Supernatural Horror Short Stories

by Flame Tree Studio

  It began when an unexpected power surge caused an overload in an electrical-field generator he was using. He records that a stepladder he had left in the middle of the field vanished from sight and then returned a few seconds later. ‘Blinked out’ is how he describes it in the journal. It took him months to recreate the power surge, but when he did, he became able to make objects disappear for several minutes at a time. He proceeded quite scientifically from this point, and the journal is full of detailed records of everything he put into the field, how long each object ‘blinked out,’ and whether anything at all was different when the objects returned. Moreover, he has nearly endless pages speculating about the nature of the phenomenon, ranging from the impact of the electrical field on the behavior of light waves to some brief alteration of the passage of time. When he couldn’t be alone in the laboratory, he devoted his time to expanding his theoretical model to include time, and even began to question the nature of light. There are some notes regarding the construction of a device that might allow one to perceive light as a physical property, and I think we will want to follow up on that.

  At night, when he had solitary access to the laboratory, Prof. Binford continued to expose objects to the field. Eventually, one returned slightly altered. The bottom of the wooden crate was now stained reddish-brown, as if it had been sitting in mud for the hour it had been gone. His journal at this point overflows with excitement, and an almost childish impatience as he was forced to wait several days before he could begin again. This next time, the crate came back covered in the reddish-brown mud, and with three symmetrical claw marks on one side. At this point, he put aside all of his work on light and time, and assumed that the objects were being moved across space to another location, that he had accidentally discovered a means of transporting objects over great distances instantaneously – a sort of matter transmitter. At this point, he began to spend his days on long walks in search of the reddish-brown mud, first only in the University quarter, and then throughout the City. Eventually he found an alley in Clearchurch that he thought must surely be the place – it had reddish-brown soil that turned muddy when exposed to water, and seemed also to house a number of stray cats. He hired a pair of local boys to look out for his next crate and to mark it with an X when they saw it. But none of his crates ever returned with their mark, and they insisted that, although they had stayed up very late looking for crates, they never saw any.

  You can guess what the next step was. Prof. Binford determined to transmit himself through the field. When I read this, I immediately jumped to the conclusion that this had caused the accident, but I was wrong. He successfully transmitted himself seven times before the accident destroyed the laboratory, and on his last three journeys he was gone for over a month. Much of the journal is an account of his expeditions, and if I hadn’t seen for myself, I would have thought this the record of a brilliant man’s descent into madness. I present for you here some of the early entries so you can observe the same evidence that I have. You will want to read the other accounts next month.

  * * *

  January 13, 1834 10:37:21 PM

  Return: 10:38:29 PM

  My first trip through the field. The process of transmission is unpleasant, almost painful. Every part of my being felt as if it were burning from the inside, and all around me was a blue lightning that almost blinded me. It is hard to say how long that process lasted, but since I was gone for only a little more than a minute, it must have been merely a matter of seconds each way. It seemed much longer. When the lights and the pain stopped, I found myself outside at night in a featureless landscape. Below me was dirt or hard sand, above me a sky full of stars – but they were all wrong. Supposition: I must have traveled to some remote location in the southern hemisphere.

  * * *

  January 16, 1834 11:02:33 p.m.

  Return: January 17, 1834 03:17:54 a.m.

  Four hours! Alas, four tedious hours, as the wasteland seems to stretch infinitely in all directions. Yet, much excitement, for I brought with me another journal in which to transcribe the constellations, and I have now checked them against Mr. Webb’s Southern Star Atlas and they do not match. Wherever I have traveled, it is not on this world. I will travel again in a few days, and this time I will return with samples of the soil and atmosphere.

  * * *

  January 28, 1834 08:42:29 p.m.

  Return: February 7, 1834 06:51:18 a.m.

  Over a week this time, and again I returned to the chapel instead of the laboratory. And the process of solidification is taking even longer – nearly ten minutes now. Several experiments have borne fruit, though mostly of a bitter sort. It is certain now that I am not appearing in precisely the same location each time, but at seemingly random points within a square mile, or something close to it. Everything I brought with me returned at the same time as I did or slightly earlier, even the items I buried. It does not appear to be possible to create a stockpile of tools and supplies, and I will have to bring everything I need each time. At least it is always warm.

  * * *

  The source of all our current trouble was suddenly obvious to me, as it will be to you. For fifteen years, Prof. Binford had been at this other place (whatever that might mean), and somehow was now in the process of returning. Setting aside my panic, I approached the problem as clinically as possible, but I was not able to come to any conclusions that would be helpful in fully returning Prof. Bindford to us. But before I allowed myself a few hours of sleep, I determined not to make the fatal mistake of attempting anything further alone. I have no doubt that we could have assembled a team of researchers to bring him home safely, if only I had found his journal sooner.

  I awoke the next morning to the sound of the chapel bell. At first, I thought it was happening again, but the noise was rhythmic, jut the morning bell, so I determined to ignore it. As I tried to return to sleep, I realized it was a Summoning, and I hurried out of bed, made a bad show of descending the stairs while trying to put on shoes, and joined the rest of the college in the chapel. The doors had been removed since the episode on the previous day, but the altar remained, badly damaged from the impact. Prof. Sleatham addressed us from the lectern. As is his custom, he went on for far too long before coming to the point, but he was about to announce the temporary closure of the college when the lectern began to lose its shape. It started with, or at least was most obvious with, the beak of the eagle, which slowly liquefied and drooped toward the floor. The clock near the organ pipes behaved similarly, and soon every piece of metal in the chapel began to liquefy and twist and bend. There was something quietly horrifying about watching common objects lose their form, but we were all transfixed – until we were snapped out of it by the sudden shattering of the windows. For a few seconds, time paused, and shards of colored glass hung in the air, and then, just as suddenly, the passage of time resumed, and the glass rained onto the floor. There was a horrible crackling, like being on top of a mountain in the middle of a summer storm, and then a deafening burst like thunder and a figure appeared atop the altar.

  Now there was a general panic, and everyone rushed to get out of the chapel. I won’t say that I was unafraid, but because I now knew what was happening, even if I didn’t understand it, I was able to remain calm, and I saw Prof. Binford stretch out his hand and smile and then collapse. When the chapel had cleared I hurried to the altar. He was alive and awake, but only barely. “Esther,” he muttered. It was a question. He was surprised to see me, or perhaps he wasn’t sure if that was really my name. I took his hand and tried to reassure him, but blood began to trickle from his ears and his nose, and then from his eyes. “It is not for us,” he told me, and then he stopped breathing.

  For a few hours very late last night, I thought he was going to return to us, I thought we were going to get him back, but it was all a cruel joke. Something of this will be in the newspapers soon, but I wanted you to hear the full story from me. If I hur
ry now, I can post this today, so I will save any further comments for when you arrive. I was already looking forward to seeing you, of course, but now more than ever.

  Give my love to Eric and the boys.

  The Pool of the Stone God

  A. Merrit

  This is Professor James Marston’s story. A score of learned bodies have courteously heard him tell it, and then among themselves have lamented that so brilliant a man should have such an obsession. Professor Marston told it to me in San Francisco, just before he started to find the island that holds his pool of the stone god and – the wings that guard it. He seemed to me very sane. It is true that the equipment of his expedition was unusual, and not the least curious part of it are the suits of fine chain mail and masks and gauntlets with which each man of the party is provided.

  * * *

  The five of us, said Professor Marston, sat side by side on the beach. There was Wilkinson the first officer, Bates and Cassidy the two seamen, Waters the pearler and myself. We had all been on our way to New Guinea, I to study the fossils for the Smithsonian. The Moranus had struck the hidden reef the night before and had sunk swiftly. We were then, roughly, about five hundred miles northeast of the Guinea coast. The five of us had managed to drop a lifeboat and get away. The boat was well stocked with water and provisions. Whether the rest of the crew had escaped we did not know. We had sighted the island at dawn and had made for her. The lifeboat was drawn safely up on the sands.

  “We’d better explore a bit, anyway,” said Waters. “This may be a perfect place for us to wait rescue. At least until the typhoon season is over. We’ve our pistols. Let’s start by following this brook to its source, look over the place and then decide what we’ll do.”

  The trees began to thin out. We saw ahead an open space. We reached it and stopped in sheer amazement. The clearing was perfectly square and about five hundred feet wide. The trees stopped abruptly at its edges as though held back by something unseen.

  But it was not this singular impression that held us. At the far end of the square were a dozen stone huts clustered about one slightly larger. They reminded me powerfully of those prehistoric structures you see in parts of England and France. I approach now the most singular thing about this whole singular and sinister place. In the center of the space was a pool walled about with huge blocks of cut stone. At the side of the pool rose a great stone figure, carved in the semblance of a man with outstretched hands. It was at least twenty feet high and was extremely well executed. At the distance the statue seemed nude and yet it had a peculiar effect of drapery about it. As we drew nearer we saw that it was covered from ankles to neck with the most extraordinary carved wings. They looked exactly like bat wings when they were folded.

  There was something extremely disquieting about this figure. The face was inexpressibly ugly and malignant. The eyes, Mongol-shaped, slanted evil. It was not from the face, though, that this feeling seemed to emanate. It was from the body covered with wings – and especially from the wings. They were part of the idol and yet they gave one the idea that they were clinging to it.

  Cassidy, a big brute of a man, swaggered up to the idol and laid his hand on it. He drew it away quickly, his face white, his mouth twitching. I followed him and conquering my unscientific repugnance, examined the stone. It, like the huts and in fact the whole place, was clearly the work of that forgotten race whose monuments are scattered over the Southern Pacific. The carving of the wings was wonderful. They were batlike, as I have said, folded and each ended in a little ring of conventionalized feathers. They ranged in size from four to ten inches. I ran my fingers over one. Never have I felt the equal of the nausea that sent me to my knees before the idol. The wing had felt like smooth, cold stone, but I had the sensation of having touched back of the stone some monstrous obscene creature of a lower world. The sensation came of course, I reasoned, only from the temperature and texture of the stone – and yet this did not really satisfy me.

  Dusk was soon due. We decided to return to the beach and examine the clearing further on the morrow. I desired greatly to explore the stone huts.

  We started back through the forest. We walked some distance and then night fell. We lost the brook. After a half hour’s wandering we heard it again. We started for it. The trees began to thin out and we thought we were approaching the beach. Then Waters clutched my arm. I stopped. Directly in front of us was the open space with the stone god leering under the moon and the green water shining at his feet!

  We had made a circle. Bates and Wilkinson were exhausted. Cassidy swore that devils or no devils he was going to camp that night beside the pool!

  The moon was very bright. And it was so very quiet. My scientific curiosity got the better of me and I thought I would examine the huts. I left Bates on guard and walked over to the largest. There was only one room and the moonlight shining through the chinks in the wall illuminated it clearly. At the back were two small basins set in the stone. I looked in one and saw a faint reddish gleam reflected from a number of globular objects. I drew a half dozen of them out. They were pearls, very wonderful pearls of a peculiarly rosy hue. I ran toward the door to call Bates – and stopped!

  My eyes had been drawn to the stone idol. Was it an effect of the moonlight or did it move? No, it was the wings! They stood out from the stone and waved – they waved, I say, from the ankles to the neck of that monstrous statue.

  Bates had seen them, too. He was standing with his pistol raised. Then there was a shot. And after that the air was filled with a rushing sound like that of a thousand fans. I saw the wings loose themselves from the stone god and sweep down in a cloud upon the four men. Another cloud raced up from the pool and joined them. I could not move. The wings circled swiftly around and about the four. All were now on their feet and I never saw such horror as was in their faces.

  Then the wings closed in. They clung to my companions as they had clung to the stone.

  I fell back into the hut. I lay there through the night insane with terror. Many times I heard the fan-like rushing about the enclosure, but nothing entered my hut. Dawn came, and silence, and I dragged myself to the door. There stood the stone god with the wings carved upon him as we had seen him ten hours before!

  I ran over to the four lying on the grass. I thought that perhaps I had had a nightmare. But they were dead. That was not the worst of it. Each man was shrunken to his bones! They looked like collapsed white balloons. There was not a drop of blood in them. They were nothing but bones wrapped around in thin skin!

  Mastering myself, I went close to the idol. There was something different about it. It seemed larger – as though, the thought went through my mind, as though it had eaten. Then I saw that it was covered with tiny drops of blood that had dropped from the ends of the wings that clothed it!

  I do not remember what happened afterward. I awoke on the pearling schooner Luana which had picked me up, crazed with thirst as they supposed in the boat of the Moranus.

  This Time, Forever

  Michelle Muenzler

  Time is funny, the way it slips past when you’re not watching.

  “Look at me,” Ell rasps. The air around her is sour, like turned milk. Thick enough to coat my tongue.

  I bite my lip. Wince as the dry skin cracks. I want to look at her – I want to – but the moment my eyes leave the seconds hand of the clock on the wall, I know I’ll lose her. Every ounce of me is focused on that clock hand, on keeping it still. Time will not take Ell from me.

  Not again.

  “Look at me, Lexi, look at me,” she repeats, and almost, almost my eyes peel away.

  In that half glance, the seconds hand slips forward an extra breath.

  “No,” I say. “I won’t. If I do –”

  “We all have to die sometime.” Her hand slides over mine. Wet. Slimy. “You can’t keep taking that away from me.”

  I suppress a shudder, but my
eyes remain glued to the clock. To the tick of time. Slow and methodical. Not racing like my heart. Not unraveling in a tidal rush like the rest of the world.

  Ell doesn’t understand. How could she?

  Outside the apartment a siren wails, and for the briefest moment my attention darts toward the window, toward the black-out drapes.

  It’s enough.

  Ell gurgles something, her words lost in a wet bubbling, and by the time I jerk my gaze back to the clock, it claims an hour has passed and again – again – Ell is gone.

  * * *

  I should never have kept the box.

  “Hey,” Ell says, swiping the black lacquered box from the pile of junk on the kitchen bar and shaking it against her ear. Its contents swish dryly. “What’s this?”

  I snatch it back. “Nothing. Just a…a thing from my grandmother.”

  Even before my grandmother died last month, my apartment was a wreck. Like it plowed through a junkyard, dragging the whole mess behind it before cramming itself back atop the three-story complex I call home. Now there is just that much more junk, all half unpacked and shoved into every space available.

  Ell stares at the box, eyes glittering like a crow’s. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Well, what’s in it?”

  I curl the box against my stomach. “I told you, nothing. It’s just a box.”

  She doesn’t believe me, but after a few moments she gives in, flumphs irreverently onto the stack of papers on the couch, and pulls out her phone. “So,” she says, “what’ll it be for dinner tonight? Pizza? Thai?”

  I set the box back on the counter. My fingers tremble against its cool surface. “How about we go out tonight?”

  Ell’s nose wrinkles. “We went out last night. And the night before.”