Dark Tales of Elsewhere

By Bob Stevens

The fourth book in a planned series of thirteen, Dark Tales of Elsewhere is a series of short stories that encapsulates everyone’s favorite things about October, and it’s a perfect read for those who love horror. Set in an overcast and nocturnal world, the stories follow trails of dead leaves and winds of restless spirits, and the whispers of quiet neighbors and the tramping of trick-or-treaters. In its pages, skeletons haunt kitchens, an all-female trio of rockabilly singers vies for fame, and the Devil himself lurks in the shadows.

Horror creeps within every page, and there's no escaping the darkness once you crack open the cover.

• Language: English
• Publisher: jrefund
• Release date: Oct 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662930546

Book preview

Mephisto, Appear!

The young man drove slowly—guided by directions jotted down at the public library—to the infamous location of the Fullerton murders. This wasn’t his first pilgrimage to a crime scene, but this town was different. The locals had a reputation for hostility. Cracked windshields. Baseball bats wrapped in electrical tape. Hooded figures in flatbeds. They wanted to leave those murders in the past. They were doing their best to forget. The only outsiders who could pass through without drawing the ire of the embattled citizens were the annual beer-swilling and flannel-clad migrants of deer season. They smelled of woodsmoke and blood but mostly minded their own business. Mark, bespectacled, rotund, and driving a goddamn Volvo, would never be mistaken for a hunter of any kind. Red-faced fishermen wrinkled their faces at him with perturbed suspicion from a cold bench in front of the tackle shop as he rubbernecked his way down their little main drag. His friendly smile and wave only intensified their disapproving stares.

Not only had their drowsy community been forced to contend with the shock of multiple murders, but they also had to endure an almost ceaseless stream of ghoulish individuals who wanted to see where it all transpired. After only a few months of this, the Fullerton house was burned to the ground in an act of community arson. Still, they came, to visit the ruins, until tensions between locals and interlopers eventually resulted in public violence. Four young men had come boisterously into town with piercings, tattoos, leather jackets, and black T-shirts emblazoned with the name of their new horror-punk band—the Fullerton Murders. They were accompanied by an also young photographer. Their misguided intention was to take publicity photos for their first album. They had only been in town for about an hour before a mob of local men formed outside the barber shop on Maple and marched forward to confront them. The locals quickly gained the upper hand and used their pent-up frustrations to send a message. The mob supposedly included members of both the local police and judiciary and, whether those rumors are true or not, it is curious that no one involved was ever held accountable. The punks were dutifully transported to the nearest hospital, patched up, and sent limping on their way. There were no lawsuits and publicity of the incident quickly faded, but word spread fast through the morbid sightseer community. People mostly stayed away after that. Unwelcome gawkers were dwindling by the time the young man finally paid his visit. He wondered if any of those scowling fishermen had been among the mob that assaulted the band. Probably. Maybe? Who knows?

At long last he came upon the landmark he was looking for—a lonesome red post in the ditch weeds, paint chipped and flaking. He eased his car to a stop. Well, he thought, guess the local librarian was being straight with me after all. We had a long and proud history here on Tumble Lake before that crazy Fullerton incident, she told him, and it always saddens us when such dark business is the sole reason for a person’s visit to our lovely town. The young man expressed his sympathies and told her he was a graduate student working on research. Might be a book someday, he shrugged. She softened upon learning he attended Welldigger Bay College. She had gone there, too. She considered his request for directions, fidgeting with her wedding ring as if in consultation with the elsewhere husband, then slid open a drawer for a pen and started scribbling. There were strange fanning patterns of scars on the back of her veiny hands.

The young man excitedly thumped the steering wheel when the red post finally came into view—the same post that once supported the Fullerton mailbox and the only indication, from the road at least, that somebody maybe lived back there once. After pulling over to park he noticed, through the black trees, another car just beyond the bend. He grabbed his camera and used it to focus. The vehicle was a shiny black Mercedes sedan. It was empty. Seems the Fullerton tale attracts the curious from all economic brackets, he thought to himself. At least it isn’t a line of empty pick-ups with gun racks.

Just beyond the post was the overgrown and grassy path he had been instructed to follow. Dead leaves were lazily lifted from the cold ground by the swishing breeze—the woods a single and elaborately connected living organism, alive and moving. This breeze picked up. Darkening clouds overhead. Some type of precipitation, either cold rain or wet snow, would soon be falling. As Mark crunched along, his thoughts turned to the Fullerton crime. Edith Fullerton had lived back in the woods with her husband Daniel and their three children, Sophia, Rachel, and Dan Junior. They were reserved and private and polite. Quiet and hardworking. Edith was the meekest of all, until the heatwave end of a particularly hot summertime when she started drawing attention to herself with erratic and increasingly disturbed public behavior. She was never known to be particularly religious before this point and her rather sudden talk of all things Biblical caused alarm, especially among the pious and devout. The citizens of Tumble Lake were accustomed to seeing her come into town, a model of gratitude and composure, but by the end of that summertime she could be seen shambling down the street with her unkempt children in tow, giving out unsolicited warnings that there were invisible and diabolical forces at work in the world and all must be spiritually vigilant. There are demons in the woods, she proclaimed in the hardware store, but if we all work together we can pray them away. Very strange talk. Her children were noticeably affected by the unraveling of their mother and their sad, silent gazes seemed to beg all whom they passed for help and liberation but no one came to their aid, and this failure to intervene, long after the horrific events that followed, remained the source of much quiet shame in the community. Everyone stoically wished her husband the best of luck in straightening the matter out but unfortunately, the man was disastrously unfit for the task. Edith Fullerton was left to carousel and careen unhindered into her disorder until that infamous October afternoon when she finally snapped. Two local children had bundled up and taken their bicycles over to play with Sophia, Rachel, and Dan Junior but during their stay Edith picked up her husband’s hatchet—easier for her to wield than the axe and freshly sharpened—without warning or provocation and went on the attack. While it is impossible to know exactly what was running through her head at the time it is very likely, according to journals she left behind, that she was trying to save their souls from evil forces she detected in the forest. Death by demonic forces would cast their souls to hell. Death by her righteous hand would deliver them to heaven. This was her homicidal calculation. Her religious conviction. Three of the children had been mortally wounded inside the house while the other two, attempting to flee, were hunted down out in the trees while a dreary light rain fell. All the victims, once dead, had been dragged into the dining area and dismembered. There is nothing in her journals to justify this unnecessary carnage, so some have theorized the demonic forces she feared so much had, in spite of her energetic resistance, gained the upper hand in the end. Blood coated the table, puddled the floorboards, and speckled the walls by the time she was finished with her methodical carving and chopping. Her unsuspecting husband was returning from fishing when he walked in on the ghastly scene. Evidence suggests Edith quickly overpowered him. His crude dismantling took place on the kitchen floor. As evening came on, turning the grey day darker, she started a blaze in the fire pit out back to burn the soggy red clothes of her victims. While the fire was crackling away and owls hooted in the pines she worked her way around the house with a ladder, driving nails and threading twine, fastening the bloody limbs of the children along the edge of the roof. Then she fixed all six of the severed heads along the porch rail and went inside to put on a pot of coffee and pray. Sometime in the early evening she slit her own throat with a carving knife and perished loudly with horrific red gurglings.

Can I be of any assistance?

The young man jumped back and dropped his camera. Someone in a black wool overcoat had suddenly emerged from behind a tree. He was tall, composed, and well dressed. Definitely not a local.

Sorry, sir, I must’ve frightened you. My apologies. An amused grin played with the corners of his mouth. This is an easy place to get a little nervous, I suppose. I used to get jumpy coming to places like this but not anymore. Guess a man can get used to anything.

The young man realized he had dropped his camera in the leaves and clumsily crouched to pick it up. I guess so. My name is Mark . . .

The man just stood there, observing.

"As a matter of fact, I was just thinking about what happened out here and, well . . . yeah, it is an easy place to get nervous. If you know the story of Edith Fullerton. Otherwise? It’s just a scenic stretch of woods, right?"

The man grinned and shrugged his big shoulders.

I guess that’s your Mercedes back there on the road.

Not mine. It belongs to the gentleman I work for.

Ah, I see . . . beautiful car . . .

The man in black let his grin widen to a smile of perfect white teeth. Such obvious bridgework was a little upsetting on a man who was clearly no older than thirty-five.

So, am I heading in the right direction?

You sure are. The Fullerton house used to stand right at the end of this kinda-sorta path. You know there’s nothing left of the house, right? They burned it to the ground.

Oh, I know.

My boss is back there looking at what’s left of it.

The young man recognized he had an important decision to make—stay or go. He began devising an excuse, some new urgent necessity, which would carry him back to his car. His impulse was to flee. This man is a criminal, he kept thinking, this man is dangerous and I do not like the way he looks at me as if I were his fucking dinner.

You should walk down there and introduce yourself. Have you ever heard of Mr. Gerald Finley?

Sounds kinda familiar, I don’t know.

The man in black finally took his hands out of his pockets, withdrawing and unhinging a silver cigarette case. Would you like a Dunhill?

Definitely not a local. No, no thanks, I don’t smoke . . .

Ah, well, maybe you should. It calms the nerves and you seem like the nervous type or, at least you seem nervous right now. He popped a cigarette on his lower lip, put the case back in his pocket, and took out a lighter. I hope it isn’t me. I don’t mean to make you nervous. There are other things to be concerned with around Tumble Lake. Even my boss was apprehensive about this place and frightening him isn’t the easiest thing to do. Crazy folks. Angry folks. That’s why I’m here. Some disgruntled hayseed comes wandering along to defend the honor of Tumble Lake? They will have the misfortune of dealing with me.

He turned his face, cupped his hands, and lit his fancy cigarette. As soon as he exhaled the first puff a particularly violent wind came tearing through the trees and frenzied the fallen leaves. He raised his voice to be heard over the new rushing.

"So don’t worry. I’m here protecting my boss, which means I’m also