Resurrected

Forward

Halloween is one of my favorite times of the year, there is just something so intriguing and magical about it. The decorations, the costumes and the movies are all part of a strange and wonderful cultural phenomena that is like nothing else. One of biggest themes of the Halloween season is fear. I personally enjoy being scared this time of year, to me it is actually a way escaping fear. Whether it's a scary movie, show or book, I am able to trade my real fears for fictional ones. In my opinion the most frightening works of horror prey on what we cannot see and do not understand why. It's not knowing where the shark or Xenomorph is lurking or just why Riley is possessed that scares the crap out of us. Your own imagination is the single biggest source of fear. Vampires, zombies, demons and monsters are all so interesting to me, they may not be real but they mirror our own darkness. One of the greatest literary masters of fear is Stephen King, he also happens to be one of my favorite authors. King has such a way with words that puts me right into the story. He uses extensive character building and  very expressive detail to put readers into the mind of his protagonists. In both novel and short story form, King can can make the most frightening and unlikely plot seem so believable. He has certainly influenced my style of writing and pushed the boundaries of my imagination. In honor of Stephen King and Halloween I present an original short story: Resurrected. I would like to note that this story is kind of a long read and a tad violent. I hope you enjoy.

Resurrected

It's been many years since I visited that ghastly excuse for a church. Its red doors and what lies within, sits at the back of my mind always. I was a much younger man when I first heard of The House of Resurrection. These rumors smoldered at the fringes of polite society in hushed tones, uttered by superstitious women, broken men and in derelict masses. It was the summer of 1961 when I hitchhiked a meandering path through the south hoping to see the country and one day hit California—a journey of pure rebellion. 

I was twenty years old.  The world was changing and so was I.  I grew up in Ohio, where my parents didn't understand me. Back then my hair was black, my waist was small and my feet itched for adventure. By August I found myself in the in sinister reaches of back woods Louisiana, a place where the people talk slow and superstition is a way of life.

The acrid heat of the summer months lay heavy on the chest. The unforgiving sun made insanity perch a little closer as mirages danced in the distance. Cicadas and crickets composed symphonies in the afternoon—waves of searing melody. I walked sullen dirt roads and burning lengths of cracked pavement, my mind forever wandering. The interiors of cars and primal canopies eased these marches of burned soul and sole alike. The more obscure the towns became, so did its inhabitants.  As it grew more rural, the less people wanted to trust a stranger. In these hidden away corners, evil exists in its purest state, undiluted by society. The darkness in men's hearts was all there was to fear, or so I thought. At this time in my life I was prone to making bad decisions without thinking and it almost got me killed a few times. 

One Sunday night, after a brutal day of blistering away on road, I found myself in a quiet bar in a quiet town.  The names have been lost to me over the years. I sat alone on a rusted barstool scouring together change for a sandwich when a grizzled voice with a thick Creole accent, offered to buy me dinner. I turned to face a man with a white ragged beard, to me at the time seemed about a hundred and fifty years old. He, without breaking his gaze reached into the pocket of his worn jeans and produced an alligator-skin wallet. To this day I still remember the man's gnarled hands slowly pulling out the wrinkled dollars bills. These claws were heavily callused as if they had seen decades of hard labor and there was dirt wedged under each unkempt yellow nail. 

I thanked him for the meal and stuck my own hand out for a moment for him to shake but he just continued stare unblinkingly, straight ahead. I put my hand down as I noticed a dim white film over his eyes. Feeling a little embarrassed that I tried to shake this blind old man's hand I thanked him again. I could only understand about every third or fourth word he said as I sat there quietly, half listening as he rambled on about the town and "kids des' days". He did, however, say one thing I will never forget. As I ate my ham sandwich on stale bread, he suddenly without warning grabbed my wrist and stared directly at me with his dead eyes, in a clear voice that sent chills down my spine as he spoke.

"Beware of the false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly are ravenous wolves" Ominously quoting the bible, he then said: "There is place that calls itself holy upon false pretenses—a church of the damned. This place is in the business of resurrections, not of souls but of bodies past their God given lives. Something’s that are gone should stay that way... stay away, my son, I beg of you. The House of Resurrection only offers sorrow." He let go, shaking a little at this point. 

I am not a religious man, but something about his words made me uneasy. Their clarity ate at something inside of me. I remember getting up without a word and slipping out the back.  I don't know why I did this but I still look back upon it with a tinge of regret. I walked down the road hoping to see the familiar glare of headlights in the distance.  I was still reckless in those days. 

It was around ten at night when I was picked up. My first mistake was even getting into that red, ‘57 ford pick-up truck. When I climbed into to the cab it reeked of whiskey. A man probably a little older than myself at the time, was at the wheel. He had a buzz cut and was wearing a blue flannel shirt. He introduced himself as simply Lee, and asked where I was going. He seemed polite enough but something was just a little off about him I couldn't put my finger on. 15 or 20 minutes into the ride I watched as Lee took a long swig of whiskey out of the bottle.  This is when I started to get a little nervous. 

I sat in the passenger seat quietly staring out the window hoping nothing would happen. 

"Hey Bud, look quick!" He bellowed loudly. I turned my head.  He was looking at me with a huge grin and a crazy look in his eyes. It took a moment for me to notice the silver plated Colt 45 he was pointing at me.  At the sight of the firearm that he was holding in his left hand, I jumped in my seat, scared shitless. 

He let out a loud hoot and slammed his foot hard down on the gas. The truck accelerated violently. Faster and faster we went, swerving back and forth like a snake. Lee suddenly shouted: "Look ma, no hands!" Laughing insanely, he waved his gun and remaining free hand in the air. The reckless maniac at the wheel suddenly made a turn down a dirt road.  The barrel of the shining pistol jolted up and down with each bump, his finger on the trigger the entire time. All I could manage to do was whimper: "Be cool, man." Like some sort of pitiful ancient chant, I said it over and over.

I held on for dear life, my knuckles pure white. I actually decided to put on my seat belt, which no one did back then. The rattling truck, without warning hit a huge pothole. For a moment I felt my body lift up from the worn seat. I shut my eyes as the vehicle bounced fiercely. There was a thunderous roar then my ears were filled with deafening ring. The gun had gone off.  I felt a hot liquid run down my leg. I was sure I had been hit and was going to die in this red metal deathtrap. 

I opened one eye to see that psychopath rocking back and forth with a sheepish grin. Then I realized that I had wet myself and he was laughing at me. My temporary loss of hearing turned his hysterical chuckling into a bizarre and frightening pantomime. He was drunk and totally oblivious to the road ahead. Time seemed to slow as I noticed the tree lying across the unpaved gravel street.  I braced for impact and Lee keep right on laughing. 

In a brilliant spray of glass we slammed into the fallen tree. The crazed driver's head had gone right through the windshield, his mangled face was twisted to an unnatural angle and blood was pouring freely from his shredded throat. I remember the grizzly scene like it was yesterday. For no logical reason I can conceive, I was alive. My only injury was a nasty bump on the head. 

I was in and out of consciousness as an unknown savior pulled me from the truck. I remember lying on the ground wondering if I was going to die right then and there. My vision was fading when I noticed the dark figure standing above me. To this day I'm still unclear of what happened.  I saw the blinding glow of a headlight and then I found myself running through the woods, my legs carried me like liquid. 

The next morning, I awoke to an elderly beagle licking my face.  I was disoriented and my whole body was stiff.  I was curled up on the rotted porch of a slouching wooden shack that I had no recollection of finding.  My new found pal continued to cover me in warm slobber until I slowly sat up and pet his salt and pepper fir.  A woman's voice called out: "Here Stevie!" The dog barked playfully, hobbled down the porch steps and went around the corner of the peeling house. I painfully stood up, jeans still reeking of urine, I might add. I made my way down the steps, shielding my eyes from the searing morning sun. In the glare I could make out the figure of a woman emerge from where the dog had run off. She whistled as she walked absentmindedly.  It took a moment for her to realize that I was standing there. When she finally lifted her eyes, she jumped letting out a high pitched shriek and ran to the back door. 

I followed her feeling a little embarrassed. "I'm sorry, ma'am." I kept saying as I knocked on the screen door.  I could hear her digging through a drawer the tiny kitchen. I then heard the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being cocked. All of a sudden she came back to the door clutching a shotgun in her hands. 

"If you come any closer I'll fill ya full a holes!" She snarled with a southern yet vaguely French accent. The tone in her voice made me start to fear for my life once again. She was very intimidating despite being only a little more 5 feet tall and wearing a yellow sundress. I slowly stepped back from the door, getting very tired of having guns pointed at me. "What the hell happened to your face? And wait… did you piss yourself too?" She tightened her grip the gun that was pressed up to the screen. 

I touch my forehead and realized my face was covered in dried blood. I quickly told her I had gotten in a car accident. She probably would have shot me right then and there if it wasn't for her dog. Stevie began whining and scratching at the inside of the door.  For some reason this convinced her to lower her weapon. I let out a relieved sigh and thanked her for not shooting me in the head. I don't know if it was nearly being shot again, the bump on the head or the heat but my vision started to swim and before I knew it I had passed out. 

I woke up to that lifesaving mutt drooling in my face, yet again. When I opened my eyes, I was looking at warped wooden beams.  I was lying in a small but soft cot. "Oh hello, sleeping beauty." I remember that formerly shotgun wielding woman say, her voice much calmer at this point. I sat up and noticed my pants were missing. She could tell I was confused, she handed my pants back and quipped: "Don't get too excited, I just didn't want you in my house with pissy drawers. I washed them for you." I thanked her for her hospitality and got dressed. I sat up still feeling a little light headed. "You don't get many visitors do you?" I asked. "You scared the shit out of me with that gun."

"Not really. No." She smiled. It wasn't till then that I realized how beautiful she really was, she had thick kinky brown hair, green eyes that you could get lost in and smooth hazelnut colored skin. You have to remember that in the 60's it was unheard of to be of mixed race. "I'm sorry for that. There is some nasty business around these parts like ya wouldn't believe." She said with a distant look in those eyes. She offered me some sort of herbal tea.  It was disgusting but I was polite. We then chatted for a while.

She told me that her name was Maddie and she lived there alone except for good o'l Steve. The dog had managed to keep her company these last few years. I noticed a grainy black and white photograph of a man with skin dark as night with his arm around a short woman in nun's clothing.  The man towered above her. "Are those your folks?" I inquired inquisitively pointing at the photo. 

She told me that her mother had been a nun working at a missionary in Haiti when she met her father, a poor carpenter at the time. They fell in love. Her mother gave up her vows to the church and took up new vows with the man she loved. The controversial couple decided to try for a better life in the states.  They had ambitions to build their own church in Louisiana. Things got in the way and it never happened.  Maddie was born and life went on. They never had much money but they were happy. 

Her voice dropped to a soft whisper when she told me that two years ago her mother had drowned in the swamp. She went on to say that her father was completely devastated and one day just walked off into the woods.  She hadn't seen him since. As we talked the afternoon sun slid behind the steadily darkening rain clouds. A storm was approaching. Stevie started to whine and scratch at the back door again. "What is it boy?" Maddie huffed. 

Feeling polite, I stood up and offered to let him out. For some reason, we both ended up going outside while the dog did his business. I vividly recollect leaning up against the side of Maddie's shack, talking when there was a clap of thunder. That dog tore ass around the house faster than I thought his little legs could possibly take him. "Where is he going?" I laughed. She explained that he was deathly afraid of thunderstorms and had probably hid under the porch. 

It was just starting to rain as we looked for the dog. We looked under the porch only to realize the dog wasn't there. I can't quite remember why, but Maddie decided to go back in the house to get something. I was standing there just waiting when I heard a bark and caught something move in the tree line about fifty feet away. I walked toward the trees calling the dog's name.  I hoped I could catch him before Maddie came back. 

By the time I got to the trees Stevie had run off again. The pitter patter of rain on the leaves surrounded me as I passed through the underbrush. As I emerged into the clearing I felt the air grow thicker and was hit with the strong aroma of rotting vegetation. I hadn't noticed till now, just how close to the bayou that I was. 

There was a flash of lightning and I saw, among the weeds by the murky water's edge,sat a white chapel. The decaying church's steeple bent slightly to one side like a curved spine. The rear portion of the building protruded into the swamp, barely held above the water line by a few spindly stilts. It looked as if swamp would soon engulf the church in its dark muddy embrace. Something primal pulled me towards this place. A feeling of dread sat at the pit of my stomach and my head pounded but I pressed forward with a feverish curiosity.

As I drew nearer I could make out flickering candle light through its red stained glass windows. My feet squished in the marshy soil. The rain had steadily intensified by now. I was about ten feet from the entrance when I could just make out the groan of a sinister, out-of-tune organ playing over the raging storm. I reached its red doors soaked to the core. I looked at these doors noticing the paint was still wet, on closer inspection I spotted tiny darkened droplets of clotted liquid. I gripped the rusted metal handle and pulled the heavy doors outward.  There was a faint copper smell as my head neared the wet wood. 

I dismissed the idea that the door was dripping with blood, as that would be crazy. I nearly gagged on the putrid air that rushed out from within the building. I managed to slip into the dimly lit church unnoticed. As my eyes adjusted, I started to be able to make out the dark shapes that filled each pew. At the other side of the room there was a candle lit alter and at its center sat a plain wooden box caked with mud. It suddenly hit me.  I was looking at a casket.

Behind the coffin sat a man in an ornamental throne washed in darkness.  All I could see was the whites of his eyes. I watched as he rose from his seat and stepped into the light. His dark skin was painted to look like a skull.  He wore a top hat adorned with feathers and tiny bones. He had on a black shirt with a white collar like a catholic priest, except his sleeves had been torn off.  Bracelets made of bone covered his muscular wrists. He raised his arms and with his mouth filled with rotted teeth, said something in French, his voice a deep raspy growl. 

As he spoke the congregation let out a low guttural groan. To my surprise he reached down into a basket that was resting on the altar, and produced a large python, he then draped the snake over his shoulders. He continued his ritual by lighting some incense and waiving it over the coffin. He began to chant ferociously. 

Each moment his tone grew more and more aggressive. These incantations gave me an overwhelming feeling of déjà vu. All of a sudden his voice spilt in two.  The second voice rose to a thunderous echo. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up from that horrific noise. The priest's eyes rolled to the back of his head and he rocked back and forth like the trees in the storm outside.

The room began to shake, the dripping chandelier swayed without wind and the wooden supports overhead creaked ominously. My heart seemed to skip a beat when I heard a loud thud come from inside the pine box. I stood there paralyzed.  My mind said run, but my body would not listen. The pounding continued as the priest shook violently. A line of black liquid dribbled from his nose, smudging the white paint on his face. Everyone began to stomp their feet and moan. I heard chains jingling. 

A flash of lightning illuminated the entire church and for a moment I could see that most of the people that were sitting had large iron shackles around their ankles. Just when I thought I would lose my mind from the deafening roar, it ceased and silence descended. I could almost hear my heart beating. The voodoo priest returned to normal and whispered something softly.

The calm was shattered when a fist burst through the coffin. The splinter covered hand grasped wildly in the air looking for something. The skull faced sorcerer reached down and grab the hand, he kissed it then laughed loudly. I closed my eyes tightly hoping to just wake up from this nightmare. 

I could hear the squeak of nails being pulled out and boards breaking as they let the person in the box out. I opened my eyes to the sight of a horrifying abomination standing in front of the coffin. The creature's face was nearly unrecognizable, held together with large stitches and it's skin was a sickening grey color. The former human's one good eye spun around at random. 

It's off-set jaw opened and closed uncontrollably as it made a low gasping sound. There was another flash and I noticed the other dead. Each of the restrained bodies had that same terrible color. One man had purple rope-shaped indentions around his neck, another woman was missing a huge chunk of skull, and all had been dead but were back now. The priest reached to the side of the alter, picked up a silver chalice and in broken English said that it represented the blood of Christ. I saw him then pick up a dead squirrel by the tail, the front half seemed to have been crushed by a tire. 

He had to hold it away from the newly resurrected monster, who kept snapping at the road kill, as he described the animal as the being body of Christ. This witch-doctor dipped the dead rodent into the chalice. When he pulled it out it was drenched in blood. The dead man seemed to frenzy at the sight of blood. The priest finally gave in and handed the bloody treat to his unholy creation.  It gobbled it down like a starving dog. In the candlelight I saw the priest walk up to a table filled with dead possums, squirrels and rats. He poured the red liquid from the cup over the table. 

I observed him cross himself catholically and raise his hands up again. I remember him say: "let ma children be nourished!" I knew I had to get the hell out of there when the still living started to unchain the dead. I slowly opened the doors hoping to escape unseen. I grabbed the handle and pushed hard, this time however the door let out a loud creak. In unison the entire congregation turned their heads toward the sound. 

The box man, his twisted face now covered with blood, started for me first. I squeezed my body through the crack in the door as his stiff shuffle turn into a freakish run. I narrowly got out and tried to close the door behind me. I was almost home free when he hit the door with an inhuman strength.  I tried with all my might to hold it shut. My hands turned red from the door and my feet dug into the thick mud. 

He hit it again and this time I couldn't hold him back.  The door swung open and I was knocked to ground. The dead man let out a groan and headed straight for me. I scurried backwards, my arms and legs slipping around in the muck. It's strange what you notice when you think you are going to die.  This thing that was attacking me had on a blue flannel shirt. Suddenly it hit me he was Lee from the truck, back to torment me some more. 

Chomping violently, he me pinned me to the ground, blood dribbled onto my face. He suddenly let out a gurgling laugh, as if he still recognized me. He was insane in life, as in death. I couldn't hold him back, I was going to die. Just when I thought it was over there was a loud boom. Lee's head exploded and I was covered with chunks of skull and brain matter.

I looked up to see Maddie standing there, holding a smoking shotgun. "Get your ass up." She said as she helps me up from the wet ground. We backed away from the entrance. She cocked the gun, aiming at the gathering crowd of dead trickling out of the building. 

"Stop!" The priest shouted, as he parted the group. 

They all stopped moving towards us at once. Maddie screamed "Run!", but for some reason I could not move. The voodoo man looked at Maddie and said something softly in French and he lowered the gun. Tears came to her eyes as she responded, but I couldn't understand a word. 

I remember out of nowhere the dog appeared, happily barking in the downpour. The undead just stood there as Steve ran up to the voodoo man.  He picked up the dog and pet him tenderly. I was filled confusion. Maddie suddenly pointed to me and my heart began to race again. 

He tilted his head slightly and said:  "Mon cadeau pour vous." I didn't know what it meant at the time, but something about how he said it gave me chills. In the rain the priest's face paint started to run down his face. The skull design distorted as his face came into focus. I soon realized it was the man from the photo in the house, Maddie's father. 

He was a father, a husband driven mad by loss. Using a dark magic, one that was beyond understanding, he had breathed new life into the forgotten dreams of the past. He built a place to defy death.  A house of resurrection.

I stood there in the rain, my legs refusing to work as they had their discussion in another language. My mind spun trying to understand what I had to do with all this madness. The priest looked to me and shouted: "I release you!" Something inside me changed and my legs felt free. I ran away from that place, I ran from my fears and I ran from my problems, like I always did. 

I fled from what I did not understand, the power and the evil. I found my way back home, back to my old life. I moved on with the hopes it could all just go away. Years went by, I tried to live a normal life but my mind could not let that place and that priest's words fade. After one night of especially vivid nightmares, I decided to go to the library and find myself a French dictionary. 

I stood between the tall wooden shelves clawing through the pages trying to make sense of those events. When I found out what his words meant, all the pieces fit together to my horror. He had said to Maddie, near that swamp: "My gift to you." I was his greatest creation, a resurrection of soul and body. I had died on the side of the road and I had been restored.  I was a fathers attempt to give a lonely daughter a companion. 

So many years have passed but I still think about that dark place every day. I have tried to make the best of this second chance, but everything always falls apart. My life is broken and cursed. I've been married three times, with all ending in divorce and my children hate me. Each plan I make crumbles like a sand castle into the sea. A few years back the hunger started. At first I craved a nice rare steak for dinner and soon, for every meal.  I am never satisfied. 

At one point I stop cooking them and just started to eat the raw meat right out of those shrink-wrapped styrofoam packages. Most of my paycheck these days is spent at the butcher shop.  I can't afford a car, so I walk there, now a daily trip. This life style is bankrupting me but my hunger grows each moment. Near my apartment, the last couple of days I have seen a homeless man just sitting there. So many people just walk past him not realizing he is even there. I think about the fact that if he went missing no one would even notice.

All I know is hunger now.

My hands are red just like that day... All is red.

Some Mighty Fine Wine

On Saturday I went down to Seneca lake to taste some wine at my parent's favorite winery: Atwater Estate Vineyards. As many of my closest friends understand I am a connoisseur of all types of adult beverages: from my usual rum and coke to an occasional scotch, I enjoy a good drink. When my parents offered to take me to the winery I was quite excited, despite not really being a big wine drinker I am always eager to gain new experiences. We happened to pick an absolutely perfect autumn day, it was warm, sunny and there was not a cloud in the sky. For someone on the pursuit of learning to love fall, the Finger Lakes this time of year is a strong selling point, the fall foliage transforms the area in a stunning array of colors. Still enjoying our new van's XM radio, we made the pleasant drive to the winery.

When we got to Atwater, we were greeted by my parents friend Amanda, who works at the winery and is a wonderful person. It's important to understand that my parents have been coming to this place for years, they started as the Pinot Noir people to the Morts to simply Ed and Kathy. I never really understood my parent's passion for wine, until recently it had all tasted the same. I tried a few wines—both red and white—and began to realize the art in it. No two years are ever the same in life nor in wine. Each year the wine is a little different, these variations make for a unique and special experience. Wine has complex textures of flavor that take a keen sense of taste to fully appreciate, luckily my parents were there to walk me through it. Wine is made from grapes but it's flavors can reminded you of other things such as apples, peaches or oak. After this enlightening tasting I have a new found love of wine and the culture associated. For lunch we had some amazing tacos from Global Taco, a food truck that was parked at the winery that day. I had one the spiciest tacos in my life, it was brutal and delicious all at the same time. That day I was also able to taste some vodka from the distillery down the road. Saturday was a very enjoyable day that left me feeling a little more cultured. It was wonderful to share in something my parents love. The entire endeavor also made me a lot more grown up. Trying new things is what makes life worth living... go out and do something that broadens your horizons, it's always worth it.

Busy As Usual

One of most overused words in the English language these days is "busy". There is not one person that I know that does not constantly utter this word like some sort of involuntary spasm of the mind. Busy has become a catch-all word for anything time consuming or tedious. Sometimes it seems as if people compare their level of busyness to others like some sort of strange trading card game of who has it harder.

So many view being busy as such a negative and attach it to a I'll-be-happy-when mentality. The notion that one will be happy when they get that promotion, when the semester is over, when they get that girlfriend/boyfriend or when they aren't quite so busy. 

Happiness is a decision, not a destination... Don't wait to be happy.

Try to evolve your attitude and see the times when you're busy as a privilege, think about how lucky you to have the life that you do. It is a privilege to have that job, it is a privilege to be in college, it is a privilege to take your kids to soccer practice and it is a privilege to have your busy life. Don't take "busy" as a curse but as I blessing. Be happy with whatever you have right now because it's probably pretty damn good and could always be much worse. Attitude is extremely important in this matter, but there are times that you can push yourself too hard. A major factor that can lead to resentment of being busy is not enough taking breaks. Taking a step back now and then is not weakness but crucial part of a successful life. Last week I took a break from this blog, it was the best thing for me. My commitment did not waiver and the world did not end, I was able to re-focus and do better work. Everyone needs a break this is fact whether it's ten minutes or a week, getting your mind off the task at hand for a little bit actually makes you more productive. How can you hope to be your best self if you are completely overwhelmed? Taking care of yourself helps everyone around you. It is so easy to get bogged down by what you have to do and muddle through life totally miserable but this is no way to live this precious existence. Each one of us is busy twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week... busy living life. 

Every single second your brain is hard at work sending messages to the rest of your body, keeping you alive so you can be busy and enjoy things. We are all hardwired for activity. Embrace "busy" but don't let it control you—be the master of your life. Hold the privilege of the time you have closely.

Make the best. Be the best. Feel the best.