Enantiodromia

By Mike X Welch

Featured Stories:

Turning of the Bones - A lost spirit in Madagascar seeks to guide his descendants to his body so he can finally be free.

The First and Last Drink of Ilona Odd - A recovering alcoholic waits at a tavern in order to pay off a hit man. But there are more spirits around than just those behind the bar.

You Might Get It - A drunk and grieving widower has his wish fulfilled when his recently deceased wife knocks on the front door.

Tuesdays with Moran'd'arth - Sandy Kavanaugh is a world-renowned horror author with millions of dollars and a loving family. So why is he so miserable? Is it the ageless demon in his barn?

Peta Babkama Luruba - A Babylonian slave recounts the events that led to her emancipation - over 4,000 years ago.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Duskbound Books
• Release date: Jan 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224002993

Mike X Welch

About the Author Michael James Welch, writing as Mike X Welch, was born and raised in Wilson, NY in 1970. After 25 whirlwind years west of the Mississippi, Welch moved back to his native Western NY in 2014. He lives with his wife, the novelist Aly Welch, and their twin 13 year old sons Dieter and Xander…and as many black cats as he can fit in the house. Welch's adult daughter, Alex, is currently giving blackjack players what-for out in Seattle, and refuses to move to NY despite numerous bribes, tearful begging, and outright threats of abduction from her father. Mike X Welch is a proud member of the leadership team of Duskbound Books. His short story 'Convict 45' was featured in the inaugural Writing Bloc anthology Escape! The original version of his short story 'You Might Get It' appears in Writing Bloc's second anthology, Deception! Additionally, the original version of the short story 'The First and Last Drink of Ilona Odd' appears in Abomination Media's inaugural anthology Hell Hour (2019). As of this hardcover printing, Welch is somehow still employed as an IT Tech for a day job. He is currently at work on Turning of the Bones and Other Stories to be published by Duskbound Books in July of 2024. Welch and Scottish artist Tom Rolland are at work bringing Turning of the Bones to life as a Graphic Novel. Welch continues to write, but not as much as his wife Aly Welch (www.alywelch.com) @mikexwelch on twitter, instagram & threads

Book preview

Enantiodromia:

The emergence of the unconscious opposite in the course of time. This characteristic phenomenon practically always occurs when an extreme, one-sided tendency dominates conscious life; in time an equally powerful counter position is built up which first inhibits the conscious performance and subsequently breaks through the conscious control.

Dr. Carl Jung – Psychological Types

FOREWORD

HI. MY NAME IS MICHAEL Welch, and I’m a writer.

Plenty of you know this already, and for that, I’m grateful. I made myself somewhat infamous in High School for writing stories, collecting them into folders, and then circulating them around the campus, soliciting feedback once the tale was read. I suppose I was ahead of the self-publishing curve even back in the late 80’s.

For those of you encountering me for the first time, thank you. I’m equally grateful that you’re willing to take a chance on a ‘new’ voice by buying this book, ENANTIODROMIA, from an extremely unknown author. I have three writing credits to my name; two of them from Writing Bloc anthologies (Escape! & Deception!), and one from an appearance in Abomination Media’s flagship anthology (Hell Hour).

Right off the bat, I’d like to warn everyone ENANTIODROMIA contains horror stories that include, but are not limited to, murder, sex, sexual assault, the death of a child, heavy drinking, and much, much more. None of these subject matters are taken lightly.

Enantiodromia, as a Jungian concept, can be boiled down to the following: if you insist on being too light, then there’s dark that’s eventually going to leak through. And vice versa, of course. One who adopts the attitude of strictly abstaining from all drugs, for example, has this nagging persona inside of them who wants to stick his face in a pile of coke and inhale deeply. And, further to that point, who will have that same persona eventually erupt from their subconscious and take control, however briefly. If you insist on seeing the world one way, then the opposite viewpoint festers deep in the back of your mind, biding its time...plotting. Since we’re all only human, it will come out at some point.

ENANTIODROMIA, as a collection of horror stories, functions as a bit of a personal litmus test. I wanted to challenge myself to do several things at once: finish something I’d started; find an editor with whom I was comfortable working, and then actually do what they told me to do; and to have something physical to hand to someone when I say things like ‘Hi, I’m Michael Welch, and I’m a writer.’ I feel strongly that I’ve accomplished all three of these goals.

I hope you’ll enjoy this collection. ENANTIODROMIA represents some of the best writing I’m capable of doing. And by having completed this collection, I already feel that I’m a far better writer for it. With that in mind, the best is yet to come...

Mike X Welch - 12/26/19

Turning of the Bones

The dying person cannot wait for the shroud to be woven – Malagasy proverb

IT IS SEPTEMBER OF 1947. The world war is over, but Madagascar is not free. The French have their heel on the throat of our freedom. I have left my wife and children – one boy, one girl – in my village of Anjiro and gone east to Antananarivo to fight. I carry only a spear in the earliest days of this resistance.

By October of 1947, I am northwest of Manjakandriana watching a young French soldier die. His drab, olive uniform is spotted with dark maroon dots, and his beret has fallen from his head. He is lying on the forest floor, his blood soaking into my country. In the canopy, the lemurs are screeching. The forest smells stale and vibrant all at once; the plants decaying on the ground feeding the life abounding everywhere. The sharp tang of the soldier’s panicked sweat cuts through the musk. I try to imagine how the boy feels about dying so far away from home, with no family to take care of his bones. I squat in a close thicket and watch him choke to death on his own blood. His eyes ask me for help, but I give none. Once he is still, I take his rifle.

A month later, I am fighting on the outskirts of Antananarivo. My comrades and I – about eight in number – have a group of French soldiers pinned in a small gulley, having ambushed them during their afternoon meal. Many of my fellows hurl rocks down upon them, ranging from head-sized boulders to pebbles, with varying success. I check the bolt of the carbine rifle, ensure a round is chambered, and then fire a bullet into the temple of a soldier. His eyes lock on mine and go wide a moment before I pull the trigger. The report from the shot echoes across the farmland on which we fight. My fellows stop throwing rocks and turn around, raising their hands. I am the last to turn, and I find a full regiment of angry French with rifles trained on us. I place my rifle on the ground and bring my hands up slowly. One of the soldiers fires anyway, and a pain jumps up and hits me in the head.

When I wake up, I am on my knees in front of a large square pit. The sound of a gunshot has woken me; one of my fellows – a man I know as Tanjona – is running away with a shovel in one hand. Tanjona runs at frantic angles, but several shots from the soldiers behind me fell him. A collective groan goes out from my remaining six compatriots. Tanjona goes down hard in the tall grass and does not move again. My head rings with pain and the gun smoke invades my nose. 

Panic spikes in me as more gunshots ring out, followed by cries from my comrades. I look to my right and see them each pitch forward one by one into the pit. Some still twitch and moan in the fresh dirt of the hole. Shot by deafening shot, they fall until there are no men left but me. There is a pause; a gulf of time during which I see the faces of my family – my wife Finoana and my children Rakoto and Mikanto. It ends when a soldier mutters in French ‘thought this one was already dead.’ Something heavy hits me between the shoulder blades and the air goes out of my lungs. I fall forward into the pit – a good three-foot drop – but I am able to break my fall with my hands. The shots begin anew and I feel a hot knife punch into my back. My face becomes wet and I feel very tired. My eyes close as Tanjona’s body is dragged into the pit. His limbs flop against our fellow soldiers’, then are still.

I regain consciousness again when a shovel-load of dirt hits my back. I cannot move. Since I am lying on my stomach - my head turned to the right - my view is of the entire pit. The men I have fought beside are all dead. Most are covered in dirt, but I can see some of their faces; their white, vacant eyes staring into forever. Another shovelful of dirt hits me, this time on my neck. Dirt is in my eyes, but I can still see the light of day. I cannot blink it away. Dirt is in my mouth, and I can taste the soil of Madagascar. I cannot spit it out. I am worried that my family will not find my body, that none of us will be taken to the crypts of our ancestors. The lumps of dirt hit me in an irregular but clustered rhythm. It is getting harder to hear anything. Soon,