Journals of Horror: Found Fiction

by Todd Keisling

  I hear screams and roars, as if I’m in the wildest jungle. In all of my travels, I have not discerned anything so ear-rending and heart-quickening.

  I’m not sure how far I can go on this leg. The breaks to rest it are becoming more frequent, like the howls. Even if I find my dog, I won’t be able to return with him to the surface for days. We will not survive. At least we will have each other.

  This dungeon harbors awful secrets, hideous revelations! I admit I am chilled to the marrow by what I just witnessed. Scrawled over a stone wall were letters, brown and fading, that lend support to my worst suspicions: TURN BACK! WE ARE DAMNED!

  It’s my belief the words were written in blood. Turn back? I have no alternative but to go on, if not for my dog’s sake, then to learn the fate of this individual. I’m further unnerved by the wrenching howls. It’s no comfort they’ve amplified to an excruciating level with my steps onward. I want to reach my dog, yet I have no desire to meet the source of those cries.

  Another grisly warning: HE KNOWS YOU’RE HERE.

  I can hardly limp, it hurts so much. The words, rather than deterring, are what keep me going now. Curiosity does kill. I have to know.

  ABADDON ALL HOPE is the next message. Did he mean ABANDON? The writing is sloppier, painted in haste. He must have misspelled the word. I can picture this person, squeezing the wound, enduring agony to spill more ink . . .

  IS LOST HE IS COMING

  I’m sitting here stunned, reading the subsequent statement. I can see that the previous one was unfinished. He had to run. Or she. My heart is like a bird flapping in a cage, attempting to fly, slamming the bars.

  It wasn’t ABANDON he meant. It was ABADDON. These tunnels may be inhabited by a gatekeeper, like a Minotaur. A demon called The Destroyer. Abaddon is also a name for Hell.

  Some versions claim he isn’t a devil but an angelic cryptkeeper, guarding the key to the abyss, binding Satan to the pit. Others call him a soul-taker. I wrote a paper on him as a Theology Major in college, studying for the priesthood. For a while I imagined I could hide in The Church. I took marriage vows instead. I don’t regret it. Wish I had some Holy Water though, a bigger crucifix.

  Wish I had spent more time with my bride.

  It feels like there are weights strapped to my ankles, my legs are so heavy. I couldn’t speed up if my life depended on it. And it just might. It just might.

  Another inscription: GOD HELP US.

  I’m shivering. Panic and the horrid din of this place have me petrified. Spirits huddle around me. Is this where I am to die? No, I was never a quitter. I have a few steps left in me . . .

  I’ve discovered the poor man’s decayed body where he fell, just beyond the final message. According to his wallet he was Marston Keller, a demonologist. Whatever chased him tore the fellow to shreds. It was a slaughterhouse, the balance of his blood splashed everywhere in unintelligible stains. And its deafening bays approach, coming after me. I can’t sit here. I need to retrace my tracks, race for the entrance. But this ruined limb is in torment.

  I can’t. Too weak. I collapsed, unable to walk let alone run, with a small knife to defend myself.

  Brian, you and your mother and her mother have meant the world to me. This dread almost caused me to stay a bachelor. It pursued me around the globe. I should have stayed home. I made promises I couldn’t fulfill. And now I have failed at this effort.

  There is no hope. It’s almost here. These are my last words. I love you. Remember me as an explorer, not a cringing foolish old man.

  I will attempt to crawl.

  That’s how it ends. It was difficult to read. Had to pause now and then . . . overcome by tears, choked up. He died here. His body must be near. I’m going to —

  I’m going to find him . . . and bring him home. I have two good legs. I can carry us both.

  Why didn’t you take me with you?!!

  Oh God . . .

  Sorry about that. Lost it for a minute. Time doesn’t heal all. There are some gouges that are just too deep, or get re-opened. I don’t know how to tell him goodbye, but I’m trying.

  Gotta put all this stuff in my bag. Priceless relics.

  I’m not that religious. I don’t know what’s down here, where these tunnels lead. I’ve been seeing . . . ghosts or something. And the shrieks, you can’t miss them. I’m starting to think this was a bad idea. I need to warn people not to do this. Maybe that’s what counts. The priority. I could save lives.

  I’m not that good with priorities . . .

  I kicked some rags. Has to be him. I’m afraid to look.

  I recognize the jacket. There’s one arm attached to a torso, and no head. His other limbs were . . . ripped off. He’s gripping beads, a cross. His Rosary.

  Flashlight’s all twisted.

  His pocketknife, bent double.

  I found the skull. There are bloodstains on the floor and walls.

  I’m going to gather him up. Put him in one of the plastic bags. Then I’ll look for the rest of him. His arm and legs.

  It stinks pretty bad down here. My head hurts. Got him bagged. Most of him. If I spot the other parts, might be time to haul my butt outa here. Sorry, Barkster. I need to warn the town. Maybe they can seal the entrance, prevent anyone else from —

  Whoa! Did you see it?

  That was a ghost! Plain as day. Hope it shows up on the camera. He had gray skin . . . squirming like it was full of worms and . . . red shadows ringing bare eye-sockets. He just suddenly appeared, right in front of me. Made me jump.

  Oh jeez! That was intense! There were hundreds of them, grimacing at me, gnashing their teeth, staring without eyes. They all want me to go. I feel a wave of urgent raw emotion, like static.

  All right, I will. I’m retreating. Taking what I found and marching the hell out of this hole. Mission accomplished.

  The howling stopped.

  Now I hear buzzing.

  Carrying a sack of bones, clutching my grandfather’s rosary chain, praying seems like a good idea.

  Yea though I walk in the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil.

  It echoes. Very somber. Sounds like I’m in a tomb. And the buzzing is louder. This place . . . is really . . . creepy.

  Yea though I walk. In the valley of the shadow of death. I shall fear no evil.

  I’m totally afraid.

  Walking as fast as I can with sore feet. Trudging’s more like it. Whatever the outcome, I don’t regret this. I don’t.

  Something’s in the tunnel! The buzzing is —

  Locusts! Swarming all over me, biting! Not sure if I’ve been stung — they’ve got tails like scorpions!

  Ahh! Ahh! This can’t be happening . . .

  Oh man, that was terrible. I can’t believe —

  They had faces! Those things had faces!!

  I need to go back. I dropped the beads and flashlight, then the bag, to run for my life.

  I’m just using the light for the camera. It’s even murkier. I have that crawly paranoid feeling, thinking bugs are on me. I don’t know where they went or where the things came from. I need to retrieve the bag. I can’t lose my grandfather. I came this far.

  The howling. Can you hear it? What makes that? It’s depraved. Maybe Loyal was right. Maybe there’s a gate to Hell. And a monster. A Minotaur, whatever he called it. Aladdin . . . Abaddon. It doesn’t seem any more bizarre than those insects. They had teeth!

  Found the bag of bones. I don’t see his Rosary. Didn’t do me much good, but it was Loyal’s. Didn’t do him much good either. My flashlight isn’t working. Well, I have him. Let’s get out of here, Gramps.

  I’m so tired. My legs and feet ache. I don’t care. I can’t hang around until the beast catches up, or the locusts. I need fresh air. I need to find the exit to this nightmare.

  It’s been a rough day. I’m not used to so much activity. I definitely have to exercise more.

  My skin’s swollen with bumps. Can’t tell if they’re bites or stings, but they sting. A
lot.

  Reached one of the branches. Where are the marks? The initials should be here. Did I get off the route somewhere? I’m looking and looking. I don’t see them. How can this be? What’s going on? It doesn’t make sense. Did I enter a different shaft while I was being chased? This isn’t the right way.

  I have to check . . .

  It’s official. I’m lost. I don’t know which direction the main shaft is. Besides up. It’s a steady climb. But there are so many side tunnels. I could wander off and be lost forever in these catacombs. I tried to rewind, to follow my steps in reverse but that didn’t help. It might have confused the situation more. I couldn’t tell if I was going straight. And the passages merge, there are tricks and intersections. It’s a puzzle with no solution. You can’t expect it to be logical.

  Hey! Gramps! Gramps . . .

  I saw him. Loyal. It was him. Dead. A spirit. But in one piece again. That must be the trail. He wants to guide me. This is so cool, I saw my granddad, only it wasn’t actually him. A phantom. Residual energy. Ectoplasm. Whatever the ghost geeks call it. His specter.

  The howls are reverberating, rising to a crescendo. A demented choir — an evil opera! There’s a large shadow! It’s standing completely still, yet it’s closer every time I blink! The figure is huge, incredibly tall and broad! He’s dark, with black eyes and hair! Bearded, wearing a suit of armor! And a crown of horns like a bull! I can’t tell if he’s there or not, because to my eyes he’s indistinct, but in my mind I can see him clearly, outlined by fire!

  The roaring halted. Giganto’s blocking my path. Hope the camera’s getting this. I can see my breath. Isn’t Hell supposed to be hot? I’m shuddering with cold. It’s as if he absorbed all the heat, draining it from my body . . .

  Gramps! He’s there — confronting Abbadon! What can he do? He’s not even alive. He’s challenging a monster, a demon, to give me a chance.

  I won’t defeat myself. You taught me that, Loyal. I’ll never forget. If I get out of here. I’m going to try.

  They’re battling . . . it’s pretty uneven, like David and Goliath. I need to reach that tunnel.

  I darted by while Gramps had him distracted. Oh boy, he smote Gramps with his fist. That’s the word. Smote. And now he’s coming after me.

  Which way? I’m at another junction! Where are the initials?

  Barkster? I saw him! Can you hear? He’s yapping. He went into a shaft.

  Abbadon is right behind . . . flickering off and on . . . recording or not . . . can barely see except . . . glowing . . . as fast as I can . . .

  Not sure if this still works. Abaddon flung me hard against a wall. Shattered my glasses. I’m in the dark, fumbling blind, just following the dog. True to his name, I hear him barking. I hear Abaddon too, breathing down my neck, stalking me.

  The farther and higher I go, the weaker the beast seems. But I’m weaker also. My body’s so cold, yet I’m burning with fever, and the stinging is fierce. It’s like my blood is infected.

  Staggering. Is this how a zombie feels?

  Ahum. Ahum! Have to keep clearing my throat. Better not talk for a while . . .

  I think I was sleepwalking.

  Teeth are chattering.

  Dozing again.

  At this point, my goal is to make it to the main passage, so they can find this video. That’s all I care about now. That thing didn’t drag me to Hell. I might die anyway, but he didn’t take my soul. He couldn’t or he would have. He stood over me. I guess it’s the devil’s irony, like Gramps said about his leg, when he busted it falling from a ladder after all the scrapes and close calls he had been in, all of the tight and dangerous places. I’m still here. I don’t know for how long. And the battery might be low again. I have spares in my backpack. He got the pack trying to get me. Slashed it off. Gramps’s notebook was in it. I didn’t stick around. The camera could stop at any time. I want to say this before it’s too late. Mom and Dad, I’m sorry for not being . . . nicer. I’ve been angry since Gramps died. At myself mostly. I took it out on you sometimes. I didn’t mean to, and I never apologized. I want you to know that I am sorry.

  Ahum. Losing my voice . . .

  Had a flare of insight. It’s possible Abbadon is tracking me like I’m a wounded deer. Maybe he will reap my soul. Maybe I’m not a reject. Or maybe he wants the camera, like he got the journal. Couldn’t he just erase its memory? Wipe it clean? I don’t know.

  God, it’s so cold!

  Have to keep stumbling forward . . .

  As a kid, there were times when I put everything . . . into doing something that didn’t matter. Then I started waiting to come and look for my grandfather. And that did matter. I just hope . . .

  I just hope this is found.

  Author bio: Lori R. Lopez wears many hats, literally and otherwise. She is an artist who designs her book covers and illustrates some of her tomes. As an author she writes poems, short stories, novels, children's books and songs, as well as a humorous-slash-serious column called "Poetic Reflections" at Fairy Fly Entertainment. She is a musician, actress, filmmaker, tree-hugger and animal-lover. A vegetarian, her work often contains themes of conservation, animal rights, and the rights of children. Lori unapologetically takes pride in creatively bending and reshaping the rules of writing when it suits her style. She has received various honors for her novels THE FAIRY FLY and AN ILL WIND BLOWS. She was named on an Examiner.com list of "92 HORROR AUTHORS YOU NEED TO READ RIGHT NOW" for WOMEN IN HORROR MONTH 2014. Her books also include ODDS AND ENDS, CHOCOLATE-COVERED EYES, THE MACABRE MIND OF LORI R. LOPEZ, OUT-OF-MIND EXPERIENCES, and DANCE OF THE CHUPACABRAS. Her stories and verse, featured in THE SIRENS CALL E-ZINE and at SERVANTE OF DARKNESS, have been published in anthologies such as TERROR TRAIN, WE ARE DUST AND SHADOW, BONES II, MIRAGES: TALES FROM AUTHORS OF THE MACABRE, MASTERS OF HORROR: DAMNED IF YOU DON'T, DARLINGS OF DECAY, I BELIEVE IN WEREWOLVES, THE EPOCALYPSE: EMAILS AT THE END, SOUP OF SOULS, THIRSTY ARE THE DAMNED, and SCARE PACKAGE: 14 TALES OF TERROR. Fifteen of Lori's poems were published for an anthology titled IN DARKNESS WE PLAY. WEBSITE: www.fairyflyentertainment.com

  THE NOTE

  By P. D. Cacek

  Case #BF0641332640

  Journal transcribed from a note found in a bureau.

  I found the note in a bureau drawer.

  The bureau you bought me

  as a surprise

  to make me smile.

  You said.

  I found the note in the top left bureau drawer.

  Tucked into a crack

  in a corner.

  Hiding.

  Hidden.

  Until I found it.

  I found the note and lifted it out.

  Pulled it free.

  Not mine, someone else’s.

  No name.

  No way to tell who had put it there

  or who it was for.

  I found the note,

  in the bureau you bought me,

  folded over twice;

  the paper as brittle as

  caramelized sugar in the snow.

  I found the note.

  Faded.

  No name.

  The paper yellow as lace,

  the crease lines butterscotch.

  I found the note

  and read the words

  Don’t believe him.

  I don’t.

  He loves someone else.

  I suspected it.

  He wants you dead.

  Oh God.

  He will kill you.

  I found the note

  in the bureau you bought me,

  tucked into a crack

  hidden, hiding, waiting for me to find it.

  I found the note

  and believed it.

  You want me dead.

  You love another.

  How did it know when I didn’t?

  I found the note in the bureau drawer

  four lines…no, five…

  Don’t believe him.

  He loves someone el
se.

  He wants you dead.

  He will kill you.

  Unless you kill him first.

  I found the note in the bureau drawer

  and did what it said.

  Author bio: The winner of both a Bram Stoker and World Fantasy Award, P.D. Cacek has written over a hundred short stories, six plays, and five published novels. Her most recent novel, VISITATION RITES, is currently available from Amzon.com. A native Westerner, Cacek now lives Phoenixville, PA…home of BLOBFEST, and only a short walk away from The Colonial Theater where the famous “Run Screaming From Theater” scene was filmed. When not writing, she can often been found with a group

  of costumed storytellers called THE PATIENT CREATURES (www.creatureseast.com.)

  THE SEAHORSE SPEAKS

  By Erik Gustafson

  Case #BF7456510518

  Journal transcribed from handwritten notes on a raveled music reel from a band organ stuffed inside the mouth of a seahorse carousel ride.

  To whoever finds this note.

  My name is Matt Royland, the same guy that went missing on Aug 19th, 2010. I was taken by a big man wearing a blue hat and brought down here. I am chained to a post on the platform of an unfinished carousel. It’s shadowy and cold in my prison, illuminated only by the small, uncovered bulbs that decorate parts of the framework like vertical runway lights. No idea where I actually am, but not too far from home. There are only a few carved animals on this carousel: a couple horses, a dog, a wolf or two, and one of those half man, half horse creatures. None of them are painted yet, just the pale white of raw wood. There are lots of other people here with me. I see withered arms raised above slumped over bodies, chained up just like mine to posts all around the carousel. I suspect most of them are dead. They all look like they are raising their hands to answer a question. A question nobody asked. One post has several people chained to it and they are all sorta bunched on top of each other in a clump. Strange things are happening to all of them, though. I am really scared and don’t think I will ever see my friends or parents again.