulders, and I heard the same Goodbye, soup will be on when you get back! as I left. The walk isn’t too far, but there was something cold in the wind today, and I was still hungry. I still had a penny in my pocket though . . .

I had never thought about stopping in town for a piece of bread or something before today. A penny is all it should cost, and I’ve been spending two pennies a day on a well because of some stupid story. So after I arrived at the well, I put the buckets down next to it and went into town. Farley was in the food-stop, and a roll with meat was just a penny! I couldn’t believe my luck. That meant that I could get one for Pa every day too. He looked like he needed to eat more, especially with winter setting on. I don’t know why he went along with Gram and gave me two pennies every day for the well, when we could all be eating more. I was going to mention it to him when I got home, but I wouldn’t tell him I stopped for food or that I didn’t drop a penny before I took out water. This way, I could save my hide from the belt if he disagreed. As I made my way back to the well, my belly let me know that it was satisfied with a little grumble. That sandwich was really good, and I couldn’t wait for Pa to try one. When I reached the well, the sun had already gone down. It’s still only September, so the nights don’t get very cold yet. It took a few minutes to fill the buckets from the well, because a decent number of people had been using it for the past hundred years or so. It had to be deep, maybe even touching the bottom of the world! I brought it up, slowly, so slowly. It felt like I was pulling up bricks from the inside of the earth, every day for the past three years. As I finished filling the first pair of buckets, the wind picked up. I carried them back to the house, emptied them, and walked back up the hill. The last walk of the night was the worst. I was already tired from the fields and the chores I had, and the hill became a mountain at night.

When I reached the top, I heard something strange coming from the woods. I ripped my shirt and, with a branch, fastened a small torch. When I took the matches out and lit the cloth, I brought my pistol up. It was a strange sound, but I can hardly describe it. I could hear the sound of it and somehow feel it at the same time; but make no definite description of what the sound was or compare the feeling to anything. I paced back and forth along the treeline, but no animal was visible. I made a makeshift hangar for the torch, and set about gathering the water. I had pulled the first bucket about halfway up when I heard it again. It sounded like something was hiding in the wind, moving between the trees. I whirled around and grabbed the pistol from my belt again, but as I turned I lost my balance. As I struggled to regain my footing, I slipped on a moist rock and fell headlong in! I fell forever down, down . . . it seemed like the world and everything in it spiraled past me. I fell and fell and fell for what seemed an eternity. This feeling of passing straight through the world was interrupted when I hit my leg on something, and I realized I had fallen down the well just in time to hit the bucket and the cold water headfirst.

Fear didn’t have a chance to cross my mind; I swam the way I felt the bubbles move and jumped as high out of the water as I could for air. A noxious, old taste filled my lungs, but I could breathe. I then realized that I was lucky to have hit my leg on the bricks and not my head. As my eyes tried to adjust to the darkness, I cursed my own stupidity. It had probably just been leaves moving in the breeze, or something like that which had scared me into this mess. As I tried to stay afloat, I realized that the bucket had fallen with me, along with the rope. I tried not to be scared—Pa would come lookin’ for me if I was gone too long. My torch and buckets were still by the well, so he would probably start hollerin’ once he got near enough to hear me yell back. I cringe when I think of the next moment. Something, oily and slimy and vile, brushed past my leg. I kicked when I felt it, but a moment later, I felt it again. Something was down there in the well! Some beast from centuries before, or serpent, or beast that the world had forgotten was in this well with me! Panic that the world has never seen gripped me. I tried to claw and grab at the sides of the well, instinctively trying to raise myself above the water. The rocks were cold and wet, and my hands were still wet themselves. I tried and tried to pull myself up, while kicking as hard and violently as I could. Finally, in my haste, I grabbed the rope and managed to pull myself up a bit. I thought that if I grabbed the bucket underneath me, whatever it was wouldn’t be able to break from the water and come after me. I was wrong.

I couldn’t see anything, but there was something under me. I made it up the rope by what felt like a few feet, and tried to hold the bucket with my boot as I climbed up a bit more. I felt something warmer than the water on my lower legs, and I knew I was bleeding. Then I listened. A splashing, repetitive sound was heard echoing all around the walls, as someone looking for a dropped ring in a wash basin. It continued, growing in speed and sound. The sound climbed to a roar, then suddenly stopped. As a feeling of relief washed over my chest, I thought it might have just been some kind of fish. Then the most dreadful, other-worldly sound was heard. A moist, wet slapping sound vibrated against the well, followed by a scratching sound as something slid. Oh God! I thought It’s making its’ way up the sides of the well! This thing must have been a good amount wider than I am, because I could stretch and get one leg against the side walls at a time. The well was about five or six feet wide! Nothing could touch both sides at once. The relief was replaced by curiosity from a moment, and then by absolute panic. I managed to shake myself from my momentary delirium, and as I turned and began working my way further up the rope, this sound too became more frequent. It also became more frightening. The idea that it had been a rope or something simple in the water was gone now—I had fallen down a well that a creature lived in, and it was trying to get at me.

The utter darkness above was the most frightening part. I climbed with all of my strength toward the top, but the sound moved faster than I could. The bucket was awkward hanging there off my foot, but I didn’t want to give this thing