What Lies Beneath

What lies beneath the shadow of the Moon? A celestial body eclipsed in obscurity,

do it’s secrets thrive in the opacity of isolation as it casts its shadow on those rapt with adoration, those that would venerate this heavenly being

What lies beneath the Ocean’s depths where sunlight fears to tread. This abyssal plain that teams with life and realms unknown where mysteries abound. What cryptic symbols do its crystalline waters reveal, what inspiring rhymes does it possess

What lies beneath the radiant Sun at dawn, this giver of life and creation.  It rises in the East a beacon on the horizon bringing forth the new day and baring the standard of hope with its incandescent luster. Its intensity en-kindles all with that which is its nature; enthusiasm, excitement, exhilaration.

What lies beneath the Star nestled in celestial spaces.  One of many but unique is this enigma, laden in luminescent energy. Its arcane aura animates and enlivens the darkest of souls. It is  able to inflame and electrify from its lofty perch but in the darkness what light does it itself seek.

From the turmoil of a raging storm the Rainbow does break but what treasures lay beneath this prism’s sorted colors. What illusion is this that ensnares the heart in a flight of fantasy, a hallucination of a fool's paradise?

Leave The Light On

The old woman sat gazing out the storm paned windows as she had done every night for seventy years.  Her name was Amelia, but none now lived that called her such. Long white hair, that was once a deep auburn, fell about her shoulders. Her skin had lost its youthful luster; it was now dried by the sun and salty air. But something in her gentle countenance and soft blue eyes gave a hint of the beauty she once was.

Amelia pulled a worn shawl tightly around her thin shoulders but it was a feeble effort. The draft had already seeped into her aged bones.  But she would not leave her post in the lantern room of the old lighthouse.  Not until death finally came to claim her.

Years ago, each day Amelia would have lovingly cleaned the interior and exterior of the lantern panes, cleaned the optic with spirits of wine. She also cleaned the chimney of the lamp, always making sure that spare clean lamps and chimneys were on hand. The clock weight was wound and the clockworks cleaned and oiled. These preparations for the coming evening she would have had completed before 10:00 am.

In the evening, as the keeper of the lighthouse, Amelia would ascend to the lantern room and check the wind direction. Then she would carefully adjust the vents to allow just enough draft into the lantern room. The entering draft would rise along the interior sides of the lantern panes keeping them from fogging.  The draft also sucked the fumes from the oil burning lamp out of the lantern room.  Once her work was done Amelia would walk along the galleries, looking for a ship out on the horizon.

Amelia was no longer required to wind the weights or trim the wicks of the lamp. No longer did she go about adjusting the vents. There was no lamp chimney that needed cleaning. The oil burning lamp had long ago been replaced by a modern eclectic one.  In fact the lighthouse no longer needed a keeper. And if it did she would be too old for the task. Amelia’s beloved lighthouse had outlived her.

Amelia was in her nineties now and knew death would not be long in coming. She felt it draw nearer every day. 

But until then she would watch the horizon for that ship. She would continue waiting for him, as she had promised long ago.

Amelia fingered the locket at her throat and let her eyes slipped closed. Her mind began a journey down the river of time.

She was a young girl of seventeen again.  Her red hair floated on the breeze, her skirts swirled around her ankles, as she ran along the white sands. She could smell the salt in the air, almost taste it.  Another ship had been dashed upon the rocks.  The wreckage lay a few yards off shore. All that could now be seen of the once proud schooner was a broken mast, its torn sails flapping in the wind. The churning sea was littered with debris. The foaming tide had carried splinters of wood, crates, barrels, and other items and deposited them on the sandy shore. It was among this refuse that she found him.

He could not have been much older than she. The boy’s fair hair was pasted to his head, wet from the sea. His features were pale with an almost bluish hue. Grains of sand clung to his face and lips. The sailor dress he wore had been reduced to rags. Upon the chest of the white v-neck shirt was a bloom of scarlet. Amelia placed her hand over the wound.  Her hand came away sticky with blood. 

The boy, whom she later learned was called Nicholas, did not wake for a full three days and three nights.  During that time he was under Amelia’s gentle care. Nicholas woke weak from loss of blood and malnutrition. Amelia fed him, bathed him, and gently cared for his wounds over the next several weeks.  Nicholas told her of his travels and adventures. He had seen many beautiful and exotic lands, but he had always longed for home. Amelia told him about her life on the island and how she had always longed for adventure.

When it was time for Nicholas to go he found it broke his heart to leave her behind.  Amelia begged him to stay but she knew he could not. It was his time to go.

Nicholas took Amelia’s hand and looked deep into her eyes. She had never before or never since felt a gesture so intimate. “I will be back, I swear.” He whispered. “If you leave a light on, I will be back.”

Amelia had seen to the construction of the lighthouse and became its faithful keeper ever since. She vowed that the treacherous rocks would not take another soul as they had her beloved Nicholas.

Amelia slowly opened her eyes. She gazed once more out the storm paned windows. This time there was a ship on the horizon. It was not one of the steam ships or even one of the modern gas engine ships.  The light from the lens above fell upon the ocean illuminating a wooden schooner traveling at full sail. Amelia’s lips parted in a warm smile. She rose from her seat, letting the shawl fall from her shoulders and flutter to the floor. She no longer needed it.

On the way to the door, Amelia caught her reflection in a looking glass. She raised a slender hand to caress a cheek that was no longer withered with age.  Her hair was once more the color of flames instead of snow.  In the mirror Amelia could see the figure of an old woman in the background. She was seated in a chair before the great windows of the tower. The woman was so serene she might have been sleeping.  

Amelia descended the spiral staircase with a new found youth. She headed to the shore waiting for her true love to land. 

The Monster in the Closet

I clutch Mr. Pooh Bear closer to my body, as if the moth eaten stuffed bear can protect me from what is coming.  He looks up at me with his one remaining button eye seeming to say, “What do you want me to do?”  My flannel pajamas are sticking to my clammy skin.  Beads of sweat trickle down the back of my neck.  One bead slides down my cheek, making my nose itch, but I dare not move to scratch it.

I muster the courage to peer through the slats in the closet door.  Through the dim light I can see my bed, the covers pushed aside in a heap from my flight to the closet.  The room is empty, but it will not be for long.

Somewhere close, floorboards groan.  My heart is in my mouth.  I recognize the whine of the rusty hinges on my bedroom door.  Shadows ebb and flow in my field of vision through the wooden slats of the door.  My jaw is locked so tight it aches.  My heart is a violent banging in my ears; I am sure the sound must give me away.  Surely the beast can hear it, sense it.

It is so close now I can smell it:  a mixture of sweat, blood, and rancid meat. There is also the cloying scent of decay and something else I cannot quite place.  It is one of those scents that stir fond memories you can not quite grasp.  As it draws closer to my sanctuary, the air becomes more pungent.  A scene flashes in my mind offering me a momentary reprieve from my terror.  It is the day I found my first dog, Charlie.  His long golden locks are a tangled mass from mud and rain.  He licks my hand in an offer of thanks for the shelter from the elements I have provided.  Terror crashes down on me again as I realize that is the scent I could not quite grasp.  My pursuer smells of wet dog.

The dim light that has been filtering through the slats in the closet door is completely swallowed by darkness.  I am already resting at the back of the closet, but I press my back harder against the wall, desperate to be as far from the monster as I can. I clench my jaw tighter still, against the scream I feel rising in my throat.  My mouth is dry; my tongue feels like leather.  Even if I were to try to scream I wonder if I could manage even a dull croak.

The thing looms on the other side of the door sniffing the air.  Each second feels like hours.  It emits a deep menacing growl.  It knows I am here.  My flesh crawls and the hairs on my neck stand on end as its claws rake along the slats of the door.

The door bursts open and I am screaming now.  Tears pour from my eyes though they are closed tight against the horror before me.  My body is a thing of flailing legs and arms, but there is no escape.  I pray this is all some dream from which I will awake, but I know god has forsaken me.

Resigned to my fate, knowing I deserve it.  As the darkness closes in, all I want is for it to be over ….

*****

The young orderly’s face was ashen.  His eyes were still wide with fear as he stared at the woman in the hospital bed.  She was out cold now but he imagined her rising up at any moment.  He could not shake the image of her as she was only moments before:  a monster with limbs flailing, spittle spraying from her lips as she kicked and clawed at them.  Billy ran a shaking hand along the gashes on his cheek.  Questions lingered on his lips he had no voice to ask.  What the hell was she doing hiding in the closet anyway?  What was she so afraid of?

Henry gave his eyes a roll but turned his head so Billy could not see.  What the hell do they expect when they take a job here? He thought but did not say.  Henry had to admit Billy was having one hell of a first night on the job.  A part of Henry remembered many years ago when he was as green as his trainee; fresh out of college and full of confidence.  That shit didn’t last long.

Henry had tried to warn Billy to stand back.  The woman had looked harmless enough huddled on the closet floor, her arms wrapped around knees pulled under her chin.  But Henry knew better.  “Mad Maddy” played out this same scene every night. Billy nearly got his eyes clawed out before Henry pulled Maddy off of him and was able to shoot her up.

Henry double checked the restraints, giving Billy a little longer to recover. Henry would have to reprimand him, for his own good.  Panicking in that place, dealing with those crazies, could get you killed.

Satisfied the patient was down for the night, Henry moved towards the door.  Billy maintained his position.

“What happened to her?  How did she end up here?” Billy licked his dry lips. His tone was curious but sad and sympathetic.

Soft hearted, Henry thought.  Yeah, that shit won’t last long either.

“Her name is Madeline Kincade,” Henry began in a matter-of-fact tone.  “She snapped and murdered her whole family in the middle of the night, right down to her kid sister and the family dog.  Madeline ripped the little girl apart where she hid in her bedroom closet.  I hear the cop who found the body still has nightmares about finding that kid in blood soaked flannel PJs clutching some old Teddy Bear.”

Billy shivered, and then moved to join Henry by the door.  As Henry turned out the lights he cast one last glance over his shoulder at the sleeping form strapped in the hospital bed.

“Yeah, she is a real monster.”