Tales from a Strange Man

By J. C. Farnsworth

About the Book
Tales from a strange man is a series of interwoven short stories that deal with the concepts of regret, the passage of time, family bonds, death incarnate, love lost, and the supernatural. But at the core of this work, there is yet more to be found. In its heart of hearts… good and evil collide.
The post-apocalyptic surviving gods personally select a wanderer through time, known as the Traveler, to help them defeat an ancient, malicious entity. The Traveler passes through time, space, and multiple universes to maintain balance and prevent the continued formation of the Next, an end-of-time universe that none should hope prevails.
Can the surviving gods conquer this ancient evil? Will the Traveler ever manage to break free? Follow the winding paths of good and evil through a broken space-time continuum in this suspenseful horror: Tales from a Strange Man.

About the Author
J. C. Farnsworth can be best described as a vivid dreamer with a simple lifestyle. Born in New Hampshire, USA, he spent nine years serving his country in the Vermont National Guard, alongside some of the best men and women he has yet to meet. He currently spends most of his waking hours raising chickens and drinking beer, when he’s not writing.
Farnsworth’s past dreams are so memorable, they feed into a great deal of his writing content, much like the present work of supernatural horror. Farnsworth pours his subconscious mind on paper to refine his craft in Tales from a Strange Man.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Mar 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9798885277051

Book preview

Talesfromastrangecoversheet.eps

The contents of this work, including, but not limited to, the accuracy of events, people, and places depicted; opinions expressed; permission to use previously published materials included; and any advice given or actions advocated are solely the responsibility of the author, who assumes all liability for said work and indemnifies the publisher against any claims stemming from publication of the work.

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

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © 2023 by J. C. Farnsworth

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted, downloaded, distributed, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, including photocopying and recording, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without permission in writing from the publisher.

Dorrance Publishing Co

585 Alpha Drive

Suite 103

Pittsburgh, PA 15238

Visit our website at www.dorrancebookstore.com

ISBN: 979-8-8852-7263-6

eISBN: 979-8-8852-7705-1

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Tales from a Strange Man 1

The Thing Between the Mirrors 7

Scorn of the Succubi 29

Hypothetical Voice 57

The Keeper by the Docks 61

Dead End 77

Motel Hell 111

Don’t Go into the Woods 141

The Roommate 155

Operation: Living Doorway 161

The Wolf’s Smile 199

Tales from a Strange Man

There are things that exist on the outskirts of the perception of man. These things are both ancient and unimaginable terrors that put their hands into the fate of the men and women of the waking world. These mostly shapeless things are so far beyond comprehension that, if seen by sentient life, they will hemorrhage the brain and destroy the mind. One such person affected was a young man by the name of Johnathon Maradin.

Johnathon was a man who had at once shown promise, having come from a good home, but during his college years; he had experimented too deeply with substance abuse and become a victim of his own habits, ultimately finding himself living on the streets. He would do whatever he could to support his habits: sometimes terrible things. It was on these dark streets, on the outskirts of the great city of Boston, that he had met a strange man. It had been a normal day for John: walking the streets and seeing what under-the-table work he could find, inhopes he would make enough money to reach his dealer’s attention and to get his next fix. It was on this, otherwise normal, day for John he came across the strange man. He was wearing a long dark jacket and was a very intelligent looking man. One who was both polite and very well spoken. These traits were always red flags for John, as these types of men were always undercover cops or some sort of salesman, but he felt himself strangely entranced by him. The man then offered easy money, if John would spare some time with him.

You look tired my friend the man said, who introduced himself as Dante Algher. I know a nice place where you can rest and get some honest work, with no strings attached. John felt that he knew better but also found he was compelled to hear the soft-spoken Dante through. What sort of work are we talking about? John asked. Dante gave the man a polite smile and gestured down a narrow alley between a few run-down looking buildings. At the end of the alley, the man led him to a small well-kept house. Dante opened the front door and they went inside. Instead of the usual rooms or entryway one might find in a house, there was wall-upon-wall bookshelves. Bookshelves were filled with (what appeared to be) very ancient books.

Towards the end of the very large room was a fireplace, which cast the room in a dim light. Around the fire were a few chairs, and Dante gestured for John to take a seat. Dante fingered through some of his collection and, after a pause, finally pulled out a ragged book and sat across from John. So…as I mentioned before, I have an easy way for you to make some honest money. Now you see, I fancy myself a skilled writer and most of these books you see before you are either written by me or some old friends of mine. All you have to do is listen to a few of these stories, and I will pay you handsomely for your time. John felt confused and thought it must have been some sort of prank.

So you plan to pay me for listening to your stories?. The fireplace seemed to flare up, revealing more of the large dimly lit room. On a pedestal next to Dante was a small pile of gold coins. Dante picked one up and tossed it to John, who was then in disbelief. Is this for real, this is really gold, isn’t it? The man chuckled slightly then responded. Alchemy is one of the many things detailed in this library…and also other things from darker places. The man again chuckled, and a shiver crawled down John’s spine.

I find there is a certain power obtained through the reading and the study of ancient books...I have found solutions to age and wealth and other things, with some of what I have discovered. The man clenched his fist, and then opened it to reveal another gold coin: seemingly out of thin air. John felt thoroughly terrified and thought it was probably time to go, but when he tried, he found himself paralyzed. It was as if, by accepting the gold coin tossed to him, he accepted some kind of demonic contract. Johnathon Maradin was trapped, as Dante opened his book and began to read.

It is strange, how something that is not even corporeal can inspire in us feelings of terror. Terror can be so powerful it cripples the body and devours the very mind itself. Picture this, if only for a second: you are standing facing a door. You have no knowledge of what is beyond that door, but one thing is certain: Behind it are the raspy, agonized breaths of something you cannot identify. Think of the way its presence unnerves you and makes you uncomfortable, as you try to picture what it could be. Feelings of dread seep in as this rattled breathing continues; you feel your blood go cold and sweat forms on your brow. Imagine you are in a hallway and the walls have closed in on you, and the only way you could move is through that door. Dizziness sets in as your thoughts become more clouded and, after a short time, you notice droplets of blood coming from what might be your eyes. You start to imagine what could possibly be making that terrible noise, Perhaps it has multiple heads, ashen flabby skin, and extra sets of arms that joint at the elbow. Perhaps it has a series of razor-sharp teeth that sit in a circle like some strange and alien creature, perhaps it is not like any of these descriptions, but something else entirely: from the otherworld seldom ever mentioned by mortal men. And suddenly, as it all began, it stops. It all stops, and you are free from the fear and the breathing. You stop sweating, your heart begins to slow from Its heightened pace, and the dread begins to disappear. You, once again, become comfortable and the walls move away from you. It is at this time the door in front of you is no longer there. You find it must have been none other than the living doorway, and now you must be in the next. As the dust settles, you then notice something very different than before, and you begin to realize the heavy breathing is now behind you. You feel the pressure from each breath hit your shoulders.

As the story finished, Dante closed the book with a loud snap. This awoke John from the trance the story had put him in. As it was read to him, John found himself feeling every word of it, as if he himself was facing that terrible door in that dreaded hallway. He had felt the sweat, the dizziness, and the dread. Why don’t I go get us some tea before I begin the next story? Don’t go anywhere while I’m gone. Dante chuckled, as he got up from his chair and walked out of the room. John tried to move around, but still found himself unable to. He tried to lift his arms up with all his might, and after a loud crack and a rushing sensation of pain in his arms, he stopped struggling. John looked around the room in a desperate attempt to find something, anything to help him. Among the mantle of the fireplace, he saw a pearl mirror with silver swirling designs. Nothing helpful in the least: just a series of strange and seemingly unrelated things, like some collection of knickknacks. After a while of searching, John gave up trying to find something to rescue him.

What little John could do, was wriggle himself around a bit and move his head ever so slightly. He glanced down on his lap to find the gold coin he had caught earlier. As John stared at the coin, he noticed a red drop on it, followed by another droplet. He lowered his head further to find  it was coming from his face: from the skewed reflection of the gold coin, he could make out that the blood appeared to come from his eyes. It was at that moment, the most terrifying thing that could ever happen to Johnathon Maradin happened. At first it was just the noise: A heavy rattling that was almost like a metallic wheezing. Then came the pressure. Whatever the noise was, then became tangible as pressure began to hit John’s shoulders from behind. That terrible noise matched the strange breathing sounds he had just encountered from the story. Every hair on the back of John’s neck stood up and his blood curdled, as the nervousness and dizziness set in. John began to squirm and writhe with all of his waking might, and at once, there was a loud series of pops and shooting jolts of pain as bone pierced flesh. After the struggle, the coin fell out of John’s lap and the spell was broken as he fell to the floor, with blood dripping from protruding white flesh in his arms and legs. His body was once again his, but his bones were now broken and the most he could do was try to drag himself across the floor to the door, where he entered (what felt like) a lifetime ago.

 Over the sounds of his body dragging across the floor, John could no longer hear the rattling. As he got closer to the door, his desperation grew and when he was almost to the door, he felt a hard object hit his back then land on the ground with a thud. John grabbed it and found it to be the book Dante had been reading. This turned his manic episode into a frenzy as he flung himself at the door, trying to use his broken body in any way he could, to open it. His hands wouldn’t close, and his arms clumsily flopped around as he threw them with his shoulders. Among his appendages, bones stuck out in the open air. After trying the door for a while: it opened and he crawled into the streets, doing his best to make it back the way he came. Close to the end of the alleyway, John looked up to find another stranger different from Dante. This man wore a black jacket, white shirt, and black tie. He crouched down to meet John. This new man looked down to him, then up towards where John had come from, and as quickly as he had appeared: the man walked off down the alleyway and towards the study. Shortly after, Johnathon Maradin blacked out.

Local police found John in the streets with a long trail of blood leading to a dark and strange alleyway. Investigation of the blood trail led to an abandoned house with boarded up windows. Inspection of the interior revealed it to be empty, with no recent signs of habitation. After his recovery from the hospital, John was forever changed. He started imagining things men should never see, and speaking of things men should never speak of. He always seemed to have some sort of paranoia of something behind him or, possibly, following him. No one had ever heard of this Dante man he often spoke of, during his delirious ramblings. He had one thing he kept on his person at all times: A singular book, which had a very powerful smell of iron and something else that could only be described as alien (as if the smell had come from something both ancient and malicious). In his panicked state leaving that cursed library, he had never once let go of it.

The Thing Between the Mirrors

There is a thing that lives in the dark hallways of long forgotten places between mirrors, where greed and vanity prosper. It has lived for as long as man has walked long halls and gazed into their own reflection for, although it feeds on flesh, it is these traits that attract it.

Timothy Whiting was a man intoxicated by his own reflection. One day he found himself at an old vacation home he had inherited from his great uncle Benjamin, who had left him nothing else in his will, except for the deed of the house. The deed had a strange note written on the back of it: This house is exactly what you deserve Timmy. In life, he and his great uncle Benjamin had never really gotten along. This was why he was so confused by the gift he had received, having never done anything to deserve such a beautiful summer home. It was late January, when Timmy traveled down to the summer home in Louisiana. It was about an hour outside of Fort Polk and deep, deep in the swampy woods.

When Timmy came across the rural house, he was shocked by how enormous and surprisingly well-kept it was for its age. He guessed it must have been at least a hundred years old, if not more. The design was very intricate, with beautifully carved pillars on the deck leading into a large room with two giant staircases leading to the second floor. Among the rooms, he found long hallways and an ancient study filled with dusty books that gave off a strange and alien smell he could not identify. This was all too good to be true, he thought to himself. Surely Benjamin had made some sort of mistake, in giving this great home to him, but he would enjoy the benefits nonetheless. Timmy continued to wander the halls of this mansion of a home, and eventually he found himself in the backyard. There he found himself face to face with large stone cyclopean walls covered in some kind of local ivy. Placed among them was a series of exquisite pearl mirrors that glowed a bright reflection, every time he glanced into them.

Timmy made his way back to his car and began to grab his various things to bring into the house and get settled in. The remainder of the day was spent doing so and, around nine, he found himself very worn out. He wandered to the master bedroom, where he settled into bed for the night. That night, however, his dreams strayed very far from what he was used to. Instead of dreams of sandy beaches and beautiful women, he found himself dreaming heavily of his great uncle Benjamin, who was laughing at him like Timmy was the punchline in some sick joke. After a minute of his great uncle mocking him, Timmy felt angry and confronted him. Great uncle Benjamin then lifted a hand mirror up and showed Timmy something that rattled him to the core. In the old spirit’s hand, the mirror showed the very thing that could destroy the (once stable) sanity of Timothy Whiting. His face. His face was scarred and destroyed, far removed from the handsome and chiseled features that had so far him such an easy life.

This nightmare woke Timmy with a cold sweat and heavy breathing. It was still nighttime, but he could neither get comfortable nor settle back into bed. Instead, Timmy found himself pacing the long and perplexing hallways, and staring into the various mirrors that decorated the halls and the cyclopean stone wall gardens. Each of these mirrors was very intricate in design: they were fancily carved and depicted various twirls and swirls on the outskirts, and had a pearl finish that would surely fetch a great amount of money. Timmy wandered the halls until morning came, when he decided to go to the nearest town to grab a drink and maybe meet some people.

The drive to town was a little over an hour of travel, through swamp and heavily wooded thicket. Timmy made his way there and found the quickest drink possible: a hole-in-the-wall bar called The Thirsty Gator, which had a signature drink of the same name. Timmy watched as it was made in front of him. It consisted of a salt rim, gin, blue curaçao, a dash of club soda, and a green liquid of syrupy consistency. The green liquid layered on top of the blue curaçao and gave a fancy layered look. It was easy to see why the drink shared the same name as the bar. To taste it was a bit much for him, as he was a usual drinker of light beer, but after the second round, it seemed like the best drink he ever had. Across from the bar, Timmy noticed a couple of girls who had been looking at him in between whispers and giggles amongst themselves. They made their way over to him. Timmy ordered a few extra drinks for the girls, who gladly accepted. Timmy was a very handsome and charismatic man, and had always found the company of women easy to get by his charm and good looks.

Before long, they were both eating out of his hands and almost begging to come home with him. He spoke to them about the great riches he had just gotten, and how well-known he was back up north, where his usual stomping grounds were. At long last, he had them ready to go, but everything changed when he said the destination. When Timmy said he was the inheritor of the great Benjamin house, the women turned pale. They quickly made excuses and, as fast as they had come over for a drink, they disappeared. This puzzled Timmy, what was the big deal with the house? He enjoyed one last drink, before paying his tab and leaving the bar.

After his strange interaction with the two girls at the bar, word of Timmy must have spread very quickly as, no matter where he went, people shunned him. Everyone appeared to be doing all they could to politely avoid him. Some folks, however, felt a strange curiosity towards him. Once, an older woman walked up to him from the porch of her house, as he was going by, and started asking him questions. So you are the one who owns the Benjamin house? Timmy felt a surprise, after having felt avoided most of the day. Yeah, my great uncle Benjamin left it to me in his will The woman’s face became a sincere expression of worry. You poor boy, that house is cursed. That house has always been cursed, as long as that blasted man experimented with things that most folk here dare not talk about. This interaction left Timmy even more confused. What sort of experiments? The woman paused, then sat on the porch she had come from. She gestured for Timmy to join her in the shade, where he would not be standing in the sun as they spoke. She started to whisper. Strange things that were unnatural, young man. He would scare the other people here, with talk about some other world he felt he could reach. He said how things there don’t take to the sort of shapes you or I may take.

Timmy felt rattled by the words this kind old woman spoke, but deep inside him, he felt a powerful seed of curiosity take root and envelop his mind. Where did he do these experiments, do you know? The woman seemed to become paranoid as she spoke. Benjamin mostly kept to himself, but often spoke about ‘the thing between the mirrors, from the other world’, he said some of the old books in his study talked about it and, over time, he had gained some sort of a power over it. Timmy was in disbelief at what he was hearing. The curiosity he previously had, now turned into skepticism. Maybe this old woman was just trying to make a joke of Timmy like his great uncle Benjamin was, in his dream. Timmy got up and scoffed at the old lady, who must have been insulting his intelligence. He left her yard in a hurry, only turning back once: to see the still very concerned features she was wearing. The day was coming to a close. As the sun started to set, Timmy made his way to his car and started the hour-long drive home.

Timmy had no trouble falling asleep, because of how poorly he had slept the night before. Like before, his dreams were different from the usual. This time he found himself wandering the cyclopean labyrinth that had mirrors decorating the walls. As he walked around, Timmy could feel some sort of a presence around him. ut no matter where he looked, he could not find anything. Aimless wandering soon turned to running in a panic, as the presence became more pronounced to him and made strange noises and scratching sounds against the stone, which chilled Timmy the same way that nails against a chalk board did. The stone walls seemed to close in on him, as he found his way to a dead end. Resting at eye level, was a single mirror with the same fanciful designs as the rest. Timmy felt mesmerized. As he stared into the mirror, he walked closer and saw his reflection. He also saw something that inspired horror beyond all horrors in him. Something so terrible, most mortal minds of the waking world can scarcely comprehend it. Surely this must have been something from the cursed other world the lady had spoken of. In the reflection of the mirror, Timothy Whiting saw himself, but that is not what inspired such feelings of fear in him. What inspired such feelings of fear in him, was what was behind him in the reflection. It seemed to be a humanoid-shaped shadow, of a gas-like consistency, with glowing red orbs where eyes should have been and long dripping claws on (what should have been) hands. As the creature came closer, a thunderous noise could be heard from all around. This noise was, none other than, the demoniac laughing of Timmy’s great uncle Benjamin.

Timmy awoke with a startled scream and cold sweats he had never experienced before. His heart  was beating so fast and hard, he could feel it in all parts of his body. Another strange thing was he found traces of dried blood on his pillow, around where his eyes had rested, and traces of dried crust on his face. There would be no more sleep tonight. Timmy got out of bed and began to pace the long halls of the mansion, his brain now racked with curiosity of what sort of things were plaguing his dreams. Timmy found his way into the library, after a while of aimless wandering. The whole room was filled to the top with old, dusty, and smelly books that must have been ancient. Books had never really been an interest of Timmy’s. In fact, the only interest he had was women and attracting them, ever since he had hit puberty many years ago. This thought led to his earlier question: why his great uncle Benjamin had left him the house. He never really cared for Timmy and, if nothing else, probably hated him. Especially after what had happened a few years ago.

Great uncle Benjamin had a pet dog, who he cared about more than any person he had ever known. It was a German shepherd mix named Riley, that was getting up in its years. Riley was a very friendly dog and, for the most part, bridged the very deep gap between Benjamin and the rest of the world. If Riley could trust someone, then surely, they must be good enough company for Benjamin. It all started with a family reunion up in Vermont, which Benjamin had made the long trip to attend. Once a year, the family tried to gather from all different parts of the States. Benjamin would pay his respects to Timmy’s father, who was widowed. He had been married to Benjamin’s niece and was his only surviving blood relative.

 Sheila Whiting had passed away during childbirth. So as an adult, he had never felt the same feelings of loss all the other family members felt. This boiled Benjamin’s blood, as he was now only survived by this arrogant, selfish man-child. Riley was very keen on such emotions, and picked up on the uneasy feelings of his master. This led to him also disliking Timmy, and sometimes growling in his presence. As a result of the tension, Timmy reciprocated these feelings towards Benjamin and his mutt. This drove Timmy to need space from the family and that night, instead of staying with the family, Timmy left to meet some of his friends at the local bar. There he spent most of the night drinking, dancing, fighting, and hitting on girls. After several hours of this, he had too much to