OldenNight

OldenNight is my second novel, currently underway.  Unlike Carpathian Nights, this novel is set in rural Idaho primarily during the 1930s.  It is full of supernatural events but is organized as a series of short stories centered around one extended family.  Also, it is done in a very playful manner and might be described as "Comic Horror."

Sample Chapter:

The Midnight Express

            Tiny Jackson was badly misnamed.  OK it wasn’t his actual name, but everyone had called him Tiny since he actually was.  Now, considering his ability to make mischief, his name might have been “Jumbo” Jackson.  His latest stunt had been directed as eleven-year-old Ray Haroldsen. 

            It was a rare thing that Mrs. Haroldsen had put anything special in her son, Ray’s lunch pail beyond her delicious oatmeal raisin cookies every Friday.  But this day being Halloween, she had done the unheard of thing, she had put in a glorious cinnamon roll, larger than father’s fist, richly covered in cream icing.  And now as he sat down on the steps of the Jarnigan School for lunch, it was gone.  But to make the disappointment even greater, there was in its place a slimy blight-infested potato, which had dripped black ooze and spoiled the rest of his lunch.

            And there he was, Tiny, laughing at his victim’s mixed look of regret, rage, and revulsion.   “YOU . . . ,” said Ray.  But, having grown up in the Haroldsen household, he didn’t know any explicative that could reflect his feelings of outrage, or any expletive at all beyond his father’s infrequent use of the mother-shocking exclamation, “Oh Hang!”  Tiny continued to laugh, exposing the gooey half chewed remains of the treat, now defiled, in his unworthy mouth.  And then he went all innocent and said, “Is something bothering you?  What’s wrong Haroldsen?  Didn’t your mommy make you a delicious lunch?  Oh?  Now, are you going to cry?”  And then he opened his mouth wide, reaffirming his own guilt.

            There are moments in a young man’s life when he just knows, just knows, that he temporarily has the power to take on any battle whatsoever, without the slightest bit of help from any others, and completely, and irrevocably exterminate that foe, and to summon that despicable enemy back from the grave, just for the pleasure of doing it again.  This was that moment.

            “Whoa now little brother!” said Fred Haroldsen to this dynamo ready for action.  “You know what Pop will say if you kill Tiny.”  This threat had no effect.  “You know what MOM WILL DO if you kill Tiny.”  Only this terrifying scenario had the power to exercise the legion of demons that possessed this young boy.

            Ray smoldered as Tiny and his friends retreated in boisterous victory.  “Use your head Ray.  There are more satisfying things than murder,” continued Fred.  Ray looked unconvinced.  “Things that don’t end in prison, or worse . . . Mother.”

            That did it.  Ray calmed considerably.  Yet still fuming, he asked, “So what do you have in mind?”  Fred smiled in wicked anticipation.

            “You remember that story that Uncle told a few weeks back about the Midnight Express to Yellowstone?”  Ray nodded.  Then Fred held out a square-ish wooden tube.    “What’s that?” asked Ray. 

            “I traded my broken pocket knife for it from Old Joseph.  It is a train whistle,” said Fred with a grin.  Ray began to catch a vision of what his older brother might have in mind.

            Ray and Fred’s Grandfather had always insisted on being called “Uncle” instead of Grandfather, supposedly because he felt that the title “Grandfather” made him sound like an old man; being only seventy-six years old, this would be unacceptable.  But one thing was for sure, Uncle delighted in spectral stories of the supernatural, many of which he learned back during his boyhood in Norway.  Though he was an immigrant, he knew countless ghost stories associated with his new home in Idaho.

            Weeks earlier, at the first of October, Uncle had robbed his grandsons of several nights sleep by telling his latest yarn.  Mom and Pop were out for the night, and Uncle had come into the house from his own one-room house, positioned across the driveway, so that he could listen to the radio.  He would usually say little other than make comments about the depression, the build up to war and concern for his native Europe.  On this night, however, he was alone with his grandsons and seized upon the opportunity to fill them with some healthy terror.  The boys, knowing what was likely to happen with the parents away, smiled in anticipation.

            Uncle had told them the story of the Yellowstone Midnight Express.  He told how it would come through Jarnigan Idaho every Halloween at precisely 10 PM, then rocket northward for the two hour journey where it would arrive at midnight only to plunge off the end of its tracks and vanish down the Old Faithful Geyser carrying away wicked kids, whose parents were happy to be rid of them.  As he presented his tale he repeatedly tapped the palm of his hand down, his coal-black ring making a clack against the table.  With the growing climax of the story he increased the tempo of the clacking as if it were an increasing heartbeat or the acceleration of a steam train.

They knew that Uncle would be all too happy to repeat his story to Tiny, plus there was the added value that whenever Uncle repeated a story, it usually got better, rich with new details and drama.

           

*    *    *    *

     Halloween costumes in 1930’s Idaho were the stuff of nightmares.  Naturally all were homemade.  But somehow the inexpert hand could often produce a Halloween mask far more terrifying that intended.  Out of coarse fabric, papier-mâché and garish paint, children constructed the faces of demons, grinning clowns, animals and less describable monstrosities.   They added to the horror by using more papier-mâché to produce huge, long-fingered, stiletto-clawed hands that fit over their own pudgy hands.  Such wraiths prowled the yards of lone farmhouses, vacant potato fields and around the Jarnigan school holding its Halloween carnival.  A chill wind blew dry leaves into little eddies that laughing, shrieking children crunched through.

     Ray and Fred had hoped to get Uncle to join them there to tell his story to Tiny and any others at the carnival who would certainly gather when they saw who it was that was telling the tale.  But no, he wouldn’t come.  He said that he had other obligations.  Pop ratified the statement by saying, “Oh yah.  My father always has obligations on Halloween night.  Best leave him to it.”  The only option was to do their best at telling the story themselves to Tiny and his boisterous pals.

     Though he tried to get Fred to do it, Ray ended up being the one to deliver the tale.  He saw the opportunity when he overheard Tiny brag to his friends that all the kids in this stupid school were afraid of everything, but not him.  Nothing scared him. 

     Ray stepped forward, “So the Yellowstone Midnight Express doesn’t scare you?”  It was clear from their looks that they did not know the story, so he continued into the story quickly before they could say anything more.  He did his best to produce the energy, the drama that Uncle could do without effort.  Though a gifted story teller himself, he was unable to generate the intensity that he hoped for.  Of course, Tiny and his friends did not look impressed.  In fact, as Ray concluded the tale, they all faked bored yawns and began to wander away.

     “I dare you to be at the railroad tracks at ten o’clock tonight,” shouted Fred in their direction.  They only laughed, and continued on their way.

     “I think I blew it,” muttered Ray.

     “I’m not so sure,” said Fred.  “That is how they would react to any spooky story when others could see their reaction.  Let’s see what happens latter.”

*    *    *    *

     What a night.  Every house had at least two doomed jack o lanterns on the porch.  If Tiny and his gang didn’t get them, someone else would see that those triangle eyes would not see the light of day.  While pulverizing pumpkins was a genuine pleasure, what Tiny longed for was to tip a few outhouses, hopefully with some old coot inside, and hopefully while the old coot was under way.  But no luck.  Instead they just had to settle for tormenting little kids.  They prowled in the darkness of the trees that lined the road, looking for their next victims.  Fred and Ray held deeper to the shadows to make sure that Tiny remained unaware of their presence.  Then the blessed moment came that renewed their hopes for the night.

     One of Tiny’s friends cried out, “Oh dang!  It has got to be close to ten o’clock.”

     “Oh yah.  So what?” responded Tiny.

     “My Pa will whip me if I’m not home by ten.  I’m already gonna be late!” he said in a panic while looking at his watch.  With that he was gone.  The other boys looked at Tiny for a moment, hesitated, and then ran off to follow their departing friend.

     “Stupid,” said Tiny to himself.  “Cowards.”  He was standing not five feet from the railroad tracks.  And it was ten o’clock.

      In the dim light, Ray saw the glow of his brother’s smile.  Fred pulled out his wooden train whistle.  With a nod of encouragement from Ray, he blew as hard as he could.  Shrill!  Ear-splitting!  They were both astonished at the volume, but that shock was immediately erased by the pleasure of hearing Tiny’s yelp of panic.  Glorious.  But then the blur of motion, the shriek of metal, the hiss of steam.  The Midnight Express came to a stop in front of them.

     The Conductor stepped down from his perch directly in front of Tiny Jackson, who fell backwards on his seat, unable to do more than whimper.  The Conductor wore all black except for a fiery orange vest and a glowing pocket watch and chain.  His face was a cauldron of swirling smoke which arranged itself into something like a face, something like a smile.  He, It, reached out towards Tiny.  Its fingers were initially a pasty white, adorned only by a coal black ring.  Then tendrils of smoke issued from the finger tips which wrapped around Tiny’s wrist, pulling him to his feet.

     Fred and Ray trembled in terror.  They hadn’t wanted this.  Even Tiny Jackson did not deserve this.  They watched their former enemy being dragged towards the train.  He seemed to have shrunken, a limp wreck of a child.  They could see the mournful faces of other children, faces pressed up to the glass of each train carriage.  Yet there was no safety even for the brothers hidden in the darkest shadows of the trees.

     Unseen, the Engineer grabbed Fred from behind.  The Fireman did the same to Ray.  The Engineer’s laugh sounded like the hiss of steam, and yes, its face was a swirl of vapor.  Jets of steam shot from each finger, searing Fred’s wrists. 

     The Fireman had little flames for teeth.  With each inhale its black eyes bulged out, exposing a blue rim of fire around each socket.  As it pulled them past the engine, Ray saw that the coal car was loaded with blackened children’s skulls.  He could image that his captor, the Fireman, would soon return to his task of shoveling those skulls into the furnace to generate more power, accelerating them all to their doom.

     The Conductor, Engineer and Fireman dragged their three victims down the length of the train, shoving them into the last car alone.  The boys heard the door lock behind them, but tried it anyway.  The door at the other end?  Also locked.  In desperation, Fred kicked high and hard at the closest window.  The glass shattered, then liquefied, and then reformed solid again.  They were trapped.  Tiny remained where he had been tossed by the Conductor, on the floor, unmoving.  A shudder rocked through the car.  The train began to move.  Then faster, much faster.   Too fast to jump even if they could get out.

     “If only we could disconnect this car from the rest,” exclaimed Ray. 

     “But I think we can,” responded Fred thoughtfully.  “Yes we can!” he exclaimed with confidence.

     “We are locked in if you haven’t noticed!”

     “We can do it from inside.  Look, there is a trap door.  Underneath is a lever that uncouples the cars.”   They wrenched the door hatch open and there it was, the lever.

     “Glory be!” shouted Ray, “but we’re going way too fast.

     Fred got down on his knees, ready to pull the lever.  “You yank on the emergency stop cord,” he said pointing to the cable that ran the length of the car, “and then I can release the car.”  Ray did so, but when he did, a peel of evil laughter reverberated from the distant engine.  The train only rocketed faster.

     “We’re lost,” moaned Fred as he rolled over on his back.

      “No,” said Ray as his mind raced.  “Wait.  Your train whistle!  What is the signal for all stop?”

     Fred’s eyes grew wide.  “Two blasts!”

     “Do it!” screamed Ray as he launched himself onto his belly, preparing to pull the lever if the train should actually slow.  It did, but only briefly and then began to accelerate again.

     “Pull it!  NOW!”

     The sensation was the most terrifying thing all night. The car uncoupled from the train and then immediately launched from the tracks.  It rocketed through the air, forever it seemed.  Then it hit, then rolled, and rolled.  There were splinters, then sparks, then flames and then the splash.  When all was finally still, the three boys climbed out of the wreckage that lay half submerged in a creek.  Amazingly they had few scrapes or bruises, but their clothes had not fared so well.  It was as if the clothing had taken all the violence, leaving only a few useless scraps of fabric.

     It was a cold night.  There were several miles to walk before they could get home.  Burlap gunny sacks chafe against bare skin.  A lot.  But that is all they could find in the shed of the nearest farm.  Their minds raced for an explanation that Mom and Pop would actually buy.  It might have been a mercy if they had longer to walk.  The house came into view all too soon.  It was very late.  The lights were all on, every one.  Mom stood silhouetted in the window.

      They envied the ease with which Tiny had walked boldly into his house as they walked by just up the road from their own house.  But how to get into their own?  Both boys shared a room in the basement.  They had on occasion slipped in through the window nestled low among Mom’s columbine flowers, but Pop had screwed on the storm windows against the coming cold.  They entertained the idea of searching through the barn for the off chance of finding a screwdriver, but Pop kept all of his tools in the mudroom of the house.  Obviously, the only chance was to slip in the back door and get down the nearby stairs to their room, relying on boyish stealth.

     Ingenious they were.  With just the right amount of lift on the doorknob, they had learned how to open the back door without a sound.  The screen door was a little trickier.  Fred opened in coordination with Ray who gently pressed one hand on the metal screen, while keeping his other hand on the spring to prevent the characteristic thrum it made each time it opened.  This whole operation required both boys to crouch down, which also kept them low and out of sight.  They were finally safe!  Safe!  Boys are always thinking stupid things like that.  Nothing gets past parents, especially when boys sneak into the house, nearly naked, at the stroke of midnight on Halloween.

     Mom stood directly in the path towards their bedroom.  Pop stood looking over her shoulder.  The boys cringed, clutching the gunny sacks around their loins.  They waited for a demon to leap at them from one or both of their parents, but no.  Mom just looked at them in disappointment and said, “I really don’t want to know.”  She walked away through the kitchen to her bedroom.  Maybe they were safe at last.

     “Well I want to know,” said Pop after she was out of earshot.  Never lie to a father.  What a waste of time that is.  But what if he won’t believe you?  Tell him anyway.  Their father listened patiently as they rehearsed the events of the evening, all the way up until they got locked on the last car of the Midnight Express.

     Pop seemed unable to take anymore of this ludicrous story.  “Oh really!  So how did you make your escape?”  They looked at each other for a moment, wondering if there was any point in going further with their story.  But they continued with a brief account of how they derailed the train.  At that point, Pop began to laugh.  “Now that is pretty funny,” he said while wiping tears from his eyes.  He took a moment to compose himself and looked back over his shoulder for a moment to make sure that Mother was truly gone.  He drew closer to his boys and spoke in a whisper.  “That is exactly how I made my escape from the Yellowstone Midnight Express when I was about your age.”