Whispers in the Dark: Tales of Terror

By Billy Van

Hush…don’t make a sound…not the slightest peep…hold your breath…the dark can be a dangerous place. If you listen closely, you can hear the whispers. They say, “Once you pick up this book you’ll never want to put it down. Billy Van has given birth to a modern masterpiece of terror…a compendium…a trove. He challenges every fear known to man and writing it was not easy. Ghosts, ghouls, vampires, werewolves, sycophants, serial killers, demonic entities…the list goes on and on.” Prepare yourself…just don’t read these macabre and grotesque tales in the dark. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781312672673

Billy Van

Billy Van is an accomplished author and content creator, born on December 11, 1975, in Eldorado, IL. He is best known for his thrilling works of fiction, including “The Willies” and “Whispers in the Dark”. Aside from his successful career as a writer, Billy is a devoted father to his two children and is in a happy and fulfilling relationship. Despite facing adversity, Billy has overcome obstacles and continues to pursue his passions. In August of 2021, he was involved in a near-fatal car crash. However, through his determination and resilience, he made a full recovery and has continued to produce compelling content for his YouTube channel. Billy Van is an inspiring individual who has shown that with hard work and perseverance, one can achieve their goals, no matter the challenges they may face along the way.

Book preview

Billy Van

Whispers in the Dark

First published by artisanPruett 2023

Copyright © 2023 by Billy Van

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

First edition

ISBN: 9781312672673

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

Find out more at reedsy.com

For Brittany Marie

Contents

Note to Reader:

Acknowledgments

Foreword

Where the Sun Never Shines

To Muddle Through

A Caveat

Oh, Donna

Delicate Whispers

Butterflies

Anthology of Terror Lane

Ghost of Mourning

Pictures are Worth a Thousand Words

Rest Stop

Celia

Blink

All that Remains

Till Death Brings Closure

The Withering

What Must Be

Safe Haven Way

Mrs. Jones

The Summoning

Drip, Drip

The Alpha

Out of Body

The Happening

I Love You, Mommy

Snow Angel

The House O’er Yonder

Surveillance Specter

Beneath Dark Clouds

Sally Trapped Beneath

Graveyard Shift

The Phantom Morgue

The Window

Sealing the Gap

Prologue to an Unfinished Novel

My Own True Horror Story

Inside the Mural

Teatime with Mary Thatcher

Unearthed

The Grotesque—A Freewrite

Solace

The Turning Point

Come Find Me

Beast of Burden

It All Comes Back to Where We Met

Boneyard

Kachina

Lake of the Dead

Robots

The Last Song

The Tombstone Incident

The Disease

The Howling Ghost

Crazy Things Can Happen Anywhere

Sweet Tragedy

The Drowned Girl

My Father’s Hands

The Final Submission

W——m’s Journal

The Old Slave House

An Eye for an Eye

The Marsh Recurrence

In the Rear View

Lucifer’s Talk Radio

In the Course of Misperception

The Heirloom

On Top of Tropple-Dop

A Closet Full of Werewolves

Ode to Bobby Vaughn

The Bellow of Kimberly Clark

Boo Newman

Departed

Ripple

Never Mind Reluctance

Romeo Killed Juliet

In Mid-Origin of Color

The Jumping Frenchman

Municipal Jester

Façade

Fear in the Heart of Man (An Essay)

Ghosts of Camber Hill

The Devil’s Bond

Mathis Lane

Dog Daze

The Harbinger

Chester

The Black Dog

Devil’s Déjà vu

The Missing Door

Cry Wolf

The Haunted Stairwell

The Phone Incident

The Three Deaths of Jeff Bassett

Dark Side of the Moon

Sloppy Joe

Sundown

Twilight Zone

Z

Monster

About the Author

Also by Billy Van

Note to Reader:

Dear Reader,

I wanted to take a moment to address the use of lyrics in my stories. In Oh, Donna, I borrowed lyrics from the song Donna by Ritchie Valens, in Ripple, I borrowed lyrics from Black Muddy River by the Grateful Dead, and in Romeo Killed Juliet, I used lyrics from I’d Die For You by Bon Jovi.

I want to assure you that my intention was never to plagiarize or show any disrespect towards these artists or their work. Instead, I found inspiration in their words and used them to enhance the emotional depth and impact of my own stories.

As writers, we often draw from the works of others to create something new and meaningful. I believe that the use of these lyrics adds another layer of richness to my stories, and I hope that you will agree.

Thank you for taking the time to read my work, and I hope that you enjoy the stories as much as I enjoyed writing them.

Sincerely, BV

Acknowledgments

I was told to keep this short. My response was: Then, how do I acknowledge those dearest to me and, then, mention the participants of my book? I was simply told to figure it out. Therefore, I want to give a huge shout-out to everyone that has entered my life and left a permanent mark. If you don’t know who you are then this doesn’t concern you.

Family and friends: my mom and dad (Anita and Arval Van, Sr.), my kids (Brittany Marie and Braiden Matthew Van), and my dearest friend (Brandy Humm). I love you all.

The Staff: Scott Clements (Editor-in-Chief), Adonis (foreword), Vivid Underground (cover art), Wicked Lester (cover design), and Stephanie Harris (formatting and typeset). Without you, this book would be nothing more than an unpublished manuscript.

I thank you all from the bottom of my heart.

Foreword

Third grade. It was the fourth quarter. A note on Billy Van’s report card read: Billy lacks discipline in class. He doesn’t take his lessons seriously. He refuses to do his assignments and only wants to participate in writing projects. This alone says a lot about the tour de force that is Billy Van.

He was conceived in a cemetery and his godmother was a gypsy. Now forty-one years young he appears no older than twenty-something. He boasts by saying: It’s either a gypsy’s curse or a pact I made with the devil. His dark, mysterious aura follows him wherever he goes.

Billy has been writing since the third grade. However, he takes pride in accomplishing much more. He’s a nurturer, a father, a tarantula enthusiast, a musician, a poet, not to mention a hopeless romantic. He was even once referred to as a rock star poet by Editor-in-Chief Blake Newman at Phantasm magazine—an online journal.

Self-proclaimed as being the master of the grotesque his many admirers, most of which are female, couldn’t agree more.

He was born with a teratoma, had scarlet fever as a child, as well as pneumonia, and at four years of age he was placed inside an oxygen tent. The only memory he has of that experience is the dingy wallpaper that depicted a pattern of little brown teddy bears holding balloons.

He writes with a very prolific style that only a handful of people might adapt to. He lives and breathes his art. His narratives are strong and very believable. In my honest opinion, he has mastered the art of fiction. This collection of stories demonstrates, embedded within the horror, his life experiences. Whispers in the Dark will leave you breathless.

Billy Van takes fiction and real life possibilities and mashes them together to create stories that will leave you asking the question: Could that really happen? He has truly mastered the art of the cliffhanger.

Don’t breeze through these stories. Take your time with each and every one. A single factor missed or misinterpreted will only leave you confused about the outcome. Enjoy them all as I did.

—Adonis

Where the Sun Never Shines

Everyone is the age of their heart.

—Guatemalan Proverb

—1968—

Basket, IL

Timmy took his friends, Walt and Roland, into the woods. They trampled through briar and prickly bush. You ready to climb? Timmy asked as they came to a sudden stop.

Let’s do it! Roland was eager to see for himself. And so was Walt. The anticipation on their faces spoke louder than words.

They made it to the top of Pikes Hill, barren of trees, and Timmy showed them. He showed both of them that he wasn’t lying. Smack-dab in the center of the hilltop was a shadowy blotch. There wasn’t a thing in the sky that could have been held responsible. I told you! Told both of you…a place where the sun never shines. Now, do you believe me? said Timmy excitedly. But it was as if seeing wasn’t believing.

There has to be a logical explanation, chimed in Walt.

Yeah, there’s just gotta! seconded Roland.

Look around! What’s your explanation, Walt?

I dunno, Timmy. But shadows don’t appear out of nowhere! Validity was accumulating from both ends.

You’re right. They don’t. Timmy looked around and still saw nothing. But this one sure does.

Walt and Roland looked around, as well. The sun’s beam met the earth without an object in between. They did agree on one thing, however. It was strange.

They all decided to head home with mutual consent. It was getting close to sundown. Therefore, they headed back into the woods—homeward bound. Let’s come back tomorrow and see if it’s still there, suggested Roland.

Yeah, then, we’ll know, seconded Walt.

Timmy didn’t say a word. However, he wore a shit-eatin’ grin. He knew they believed. They were just too bullheaded to admit it.

Outside the woods, they said their byes and see-you-tomorrows as they parted ways. Timmy was in too big of a hurry to get home. He just took off running and never looked back.

As soon as Timmy walked through the front door, his dad stood waiting. Timmy, where have you been? Timmy didn’t answer right away. He knew that if he told the truth his dad would have tanned his hide for sure. Underhandedness was his best defense, without a doubt.

Me and Roland was over at Walt’s playing Atari, was all.

Now why do I find that hard to believe? said Timmy’s dad as he crossed his arms and tapped his foot. The very same foot he tapped when punishment was in debate.

Timmy hesitated again. He knew that if he told his dad to call Walt’s house he’d get a different answer. Therefore, Timmy did something very devious. He turned the Q&A knob. So, why don’t you believe me? This way his dad could explain to him why he didn’t believe him instead of further humiliating himself with lie on top of lie.

Just go get ready. Supper will be ready in a few. It worked! At least it would have. While Timmy was in the bathroom washing up for supper the phone rang. This alarmed him so he quickly got dressed and went to peek around the corner. From what he gathered it was Walt’s mom on the other end. Busted!!! But that wasn’t the worst of it. Apparently, Walt had never returned home and she was calling to see if he was with Timmy, which wasn’t good either way.

After Timmy’s dad hung up the phone, it rang again. This time it was Roland’s mom asking if Roland was there—a similar instance. By now, Timmy was worried. They all agreed that it was time to head home. And they did so at the same time. Walt and Roland live closer to the woods than me, Timmy rationalized. Where could they have gone? But there was no logic in sight.

Timmy fidgeted, nearly tumbling down the stairs, at the sound of his dad’s gruff voice calling his name. Detention is served, said Timmy as he languidly trotted down the steps like a man condemned to death walking that green mile. To Timmy, any punishment given by his dad was worse than death.

—1998—

Wingate, KY

Timmy, now 43, looked out his dining room bay window at the storm clouds that formed in abundance. It had been thirty years since the last day he’d seen his childhood friends Walt and Roland. He never stopped thinking about them.

What gripped him more than anything was to read a news headline or hear a news brief dubbing them as the vanishing kids of Basket. After a ten-year search, the parents declared them dead. And if not, where could they be? That single thought had never left Timmy’s mind.

However, on this particular day, Timmy had an epiphany. An awkward declaration for a man of his age to manufacture but Timmy still stood believing what he had encountered when he was thirteen: a place where the sun didn’t shine. And that’s just where he was planning on spending his week’s vacation.

His wife, Mary Etta, wouldn’t stand for it. She took pride in rescuing him from that one-horse town. Plus, Timmy’s parents loathed her for keeping their only son away. And if that wasn’t enough she had something else to hold over his head: the distance. They were well over a hundred miles away and the tires on the Jimmy were in dire need of replacement. But Timmy was smart and at wit’s end with her anyhow. He had a clandestine savings account and brought it to her attention that her coming along would only distract him. She assured him that when he made it back she wouldn’t be there. His response to that was simple:—I’ll be back just long enough to grab my shit. Au contraire, mon frère. And just like that, he was gone.

Timmy was blazing down I-9 heading back home. It’s been a solid fifteen years since his last homecoming. Albeit he had kept in touch with his parents over the years through the internet and snail mail, this is something he had yearned to do. But he wasn’t doing it just to see his parents. He had another reunion in mind. And he knew in his heart that Walt and Roland would be waiting with open arms.

It was midnight by the time Timmy pulled into Basket. He had a fourth-a-tank of gas and figured he could refill come morning. He used that fourth-a-tank to drive around—take a short trip down memory lane, so to speak. He drove by Walt’s old house and found it condemned. However, his mind restored it back to thirty years.

He came to a stop, geared it to park, and got out. He slowly looked around, and before long found himself confronted by the dilapidated façade. He went back to Jimmy, pulled out a flashlight, and entered the house. He coursed his way through evading rotten wood and rusty nails. In reality, the house was a hazardous eyesore, but in his mind, it hadn’t changed a second.

He entered Walt’s old room where they used to play Atari and ninja fight. Walt was always Bruce Lee. A tear trickled down Timmy’s cheek. And he stood just long enough to watch as he kicked Walt’s butt just before he broke down and decided to leave.

He drove down Roland’s old street but his house didn’t exist anymore. The lot was barren. Taking this into consideration he drove out to the woods. He got out of the Jimmy and stood before the wooded aperture. From what he saw with his flashlight nothing had changed—absolutely nothing. A well-preserved woodland is all it was. And so he shined the light around as he called out their names, Walt! Roland! You guys out there?

The only reply was from the old hoot howl, Who? Who?

I said Walt and Roland, dammit! About that time a car with glaring headlights pulled in behind him followed by a siren chirp and a flash of red and blue. Oh, fuck! I’ve not been in town an hour yet, said Timmy as he turned around.

The cop got out and slowly approached Timmy with a flashlight beamed in his face. Timmy held his hand up to protect his eyes. Oh, damn! Timmy Marshall! Is that you, you old dog? said the cop.

Timmy squinted through his fingers to see more precisely. Wayne?

Yeah, it’s me. What brings you back? It’s been goin’ on thirty years, man. We were kids.

No, I was down about fifteen years ago or so.

Wayne nodded his head. Yeah, I was in college up north about that time. We musta missed each other.

Timmy wanted to end this conversation quickly. Well, I’d like to stay and reminisce but I really gotta be headin’ back to Mom and Dad’s.

All right. Well, it’s been good seein’ ya. We need to catch up sometime. Wayne headed back to his car. Tell that old man of yours I said to watch his back. There’s a new Sheriff in town. Wayne laughed just before he got back in his cruiser and pulled away.

Timmy turned back to the woods and said, Tomorrow, when the sun is shining bright, then got back in his Jimmy and pulled away.

The next morning, Timmy was already in the kitchen preparing breakfast for his parents. His dad entered as he gave Timmy a bear hug and said, Good morning. He could tell that something was weighing his son down.

Hey, Dad…

What’s botherin’ ya, son?

Whatever happened to Roland’s house? I drove by there last night and it was gone. Just an empty lot.

Well, after the boys were declared dead old Claire lost it. Admitting that her son wasn’t ever gonna return home…it pushed her over the edge. She got behind on her payments and the bank foreclosed it. A few years back, after realizing that the house was just gonna sit there and depreciate anyhow, they brought in the demolition crew and…

And that was such a beautiful house.

The only Victorian one around here.

Timmy looked out the window and saw how robust the sun was. He served his dad and said, Tell Mom breakfast is ready. I gotta run somewhere. Be back later today. Without a second’s response he had done ran out the door and pulled out of the driveway.

That boy’s on a mission, said his dad as he took a sip of coffee.

Timmy entered the wooded aperture and trampled through briar and prickly bush. The mental casts of Walt and Roland in their youths were at his side. And before long, he was on his way up Pikes Hill.

He made it to the top. Two mighty oak trees stood tall. And just as he had imagined there it was:—the shadowy blotch. Timmy stood over it with Walt and Roland still at his side. Timmy smiled and said, I told you…a place where the sun never shines.

Walt spoke up and said, There has to be a logical explanation!

Roland sided with Walt by saying, Yeah, there’s just gotta!

Timmy didn’t say a word; however, a huge smiled stretched across his face. He knew they believed. They were just too bullheaded to admit it.

To Muddle Through

I looked everywhere—no sign of Jenny. I went to the park, which is the place we met. I even went to the cemetery where she goes in search of solitude; and still…nothing. I really think she’s gone this time. But it’s not her. She’s a fragile thing that deserves much better than me. Hell, I couldn’t say I blame her even if she did leave for good this time. I’m the one that keeps screwing up: one-night stands with strange women, late nights at the bar. I’m a loss cause. When you love something you learn to let go. But love takes on so many forms.

It all started to change about a week ago. Everything was going perfectly. We went for a long walk down Broadway, then out to eat, and, then, we came home and made love for hours until our bodies were sore. And, then, the next day came.

I am confronted by her with all of my guilt.

The cheating began and so did…

I recall an episode that occurred about three days ago. I couldn’t sleep without her so I went to the bar down the street. I was highly inflicted by self-loathing; I didn’t give a shit about anything or anyone. That is when I was approached by a beauty I swore was a succubus. She poisoned me with lips of luster and I just sat back and succumbed to her. The next thing you know we were in the bathroom stall and I was fucking her like an animal.

At the time I couldn’t tell if she was screaming for pleasure or in pain. I just took for granted that she was enjoying it. But, then, the screaming ceased. Not only did the screaming cease but so did her body. I backed away from her as she dropped like an anchor cracking her head on the commode before she hit the ground. It is, then, I had realized what happened. The blood from the side of her face was smeared upon the wall she lay against. In the heat of the moment, not considering her comfort, I must have rammed her so hard she cracked her head and broke her neck. But, then, a sick sense of anti-remorse entered my body. I looked down at her, putting my dick away, and said with a menacing grin, I guess I really fucked your brains out, whore, and calmly exited the bathroom. That was strike one.

I awoke the next day with Jenny standing over me. She looked at me with sad hollow eyes. I knew she knew. I asked her, You back for a second or a day? She didn’t answer. We locked eyes for a brief moment and she just turned and walked away. I thought to myself, guess that answered my question.

That night, the creature stirred again. I remember thinking, what has happened to me? My only conclusion was this: when you love someone for as long as I have and, then, one day comes they decide to up and leave…well, after all, the mind is a fragile device. I knew Jenny wasn’t coming back. Trust me; I knew. This was just my way of muddling through it. And, then, came strike two.

I took a walk down Broadway. The street is scenic at first but the further you travel the scenery changes. Good becomes evil. And that’s just the path I was on—the path to evil.

As Broadway fades to Shaitown you’re instantly greeted by the dope fiends and crack whores. And I headed straight for my selection. Her name was Bambi.

We checked in to some seedy motel—room 13. How fitting. I was even more pleased to know that the desk clerk had given us a single cottage room. That way no one would hear her scream…and boy did she ever.

I awoke the next morning, snug in my bed, with dry blood on my hands. Jenny sat at my side crying. Her back was turned against me but I heard the whimpering. I put my hand on her shoulder and told her I was sorry. Sorry is such a small word. She stood up and slowly walked out the door. See you tomorrow morning, I said as I turned over and closed my eyes.

That night, I was all charged up. Fucking and killing just wasn’t doing it for me anymore. In the middle of Shaitown, there’s a clandestine brothel. I knew just what I had to do, or at least what the voices were telling me to do. And this was strike three.

I went to my gun cabinet, grabbed my shotgun and some shells, and took off out the door. With my trench coat flapping in the wind I felt like some cliché, comic book, dark avenger.

I entered the whorehouse and just started shooting bitches. Fuck ’em, I thought. They were all doomed to die of disease anyway. I was only doing them a favor.

The house of whores quickly became a house of horror and I was the tour guide. I redecorated the place with the viscera of their already dilapidated bodies. But as I began to run low on shells I heard the wailing of sirens approaching. Quickly, I made my exit.

I ran through the park screaming out Jenny’s name. The walls were quickly closing in on me and I just needed to see her one more time—to tell her that the time had come for me to let her go. But she was not there. I hurdled a ditch, coming up short, and fell into the down trough. I lay in the muck thinking it was all over but, then, I heard her scream my name. The cemetery! It sounded like it came from the cemetery.

I entered the cemetery, still calling out her name, but she would not answer. And I found out why. I stood before her tombstone—cold and gray. Her date of death had read three days ago. I stood there crying when I heard a man’s voice say my name. Slowly, I turned. It was the sheriff and his men. They hunted me down like a pack of feral dogs. She’s dead. You killed her, said the sheriff in a voice as lucid as could be. And that’s when perception became a certainty. The last night Jenny and I made love…I took her life.

A Caveat

Loneliness: impinged on someone who has never experienced devotion can still be quite dreadful. However, when applied to a man that has loved the same woman, tethered by the sacred ties of holy matrimony, for twenty years, loneliness is much more a threat to one’s self rather than a means of self-pity.

Amid the eighteenth-century loneliness was believed to take the form of a ghost, generally by sailors and vagrants—that someone who lost or left behind a loved one rendering them alone would be haunted—not by their loved one but by the ghost of loneliness. It was the ghost that chose their eternal fates, which usually resulted in suicide.

This is the story of a man who goes through the melancholy phases of loneliness—living each day a little at a time.

The psychiatrist sat coolly on the edge of his desk. His voice was congruent with his demeanor. So, Charles, start from the beginning. This time includes as much detail as you possibly can. I know talking about it is hard but it’s the best way to clear your conscience.

Charles closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His jaw quivered. Wasting little time, he began, "It was the icing on the cake. It turned out to be the tip of the iceberg and she was the Titanic.

"It was our anniversary. I surprised Linda with a new wedding ring set. I had the jeweler engrave a special inscription on the inside of Linda’s ring. Life is short, love is longer. The writing was hardly visible but the sentiment was very evident. I didn’t stop there. I prepared a candlelight dinner as well—Calamari Veneto served with Monfortino.

After we ate and consumed a pleasurable amount of wine we nestled by the fireplace. I was ready to call it a night but Linda…she had other plans. ‘You know what would be great?’ she asked. ‘You know what would be magnificent?’ I looked at her, curious about her intent. She looked at me as if she waited for me to read her mind. If you knew Linda you’d know that she was a very spontaneous person. I hadn’t a clue what was going on in that mind of hers. I wish I hadn’t found out.

And this is what led to the late-night drive, correct?

Yeah. She wanted to revisit a road we used to… Well, you know.

Gotcha! Continue.

"I told Linda that I had consumed an intoxicating amount of wine but she was like, ‘Come on. What happened to your sense of adventure, old man?’ She was the stubbornness damn woman I’ve ever known. Stubborn, I tell ya! But like always, she got her way.

It was a beautiful night. The moon, the stars, everything…just beautiful…including Linda. Charles’s eyes filled with tears. This was the hardest part.

Take your time. You have thirty minutes left. That’s plenty of time. Don’t rush through it. Be true to your emotions and just take it slow.

"Well, there’s not much left to say. Between growing tired and being slightly intoxicated, to begin with, my eyes started feeling heavy and watery causing everything to blur. The road was covered with patches of black ice to start with. I swerved to miss a deer I wasn’t able to see until it was too late and hit a patch of ice. I must have hit that tree skidding at least forty miles per hour. Most of the impact was on Linda’s side.

I did everything I knew to do aside from panic. I thought she was dead. I was certain she was dead. Maybe I called too late but by the time the paramedics arrived Linda was turning a pale blue. I was relieved to find out she was still alive and that the discoloration was due to the cold. She was just cold is all.

So how is she doing? Any changes?

Not a single twitch. Tomorrow will be a full year. What a way to remember your anniversary, huh?

How about the drinkin’? Have you tapered any?

If I was to say yes would you believe me?

"Alcohol is a depressant, not to mention very dangerous in the amounts that you consume. As your psychiatrist, I feel that something has to be done. You can’t go on this way.

I’m going to write you two prescriptions. One is an alcohol suppressant while the other is an antidepressant. I encourage you strongly to take both, the psychiatrist said as he wrote out the prescriptions.

Charles took them and read them aloud, Thalicaine! Oraxalone! Doc, is this stuff gonna make me loopy?

No, you’ll be fine. Thalicaine has been proven to be very effective. It was originally manufactured as an anti-seizure medication but, in lieu of testing, it is now marketed for a variety of uses. I went with that particular treatment because many other alcohol suppressants block the receptors in your brain that respond to narcotics as well. You’ll be taking the antidepressant so your brain will need to respond to the release of serotonin.

So, then, the antidepressant will make me loopy?

Not loopy, Charles. Relaxed. It will help you to find your inner-peace. You’ll do fine with these medications.

Charles looked at his watch. Well, looks like I better be goin’.

Just be sure to make another appointment before you leave. And Charles, the psychiatrist gave a stern look, you will take those medications. He smiled. Have a pleasant week. I wish you well.

Charles sat in his car still in the parking lot. He gave the prescriptions a defiant gaze. Two seconds of contemplating are all it took. He wadded them up and tossed them into the back seat. All the medicine I need is sittin’ at home in my brewery cabinet, he said as he started the car and slowly drove away.

Charles drove around the hospital parking lot focusing on a particular row of cars. He kept a close eye on the time, as well. 8:00, 8:05, 8:08, 8:10, and, then, finally, 8:15—Post meridiem. A group of individuals came pouring out the electrical sliding door and to the cars. It was obvious they were family and friends of Linda. Charles had lost touch and avoided every call since the accident as a result of his blameworthiness. After they all pulled away, Charles headed for the door.

He diligently approached Linda at the bedside. Embracing her hand, he rubbed it softly. Sorry I’m late again, sweetie. At nine o’clock they’re gonna kick me out. I just feel like the missing link anymore around Janelle and Misty and them. In time, I’ll make it right. In time. Right now I’m still trying to pull myself together. I’m a mess without you, Linda. Charles started bawling. A gosh darn mess. Please wake up. Wake up! I need you! Charles started to shake Linda disrupting her oxygen and IV treatment.

A nurse ran in and intervened. She yelled at another nurse, Get the doctor! Stat!

This would only add to Charles condemning himself for the nature of Linda’s condition. All he could do is leave the room. And he kept going until he found himself sitting in his car, once more. Oh, God. What have I done? His eyes were welted from all the crying. His cheeks were fire engine red. Tears ran down them and trickled from his chin. He could only take so much with the will to give more. However, his will was lessening as time was slipping away.

He made it home safely as he jadedly collapsed onto the bed. His mind was exhausted from the many wars he had waging inside his head. Within seconds, he was sound asleep.

Reality—devoured by the pale—retrospect took its place. Like an old black and white film projected on the wall, an apparition of thought as real as it gets behind closed eyes, Charles relived that tragic night.

The paramedics rush Linda to the ER as Charles keeps pace wedged in between them. He has an abrasion on his forehead and a sore right side but refuses treatment. Linda is all that matters.

The vividness was, as always, so clear. The re-enactment…precise in every way. This is the film that replayed within Charles’s head over and over without a single alteration.

Now he stands in a room. Linda is lying on a hospital bed about ten feet away but he cannot get to her. No matter how hard he tries the distance between them remains the same. Dr. Emerson emerges from a dark mass and says, I’m sorry, but your wife is in a coma.

The word coma echoed continuously until Charles woke the next day—6:45 AM to be exact.

Charles sat at the bar as he quaffed a shot of bourbon. Give me another. Make it a double. The bartender did just that. Tom, let me ask you a question. Bartenders are advisers. They hear and see it all. And the drunker the sots get the more interesting the stories become. Have you ever been in love? Charles had a considerable slur to his speech.

I’ve only loved one woman, Charles. You know that. Marianne’s been gone ten years now. There’s not a day that goes by I don’t miss that woman.

Well, I gotta make it right! Charles slammed down his glass. Give me another. Put a little water in it this time.

What do you mean you gotta make it right? Tom asked as he prepared Charles’s drink.

I gotta make us square—me and Linda. It just ain’t right. She’s up there in that hospital a breathin’ corpse. I gotta do what’s right.

That’s silly talk, Charles. You’re just drunk is all.

I ain’t drunk! Charles exclaimed as he stood fully erect stumbling into another customer enjoying a beer.

Go home, Charles. Hold on, I’ll get you a ride. Tom went into the back pulling a cook away from his duties. By the time he had returned with the cook, Charles was gone.

Charles sped down the road—the very road that he and Linda had wrecked on a year earlier—his eyes locked tight on his target. He increased acceleration as the tree became more visible. Time and velocity were overcome by a sensation of slow motion. Suddenly, he was distracted by a glare. It was an illuminating blur that slowly came into focus. It was Linda. She stood near the tree with her arms extended and hands up as she said, It’s not your time. Stop, Charles! Charles slammed on his brakes and turned the wheel. The car did a 360 in the middle of the icy road as it came to a sudden stop. Charles looked around but his vision had dissipated. However, her soft voice lingered. It resonated, I’ll always love you. Charles took a deep breath as he looked down at the stereo. The time was exactly 8:31 PM. Charles turned the car around and was en route to visit Linda.

Charles rushed into the hospital and straight to Linda’s room. However, he was stopped at the door. Charles looked inside the room and saw a freshly made, unoccupied bed. He became anxious as he feared for the worst. Then, Dr. Emerson approached him. Charles, we have exciting news. Linda is in recovery. She came out of the coma.

Charles became excited. Where is she? Can I see her?

Yeah, but before you do there’s something else you should know. Walk with me and I’ll tell you everything. The two walked down the hall at a snail’s pace as Dr. Emerson continued to speak. Just before your wife came out of the coma…she died. A fretful look came over Charles’s face as Dr. Emerson rushed to explain. But it must have been an act of God because we were able to revive her. It was the sudden shock of being brought back that brought her out of the coma.

A curious expression came about Charles’s face. What time was it, Dr.? When, exactly?

Dr. Emerson looked inside a file folder that he carried. Um, let’s see. Time of death…8:30 PM. Recovered at…8:32 PM. It didn’t take us long, just a couple of shocks to the heart. Charles stopped walking. The expression on his face was now vacant. Charles, are you okay? Nurse, quickly, get a wheelchair. Charles sat down as Dr. Emerson pushed him down the hall.

Oh, Donna

I had a girl,

Donna was her name.

Since she left me

I’ve never been the same.

In 1957, the musical The Music Man celebrated its opening night in Mason City, Iowa. Over a trifling discrepancy, the lead thespian Billy Parker was fired. That same night he went to a nearby bar to catch his tears with a fifth of bourbon. It was there he met Donna, an aspiring actress who paid homage to his work. Two years later…

Clear Lake, Iowa – February 2, 1959

11:59 PM (four minutes before the American Pie fell from the sky)—Billy sat curled up in a dimly lit room listening to Ritchie Valens on the radio. He reached out aimlessly and cried profusely. He wore his heart on his sleeve for obvious reasons. Amidst the crying he slurred her name through salivated lips—Donna—a relevant name to be dying from within so slowly, tormented and torn apart. This only choked him up even more. Right about the point where Ritchie sings, I’m left all alone, Billy whaled out insufferably, Where did you go? Why have you gone? You abandoned me to wander and roam. He truly did love her so. And he showed it through tear-glistened sentiments as he muttered these words, Oh, Donna, where can you be? Well, darlin’, now that you’re gone I don’t know what I’ll do. All the time and all my love for you. But where are you now?

It was true, Billy did have a girl, and Donna was her name. But now she was gone—distant from sight and in search of the light.

Billy used all the strength he could muster to detach himself from the darkened corner and walked over to where Donna lay. He lifted her from off the floor, blood in the masses, and carried her out the door. You could hear her lifeless body wallop against the enforced lining as he dropped her into the bed of his old work truck.

Just then, a news brief came across the radio…

We interrupt this program for a special news bulletin. Three young singers who soared to the heights of show business on the current rock-and-roll craze were killed today in the crash of a life plane in the Iowa snow flurry. The singers were identified as Ritchie Valens (17), Buddy Holly (22), and J.P. Richardson has known professionally as ‘The Big Bopper’. The airplane that charted from the Dwyer Flying Service crashed near Mason City—ironically the setting for the prominent musical, ‘The Music Man’. The pilot Roger Peterson of Clear Lake, Iowa was also killed…

’Cause I love my girl

Donna, where can you be?

Where can you be?

*The song lyrics used