MicroHorror

The doorbell chimed, its ring bouncing merrily off the walls.

The old woman pulled herself from her chair with difficulty, pulling her walker to her to use for support. In the slow shuffle-walk of the infirm, she carefully placed the walker ahead then shuffled three little steps. Thump shuffle shuffle shuffle, pause. Thump shuffle shuffle shuffle, pause.

When the old woman at last pulled the door open with shaky arthritis-knobbed fingers and looked outside, no one was there. She looked up and down the street in confusion, rheumy eyes squinting to see.

From behind a bush around the corner of the old woman’s little house came the sound of giggles and snickers of children.

Her eyes blazed with anger and her face turned red. Feebly, the old woman raised one gnarled hand, trying unsuccessfully to make it into a fist to shake. She shook it anyway, the loose skin of her arm flapping below the bicep.

“You kids leave me alone,” the old woman yelled in her croaky old crone’s voice, spittle flying with the anger of her words. “Leave off my bell!” She shambled backwards with some difficulty and slammed the door closed, muttering and shaking her head angrily as she did so.

Great guffaws of laughter burst from the bush and kids rolled out from behind it, holding their stomachs as they rolled, so hard were they laughing. One, two, three, four kids; three boys and one girl.

One boy got to his feet, wiping tears laughter from his eyes.

“That was great,” he exclaimed.

“Did you see her face, Billy?” another boy grinned eagerly as he joined the first boy. Billy just nodded enthusiastically.

The girl, Samantha, Sam for short, joined the boys with a sheepish grin on her face. She didn’t feel right about doing this to the old woman, but that old woman always yelled at the kids when they played in front of her house. Besides, it was fun!

The third boy, Justin, finally stopped rolling on the ground and joined the other kids.

“Billy, Evan, Sam… that was great!” he exclaimed. “Did you see?! I swear she was gonna have a stroke, the old lady looked so mad!” He looked at the other kids, eyes blazing with excitement

They all stood around grinning at each other.

“So, who’re we going to knock-on-ginger next?” Justin asked.

Just then Sam’s mom came walking down the sidewalk towards them. The kids all froze, staring at each other nervously. Had she heard? Did she see what game they had been playing? They were all in trouble now, they thought.

“Hi, kids,” Sam’s mom said as she paused on her way past the kids. She looked at them, then at the old lady’s house, then back to the kids with a strange knowing smile hovering on her lips.

“Kind of weird, isn’t it, kids,” she said, looking at each child in turn.

The four kids just blinked at her, fidgeting with nervousness.

“Yes,” Sam’s mom said, answering their unasked question, “old Mrs. Wierdar has been part of this neighborhood forever.” She looked at the house with a strange look, almost as though a vague sense of unease filled her. “The house seems so… empty… since they took her away.”

“Um, took her away?” the kids asked in unison, staring at Sam’s mom with very strange looks on their faces.

“Yes,” Sam’s mom said, “didn’t you know? She was taken away yesterday. Her home care worker found her…” She swallowed, a little uncertain now if she should be telling the kids this story. “They think she might have been dead for two days before her home care worker found her… possibly a stroke.” She reddened, embarrassed by the looks on the kids faces. “Um, I have to go now,” and she hurried off down the street.

The four kids just stared at each other, their faces white and eyes filled with fear.

• Copyright: © 2009 L. V. Gaudet

A pall hung over the moon, misty clouds stringing across the sky like the tattered remnants of a ghostly sail. The endless sound of the ocean forever in motion whispered ceaselessly like the incomprehensible roar of a faraway stadium crowd. Pale light from the moon reflected weakly off the constant gently rolling water, illuminating the upward motion while casting faint shadows on the downward movements of the water’s ceaselessly flowing surface.

A sound moaned softly somewhere in the darkness. It was the creak and groan of ancient lumber flexing and bending with the pressure of the waves pressing upon it, trying to bend the wood to its will. With it came the soft lapping of the waves licking against the slowly rotting timber, carrying it on an endless voyage across the sea.

Within the dark confines of the ancient ship’s hull the air hung heavy and stale. Dead. Throughout the cargo hold were the rotten wood remnants of long-ago stalls and pens for the transporting of livestock. The spaces between these broken lumber remnants were filled to capacity with tightly packed rows and rows of shelves from ceiling to floor. Littered among these shelves were shackles. Some were red-brown with the rust of ages, some seemed black as a new cast iron pan and freshly oiled. Many lay within the ranges in between. There were shackles on the shelves, and lying discarded on the floor like dead metal vipers. Still more hung down from the low ceiling, swinging casually with the gentle rolling of the ship on the sea, swinging silently except for the occasional light ching when two touched briefly in their never ending dance. A thick gritty and greasy dust clung to everything.

“Is the cargo secured?” a voice called out. The captain was feeling nervous about the dark clouds looming on the horizon.

“All secure,” called back the first mate.

“Secure the masts,” the captain called out, “bring in the sails.”

The sounds of men scurrying about the deck, voices indefinable and vague, echoed down to the hull below.

On the deck above, the pale light of the moon caressed across the ship from bow to stern. The sails hung limply, tattered and shredded, stained and rotting. The planks of the deck lay clean and dry, repeatedly washed by the waves as though by invisible deck hands. Endless days under the sun had left the timber bleached.

The moans and groans of ill and discontented souls oozed up from the bowels of the ship with the creaking and groaning of the timber, the only sound other than the waves and shifting of what remained of the rotting tack that touched the deserted deck. Sometimes a terrible scream would be carried on the wind, fleeing the terrors locked within the weeping timber of the ship’s hull.

This is the Illopogas, a cargo ship that has been used for transporting many different types of cargos over the years, the last of which was not livestock of the four-legged variety. Stories of the Illopogas migrate like some of the denizens beneath the waves, traveling from port to port, whispered in the darkened corners of inns and pubs by sailors who have drunk too much. Even in the telling of these tales, these drunken louts eye the room suspiciously through narrow slitted eyes, making protective gestures behind their backs, wary of jinxing themselves and bringing the Illopogas across their path when next they sail.

Few sailors have crossed paths with the legendary ghost ship, the Illopogas, and lived to tell the tale. None have been able to hold on to their shredded sanity. Some say the ship is haunted by vengeful ghosts, others that the ship itself seeks revenge.

There is something about ghost ships, forever sailing the seas manned by an invisible crew, which strikes fear into the hearts of men. None as much as the Illopogas.

Beware the ghost ship.

Beware the Illopogas.

• Copyright: © 2009 L. V. Gaudet