Letters from the Dead

 

 

by R.R. Stark

and

Kendall Nightblade

 

 

 I am a total skeptic, and the idea that these letters were sent to me by some ghostly being is just absurd! 

I would rather believe that I was going mad!

 

 

*         *         *

 

Chapter One

 

I received a very strange letter the other day.  It was not in my mailbox, but I found it in a most peculiar way; on the mantle piece of my red brick fireplace.  The aged, yellowed parchment envelope bore a skull imprinted black wax seal that held the outer flap down. As I broke the wax seal and opened the envelope, the letter enclosed was likewise of the same parchment material, but oddly singed at the edges.  I unfolded the mysterious letter and felt the most eerie sensation overcome me, as if an ominous presence was in the room, behind me, breathing over my shoulder. An icy chill ran up my spine and prickled my neck hairs. I turned quickly around B but no one was there B or so I thought. I returned to the letter and reluctantly read:

 

Dear Charlie;

     You should have been more careful.  Because of you, my life has been abruptly interrupted.  I am dead because of you. You had better be more alert, or someone else will get killed because of you. It's your turn now, because there=s blood on your hands!

 

 

 

 

My first reaction was strangulating fear, this a suffocation in my windpipe, but I figured it was psychosomatic. This incredible implication that I had been the cause of another=s death was totally absurd! I figured that someone was playing a practical joke on me.  Because one thing was certain; I had never in my life killed any individual, consciously or otherwise. I felt certain of that.

But the idea of “otherwise” began to haunt me now, for the rest of the day.  What other word could take its place? AUnconsciously@ perhaps? Or even, Aunawares?@  How could I have killed someone and not known about it?  That was ridiculous!  So I could only surmise that this letter was a sheer and deliberate hoax!  And I intended to find out who was behind it!

 

 

 

 

*         *         *

 

Chapter Two

 

It really bothered me that there was no signature, only the little black skull marking beneath the letter. Also, the reddish handwriting seemed curiously like blood, fresh blood in fact, as if the person had dipped a quill pen into recently spilt blood and commenced to write.  Besides, the blood-ink was somewhat smeary upon this very rough-textured parchment, and hard to read. This paper was very thin, yet heavy in weight, I noted. Weird.

I realized that I was getting too wrapped up in this haunting letter, so I tossed it aside, as I would a Frisbee, but it strangely and miraculously drifted in the air like the lightest of feathers, slowly wavered this way and that, until it landed softly upon the hearth of the fireplace, curiously against the wrought-iron poker. Suddenly I had the sensation as if someone were poking my eyes out!  Only for a brief second, then it was gone.

I rubbed my eyes, shook my head, and glared at the unmoving poker.  That was most uncanny!  Then I decided to examine the eerie letter.  I picked it up, again noting how heavy this paper felt in my hand, in spite of the fact that it had drifted in such a carefree, nearly weightless manner. 

I put it back down on the hearth and took a stiff drink of Scotch, then left the house.  I decided a nice brisk walk in the early morning fresh air would do me some good B but my mind would not depart from the matter of this unusual letter.  I decided and almost convinced myself it had to be some strange elaborate prank.  But who would perpetrate such a farce?  My old friend, or unfriend, Bernie, perhaps. He considered me his friend, but I had been trying to pull myself away from the crazy loon for several months now. He was a decent guy, I thought, but he was so talkative that it drove me crazy -- especially with his horror movie fanaticism. In spite of that, I decided it was time to give him a call.  I jogged to the corner of the street and over to Jack’s Quik Spot where there was a pay phone out front.  I picked up the receiver, dropped in some coins, and dialed Bernie's number, then waited.

AYou’ve reached the Horror Hotline, Psycho Central, and this is the deadly Dr. Death speaking!" exclaimed Bernie in his creepiest voice possible.

AHi, this is Charles,@ I said coldly.

"Hey, Chucky Cheesehead! My long lost amigo! I was wondering when you=d dig me up, you old hound dog you!@

AYeah, well, I=ve been busy--"

@Yeah, I bet, busy avoiding yours truly.  You got sick of the old psycho and decided to dump me six feet under.@

AOkay, Bernie, stop being so paranoid.  You know how hectic it gets at Para-Tek, working nights.  But I got a weeks vacation, so I thought I=d kick back on my easy chair and just watch videos until my eyes fall out.@

AYeah, I know whatcha mean. Especially those eyeball-sucking, spine-ripping out horror flicks, right, old bud?@

AYeah . . . right.@ I remembered now why I called him -- and also why I normally don’t call him.  Considering that Bernie was a horror flick buff, I figured the mysterious letter writer had to be him.  ASay, Bernie old chum.  That sicko letter you sent me -- it wasn=t at all funny.@

AWhat?! Whaterya jabbering about, Chucko?  What letter?@

He sounded sincere, but I wouldn=t put it passed him to fake it and just drag this thing out.

ACome on, Bernie, admit it! I know you sent it!  How you got in my house, I don=t know.@

AHey, pal!  I don=t know what the hell your talking about!@ And he was furious and insulted.  AI never sent no stinking letter to you!  I haven=t even called you in a long time B or bugged you!  So stop pointing your boney finger at me, pal!@

I sighed in defeat.  AOkay, Bernie, okay.  Sorry.  I just don=t know who it could have been."

@Not me.  Some friend you are B accusing me of breaking into your house -- and besides, why wouldn=t this letter be in your mail box? Answer me that, bud!@

AI honestly don=t know, Bernie.  It was on my mantle.  So it=s one helluva mystery.@

AWhat did it say? Some girl wanting to hit on you, Mr. Hunkola, huh?@

No. . . Nothing like that. I wish it were, though.@

ASo whaddit say?@

I sighed again. AIt -- someone=s apparently implying that I had ended his life -- or killed him somehow, and said I would pay, or something--"

@W-w-w-w-wa-a-a-ait a frickin= minute!@ Bernie did that fake spooky voice of his. AThis guy -- we assume it=s a guy, right?  Okay, this guy wrote you this letter saying that you killed him -- although  he=s long since rigomortisized?!?!@

AYep.@

AHhhmmm. . . Sounds like you got a Stephen King thriller on our hands, bud.@

AWell, I=d rather be in the middle of a Baywatch episode then this.@

AYou and me both, bud.@

 

 

 

*         *         *

 

Chapter Three

 

When I returned home, the letter was not on the hearth where I had left it. In fact, it was nowhere to be seen as if it had simply vanished -- or had never even existed.  Definitely weird.

I was not a believer in the supernatural.  The idea of a letter being sent to me from a dead person was absurd!  I was determined that some anonymous prankster was trying to play some insidious trick on me.  Obviously he had a key to my house, because I always lock my doors before leaving the house.  The windows were locked to come so he couldn't get in this way either.  I tried not to wrack my brain over it, but my sleep that night was very restless.  I

The following day, I found the next letter on the mantle piece again.  I reluctantly yet with anticipation read it, my hands trembling:

 

 

Charlie, by the standard of the laws of cause and effect, you do owe me. Karma, Charlie. Like it or not. You took my life, so you'll have to pay! But you have a chance to right the wrong you have done me, to get the blood off your hands.  Otherwise, the chain of cause and effect will continue as before.

 

 

I didn=t know what to think. What the hell was this joker talking about?  I didn't take anybody's life!  And what does he mean that the chain of cause and effect will continue? I didn't believe in karma or any of that Eastern philosophy crap anyway.  It was all nonsense. This insane hoax had gone too far!

Another thought hit me.  I knew an old acquaintance who worked in his family mortuary across town.  He was a very strange fellow, and it was rumored that he would play subtle practical jokes on unsuspecting people, but he would always deny it.  I met the fellow in a Writer=s Workshop, as I had a budding interest in creative writing.  He had written a creepy story that he read to the group about how all of the corpses in his family mortuary came to life and began killing people they had grudges against.  The story involved blatant butchering of people and bloody body parts strewn all over town. He idiotically called his piece AMidnight Mortuary Madness.@ The group moderator never let him finish reading the morbid piece.  I clearly remember his unforgettable appearance. Tall and gangly, long face and drooping, blood-shot eyes like a bloodhound=s, yet his black pencil-line eyebrows eerily slanted upward.  His complexion was as pallid as a full moon. His unkempt, curly, greasy black hair looked like the silhouette of a gnarly tree in some horror flick.  His thin lips wore a sinister, subtle grin, and never seemed to change.  He looked like a typical character out of some Gothic horror flick.  I was willing to bet this was the fellow who was behind these freaky letters. His name was Nathaniel Kremp. I decided to pay him a visit, at his family’s mortuary where he worked in the basement, where the cold dead bodies lay on metal tables.

Nathaniel shook his head slowly, that eerie grin frozen on his pale face denying it. ANo.@

AWhat do you mean >no=?@ I shot, while I watched Nathaniel brushing the dead pale face of a corpse with flesh-toned make up.  I felt uneasy in the first place coming to him, let alone witnessing his eerie, macabre work. Oddly, the mellow peach color he applied looked more real than his own pasty white skin.

AI know what you=re thinking, Charles.  I never played those tricks on anyone is.  People merely accused me because they consider me -- weird.@

I muttered, AI see.@    

ASo obviously I didn=t secretly place any letters in your house.  I am insulted.@ Nathaniel said it calmly. "However, the supernatural aspect of it all is quite intriguing."

"I don't believe in the supernatural, ghosts, communication from the dead, or any of that ridiculous crap!"

"You're very close minded. How sad.  There have been times that I have heard whisperings from the ghosts of the deceased that I'm working on.  At first it was very frightening, but after a while I got used to it."

I figured Nathaniel was a genuinely deranged nutcase.  But I wasn't going to humor him. "It's all in your head, you're imagining all of it."

  He chuckled mildly. "You can believe what you want, but I can't deny what is obvious to me."

"Well it seems awful damn obvious to me that someone's playing a nasty prank on me."

Perhaps too simply humor him, Nathaniel said, "That is very possible, in your case especially."

I shrugged, AI=m just trying to figure out who might be playing this sick joke.  And I don't have a whole lot of friends like I used to.@

AIt could possibly be Bernard.@

I laughed, AI talked to Bernie already. It wasn=t him. He was insulted B even more than you.@

Nathaniel didn=t reply, but continued brushing the fleshy powder on the face of the dead person, as if that would bring it back to life.

AIt=s driving me crazy,@ I complained. 

Then Nathaniel set the brush aside, bent down, and brought up a bottle of Vodka in one hand and two goblets in the other.  His eerie grin almost widened, AMedicine to calm your frazzled nerves, Charles.@

I smiled, "I could sure use a stiff drink."

Suddenly I felt queasy and nauseous as an ominous visual impression flashed through my mind, like a forgotten memory. A brilliant blaze of headlights blinding me on an open road.  Then it was gone just as fast.

Nathaniel placed the bottle and goblets back.  AYou look horribly pale.  What=s wrong, Charles?@

I collapsed into a nearby chair, hands gripping my stomach.  AI don=t know, maybe my mind is playing tricks on me.@

APlease tell me what it is.@ 

I shook my head, then shrugged it off. AI -- uh, I just remembered the last party I went to at Bob Crenshaw=s house, several month=s ago. I was wasted, and I tried driving home, swerving all over the road and--@ I felt nauseous again.

AWhat, Charles? I think you do need a drink--@

@NO!@ I growled, and Nathaniel jumped back from his stool, as it fell over. That eerie grin was gone. His mouth gaped wide now, in surprise.  That worried me.

AI gotta go.@ I barely breathed and ran out of that dismal mortuary as if a ghost was chasing me.

 

 

*         *         *

 

Chapter Four

 

 

When I found the next letter on my mantle, I tried to force my self to ignore it, perhaps to just crumple it up and throw it in the trash.  But by sheer curiosity, in spite of the terror these letters were sucking me into, I opened it up and read it regardless:

 

Tsk tsk, Charlie,

First, stop bothering others with your situation. Second, THIS IS NO JOKE!  This is very real!  I told you before, the karmic chain of events will continue if you don't change things, and that means someone else will take your life!

 

 

 

I didn't like the threatening attitude of these letters.  And of course, I didn't believe any of it.  And the reference to this chain of events that would continue was very disturbing to me, especially when this mysterious writer implied that I might die if I didn't do something about this.  But what was I supposed to do?  What was I supposed to change?  I didn't know what to do anymore.  I was at wits end. 

I took one of my usual stiff drinks of Scotch -- and oddly felt nauseous again while seeing a flash of headlights dashing across my mind. Then it was gone. I wondered if this "change" I was supposed to make had anything to do with my drinking. I grimaced and told myself, nobody can tell me what to do!

My whole week of vacation was being ruined by these damn letters. I had to do something to distract myself, something to clear my head of all this insanity. Decided to set my easy chair and watch TV, but all I could do was channel surf through all the idiotic cable channels. For some bizarre reason, I felt drawn to the Horror Channel, which was showing an old black-and-white Frankenstein flick, the kind I used to watch as a child. I watched the villagers with their torches running down some dusty road in search of the monster, and of course the scene flashed to the monster chasing some poor wretch. Then I noticed a small red spot forming in the middle of the screen, and then there was a row of several red spots, dripping down across the black-and-white picture.  They were forming words in eerie dripping blood, that read:

 

I AM WATCHING YOU!

 

I yelped a short scream as I sat frozen in the easy chair, glaring at the bizarre bright red words oozing down along the benign motion of the black-and-white Frankenstein movie behind them.  I rubbed my eyes with sweaty fingers, then looked again -- and they were gone.  Perhaps I was going mad!  Or someone was trying to drive me crazy.  I was determined somebody was behind placing those demented letters on top of my mantle -- but seeing words in dripping blood across my TV screen?  Now my mind was playing tricks on me! Or else I was simply going mad!

                    

 

 

*            *            *

Chapter Five

 

The next day came, and so far I saw no letter on the mantle.  So I spent the day eating junk food, reading my old comic books, or watching television.  Then sometime after the sun went down I walked through the living room, and reluctantly looked on top of the mantle.  There it was! I was impelled to toss the damn letter into the crackling fireplace, burn it before it was too late. But curiosity overcame me. I ripped open the envelope and read the damnable letter with clenched teeth:

 

Charlie, you find it hard to believe all this -- but you had better! I told you this is very real, it is not in your mind, and you're not going mad. You’re just a narrow-minded thinker.  Just because you don=t believe in the Other Side, doesn=t make your belief true. I am very real.  Just minus my physical body BWHICH YOU STOLE FROM ME!  Now, if you keep avoiding me and your situation, you will also be minus yours! So you=re stuck with me, to do what I say B or ELSE!

 

 

 

This time I balled it up and tossed it into the fireplace -- but it jumped out, a little fireball rolling across the carpet, singing a little trail across the long shag.  I swore and stomped out the ball of flame, but my shoe caught on fire as I failed to put it out. I kicked my shoe off and grabbed a thick encyclopedia off my bookshelf and pounded out the flaming spot. That did it, but it left an ugly black mark on my beautiful sky blue shag carpet, and that mark looked eerily like a skull -- a black skull.

I didn=t know what to do. This had to be some elaborate joke, no matter what the letters said, no matter how eerie this whole transpiring development had become.  I had been a skeptic all my life, always finding a way to intellectually explain such bizarre matters, particularly the paranormal. But this particular situation was apparently beyond my grasp. I could go to the police, except the other letters were no where in sight. Apparently, after one letter simply vanished, the next one would soon appear. But eventually they all vanished, as if these letters never existed.  So I had no evidence. I decided I would hang on to this particular letter, so I carefully placed it in my shirt pocket, planning to show up it to the police. As I grabbed my car keys off the coffee table, I glanced at that black spot on the carpet, that chard black skull impression, and deciding to get my instamatic camera out of the bedroom.  But when I came back, it was gone!  I grabbed inside my shirt pocket, and the letter was gone too! Damn! This was insane!  It was totally illogical, and my analytical mind couldn't conjure up any kind of reasonable explanation.

Completely flustered, I ran into the bathroom to splash water on my face -- only to see sprawled across the mirror in dripping bright crimson blood these words:

 

NO POLICE OR YOU DIE!

 

I ran out of the bathroom, grabbed the camera, and ran back in, but what I had seen in the mirror was now gone!

Obviously I was going insane. Perhaps I imagined all of this, a skull imprint in the carpet, the blood writing on the mirror and on the TV screen yesterday, and especially those eerie letters that kept disappearing. Perhaps I had developed schizophrenia and all of these bizarre instances taking place were products of my deranged imagination.

The idea that I was developing some kind of mental illness made more sense to me than accepting some incredible supernatural phenomenon was occurring.  Letters just don't disappear like that -- unless they never really existed in the first place.  I decided if this kept up, I would have to see a shrink, and if that didn=t work, commit myself to an asylum.

What was I thinking? Commit myself? That was crazy to even think that way! I must be out of my mind to commit myself!

Then I laughed at myself, reflecting on my own unbalanced thinking.  For only crazy people do think that way. So perhaps I was going crazy after all.  

I shook my head, turned on the faucet and splashed water in my face. Then I took a strong stiff drink of Scotch to calm my nerves. Then I took another. This whole ordeal was killing me! If any changes were made at all, this insanity would drive me to drink even more than before.

I had to do something to clear my head. I had to get out of the house, take a trip somewhere. So I decided to pack a bag and take a little excursion into the country. The fresh air would do me good.

 

*         *         *

 

Chapter Six

 

It was dark, nearly midnight, so I turned my headlights on as a pulled out of the garage. An excursion this late at night? What was I thinking? It didn't matter, I had to get away for awhile.

In my black reconditioned >82 Mustang I zoomed eastbound on the interstate, far beyond the city limits, and then I took an exit and got off on some nameless country road where they made hairpin turns through the foothills that were thick with tall evergreens. Then I suddenly realized where I was. I was no more than a mile from Bob Crenshaw=s country homestead, where he often threw big beer bashes.  And several months ago was the last time I had been there, when I got drunk as a skunk.  That weird nauseous feeling hit me again, triggering something, a lost memory.

How did I let myself get drawn to this particular direction, as if some unseen force was guiding me? Not to mention I was approaching a familiar part of the road, where it must have happened, something I must have blocked out of my mind completely, or was too drunk to remember.

Then I observed down the road another car approaching, but it was swerving wildly, for surely the driver was totally drunk -- most likely coming from Bob Crenshaw's place. Headlights blazing, it roared up the hill and toward me, I tried to ease as close to the shoulder as possible while the other vehicle recklessly swerved toward me. Then, for a split second, I saw the dripping blood-writing in the rear window through my rear view mirror:

 

This is how I died! Bon voyage, Charlie!

 

Then it was too late! I turned the wheel hard to the right, avoiding the other car that should have hit me dead on! But I managed to go down the steep ditch, but way to fast, as I hit a tree and B

All went black. Totally.

 

 

*         *         *

 

Chapter Seven