THE NIGHT BLOGGER The Graveyard Game (and other cemetery plots) Episode Five 'Digging In The Dirt'

By Al Bruno III

 

October 10th: A few weeks after playing the Graveyard Game, Sara Bishop began sleepwalking. Her wealthy family in Clifton Park was incredibly upset—not out of concern for her well-being, as they had made it clear since her childhood that she was considered the runt of the litter and, worse, a girl. No, they were upset because, to the prestigious Bishop family, mental health issues were simply unacceptable. Just like not flying first class or mingling with minorities, it simply wasn't done.

You see, Sara was a menopause baby, a surprise of the highest order for her mother, father, and two thirty-year old brothers. She had what she called a 'begrudging childhood.' Whatever her family did for her, they did begrudgingly. I know some of you might say, "So what, she was rich?" but just think about it: every trip, every gift, every gesture—they made sure she knew the price tag. They even ragged on her about the cost of her tonsillectomy.

And no matter how much gratitude Sara expressed, it was never enough.

With a family like that, is it any wonder she ended up not being good at making friends? With a family like that, is it any wonder that after getting a scholarship to a prestigious university, she simply didn't go? Is it any wonder she stayed up nights researching cryptids and creepypastas? Bigfoot, you could make sense of. But your own mother treating you like less than garbage? Not so much.

Each night, Sara woke up a little further from home. At first, she dismissed finding herself in her bedroom doorway as a half-conscious trip to the restroom or kitchen. But soon, she was waking up in the hallway, then at the top of the stairs. The night she found herself standing in the front doorway, she went to her family for help. They offered more accusations than advice, making it clear in no uncertain terms that she would not be allowed to embarrass the family by seeking any kind of professional help. Instead, Sara's mother handed her a bottle of opioids and told her not to do anything stupid.

The pills had no effect. She started staying awake as long as she could, but in the end, sleep always won out.

Then, one night, as her brother was coming home from a night out with his friends, he found her stumbling down the driveway in her panties and t-shirt. He almost ran her over. When her father found out, he called her a slut.

So she started sleeping in her clothes and shoes, barricading herself in her room. But it did no good. She kept waking up further and further down the street.

Then, when all hope was almost lost, she called me...

###

…And I blew it. I invited Sara to spend the night at my place, I would sleep on the couch, and she would sleep in my bed. Thank God Mrs. Vincenzo changed my sheets for me on a weekly basis.

 She blamed herself for this situation, for playing the Graveyard game, but as far as I was concerned, I was the one responsible. I had more experience in these matters, and I had lost so much for wanting to see the secrets that hid in the shadows.

Staying awake to watch over her should have been a simple matter of working on my blog, but Sara couldn't sleep. She asked me to watch a movie with her. It was the least I could do. And that was how I learned her favorite film was This Is Spinal Tap. I'd never seen it before, but damn if it wasn't hilarious. After the movie was over, we got to talking. She told me about her profoundly toxic family, and I told her a sanitized version of the preternatural entity that had destroyed most of my family. All that confession finally made her feel sleepy, and she said she wanted to sleep on the couch. I told her it would be safer for her to be in my room, that was, there were two doors between her and the outside world, but she said she couldn't stand to be alone.

Lord, did I understand that feeling.

So I camped out on the recliner with a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew and a mystery novel called The Case Of The Barking Clock. Well, it turns out the only mystery about that novel was how many drugs the author was in when he wrote it. I don't even remember falling asleep, but I did.

When I woke up, it was a little after 2 AM, and Sara was gone.

First, I blundered around my apartment, calling her name. Then, I ran down the stairs and started combing the neighborhood street by street. The night air was thick with a damp chill, and even though I was running along the sidewalks, I heard the faint rustling of leaves echoing around me. Each step seemed to drag as if time itself had slowed in the darkness. I called her name; no one answered, aside from an old man yelling at me to shut up from his second-story window.

So I doubled back to my place, jumped into my beat-up AMC Pacer, and started combing the streets that way. All my headlights showed me were empty sidewalks and closed storefronts. My eyes strained to see any sign of movement. Nothing. Then, to make matters worse, a cop pulled me over for driving suspiciously.

As I sat there waiting for the cop to write up my citation for driving fifteen miles an hour in a thirty-mile-an-hour zone, I prayed he wasn't one of Detective Bradshaw's pals. Then it hit me where I should have gone in the first place.

Once the ticket joined the others in the glove compartment, I started driving again, but this time, I headed straight for Pinewood Cemetery—the place where this nonsense had begun.

The idea that Sara would be there was one of my loopier notions. The abandoned graveyard was at least twenty miles away; in a sane world, it would take her hours to get there on foot.

But my world hasn't been sane for years.

 Albany's familiar landmarks passed in a blur. I was sick with the unsettling feeling that time was slipping away. My route to Pinewood Cemetery took me through some of the older, more rundown parts of the city and out onto the rural byroads. The streetlights became dwindling specks in my rearview mirror. Three AM was drawing close.

Three AM. The witching hour.
 

I'm a city boy by nature, and I hate country roads, especially at night. They're too dark and isolated, with shadows below and cold stars above. The further I drove, the more alone I felt. A pair of headlights rounded the corner in the oncoming lane, glaring like those of a truck or SUV. They blinded me, and suddenly, I wished for a bit of isolation again. I was so busy cursing and fumbling with the sun visor that I almost didn't notice the vehicle swerving into my lane and accelerating.

It bore down on me, and in that terrifying moment, I saw it was Bus 55. Time seemed to slow as I took in every detail—the chipped and faded paint, the grimy windows. I could vaguely make out the shape of the bus driver, but his face was obscured in shadow.

With a surge of panic, I yanked the wheel, sending my car screeching into the opposite lane, careening along the ditch, and smashing through part of the guardrail. As I corrected course and found myself back on the road, I had a perfect view of the retreating vehicle.

And the nightmares that rode that bus had a perfect view of me. They crowded around the rear windshield, figures of men with faces painted in grotesque shades of gray and black. Their expressions twisted into mirthless grins. In the center of them stood the one who had spoken my name over a month ago, and he gave a little wave.

I sat in the middle of the road, trying to catch my breath. I whispered a chant reminiscent of Psalm 23 but with a lot of 'Fuck' interspersed. When I stopped shaking, I turned my car around and drove the rest of the way to the outskirts of Pinewood Cemetery. Parking in a secluded spot, and unlike last time, I remembered to grab my satchel out of the back seat. With my knees still watery, I started walking along the fence line.

I wondered to myself, what was that damn bus doing out here in the boonies?

This wasn't its regular route.

Not a good sign. Not a good sign at all.

I found the hole in the fence easily, the same one that first Sara and then I had squeezed through before. The graveyard lay ahead, a sprawling expanse of crumbling tombstones and overgrown paths. How long had it been since there had been a groundskeeper? I couldn't imagine. The wind rustled the leaves in the trees, an owl hooted somewhere in the distance, each sound amplifying the stillness of the night and adding to the sense of foreboding. I retrieved my flashlight from the satchel, its beam cutting through the darkness as I slipped through the gap in the fence.

Moonlight filtered through the ugly trees, casting equally unpleasant shadows. To my right stood a ruined mausoleum, its wall crumbled and empty stone niches where bodies once lay. I shuddered, pondering where those bodies had gone. Had they been taken by the authorities or something more sinister? Over the years, I'd learned there were many ways for a corpse to leave its grave. Stealing one was so simple, even a blogger could do it.

Sara was at her namesake's grave, illuminated by a faint glimmer of moonlight, her figure almost ghostly in the dimness. She was kneeling, her hands caked with dirt as she clawed through the earth, muttering under her breath.

At first, I tried to call her by her name, but she didn't notice me. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs, her fingers trembling as they worked at the cold soil. With careful urgency, I reached out, gently pulling her away from the grave's edge. "Sara," I whispered, my voice barely a whisper.

"What's happening to me?" Her voice trembled, barely audible over the whispering wind.

"I don't know," I admitted. "But let's try and find out."

I pulled out a collapsible shovel from my satchel bag and told Sara to go back to the car. She refused, her eyes a mix of fear and determination. I had her take the flashlight and keep it trained on me.

Like I said before, digging up a body is so easy even a blogger can do it. The sun would be up in three or four hours, so I worked as fast as I could, the rhythm of my shovel crunching into the dirt breaking through the night's silence. The ground was stubborn and thick with roots. I was sweating and shivering all at once. My back started to ache, and then it REALLY started to ache. Around the time exhaustion threatened to overwhelm me, my shovel hit something hard.

The casket containing the remains of Sara Bishop's namesake was nearly two hundred years old. I had conducted research on the woman, but I chose to keep my findings to myself. According to historical records, she had been executed by hanging in 1848 for murder. However, rumors circulated widely, originating from unreliable sources. Some claimed she was the high priestess of a doomsday cult, others accused her of murdering children, and there were even whispers suggesting she was not entirely human.

Straddling the ancient casket, I positioned the shovel carefully, its metal blade scraping against weathered wood. With determined force, I pried and prodded until the lid yielded with a resounding crack, and the aged wood splintered apart. I asked Sara to bring the flashlight closer, and we both screamed at what it revealed. I clenched my eyes shut, then opened them again.

Inside lay the remains of a long-dead woman, but they had been grotesquely altered by some mad taxidermist. A caul of pockmarked flesh stretched over her face, and both hands had been removed, replaced by animal appendages—one serpentine, the other bestial.

"Gorgo..." Sara wept, her voice trembling. "Mormo... Luna... thousand-faced moon…"

###

October 11th: Before I filled the grave back in, I smashed the twisted shape it contained about twenty times in one of my standard acts of futility. Then I brought Sara back home to my apartment above Vincenzo's Pawn Shop and did my best to care for her. She spent most of the morning vacillating between catatonia and hysteria, but she's asleep on my couch now. I don't think she'll sleepwalk again, but I pushed the coffee table in front of the door just in case.

I am not sure what I am going to do when I start my shift downstairs in about an hour. Maybe Sara can nap in the back room? Maybe the forever patient Mrs. Vincenzo will keep an eye on her for me? I don't know. I'm just sitting on the floor, trying to figure out what the Hell I'm going to do.

This is a possession, but it isn't the result of some vengeful witch or surly phantom. What am I dealing with here?

Gorgo, Mormo, Luna, thousand-faced moon… What are you? How am I going to stop you? And why, upon closer examination, did I find that the 'grotesque stitched-together monstrosity' didn't actually have any stitches at all?

 

 

THE NIGHT BLOGGER The Graveyard Game (and other cemetery plots) Episode Four 'Shadow of The Zombie'

By Al Bruno III

 

September 19th: Victor Bisolglio spent most of his time either making meth or playing World of Warcraft, but his pursuit of one was always a detriment to the other. Sometimes, he missed raids because he was too busy cooking; other times, he was so fixated on his daily quests that he ended up making a useless batch.

Or two.

Or three.

He lived in a trailer on his parents' property, a weathered double-wide nestled among overgrown weeds and rusting farm equipment. They'd long ago given up on him, resigned to his presence like an irremovable stain. Victor had transformed the back corner of their once-tidy property into his own chaotic domain—a makeshift laboratory in a shoddily constructed tool shed a few yards away from his residence.

At ten o'clock in the evening, the door to that shed hung open, revealing a mad scientist's dream of tubing, containers, and smoke. A pungent stench, a cocktail of cat piss and nail polish remover, wafted from the rickety structure, carried on a faint evening breeze. Victor sat at a grimy picnic table nearby, hunched over the dim, multicolored glow of his laptop screen. Lost in the virtual world unfolding before him, he remained oblivious to the physical decay spreading around him—the scattered tools, the discarded chemical containers, the faint haze of smoke mingling with the evening mist.

Did Victor care that he was slowly turning his parents' once-pristine property into a small-scale toxic waste dump? Did it worry him that the last three batches of meth he'd delivered to Raevyn Legendre had been unsaleable garbage? Did he care that his friends, just like his family, had given up on him?

No, not in the least, not when he had reached a place where virtual achievement, where "respec," mattered far more to him than respect.

I was nearby, concealed behind one of the few trees that groundwater poisoning hadn't left leafless and bent.

A string of recent murders had unsettled Albany. Low-level dealers and cooks had been found savaged, their throats torn out, their entrails exposed to the night air, their skulls cracked open and emptied. Rumors swirled that the assailant was no mere mortal—a figure described as shambling, dead-eyed, and caked with dirt had been spotted near the crime scenes. Any mention of the 'Z word' was quickly silenced by the authorities, dismissing it as hysteria.

At a quarter to midnight, a shape emerged from the shadows, lumbering toward Victor's double-wide and the smoking toolshed. I fumbled for my iPhone, snapping pictures silently as I watched. Victor remained engrossed in his game, oblivious to the figure approaching him.

My conscience wrestled with my caution, and I shouted a warning, but Victor remained lost in the cacophony of music, sound effects, and online chatter blaring through his earbuds.

The dark figure overturned the picnic table, snapping Victor out of his virtual trance. The reality crashed down upon him as the figure swiped, narrowly missing Victor's scrambling form. It might have ended there, a tragic misunderstanding if Victor hadn't recognized his assailant.

"Earl?" Victor's voice cracked with disbelief.

Victor hadn't expected to see Earl Edmonds again, not since he'd buried him in the woods almost three weeks ago.

When the dark shape advanced again, Victor brandished what appeared to be a revolver from his jacket. He issued threats, but the figure kept coming.

I broke cover, sprinting towards them, arms waving frantically, pleading for restraint before things spiraled out of control. The shambling figure remained unresponsive, but Victor reacted.

He screamed and fired.

Not at me, thankfully, but at the man he'd once called a friend.

A bright ball of Fourth of July fireworks erupted from the barrel.

Yes, a flare gun. Victor's choice of sidearm had been a flare gun.

There was just enough time for me to think, What is this? I don't even...

Then, a sputtering ball of burning red bounced off the dark figure's chest, careened twice along the ground, and rolled into the toolshed.

Boom.

I had no idea what volatile mix of chemicals and God-knows-what-else was housed in that ramshackle building, but the blast tore through its walls and roof in an eruption of yellow and orange fire.

Victor was consumed by the explosion. Had it been a quick end, or did the pain linger long enough for him to realize what was happening? I hoped for the former.

The other figure wasn't so fortunate; engulfed in flames, it staggered and flailed. Then it screamed.

Perhaps, in those agonizing moments, Earl Edmonds realized he wasn't one of the walking dead after all...

###

...let the record show that if you are going to be an investigator in all things preternatural and uncanny, then you are going to find yourself huddling in the bushes more often than a compulsive masturbator in a nudist colony.

It was almost dawn, and I had been watching the comings and goings at the house on Lana Drive for half the day and most of the night. The air hung heavy with the musty scent of damp earth, and the distant hum of traffic occasionally pierced the quiet of the suburban night. When the owner left on an errand, I gave the place a quick once-over, something that was fifty percent reconnaissance and fifty percent breaking and entering. That done, I returned to my hiding spot in the woods. More waiting. Hours of waiting. Waiting until my knees were aching and my bladder was threatening to erupt. It wasn't until 4 a.m. that I thought the owner of the house was alone. That was when I made my move.

But not until I relieved myself on the side of a tree first. For what I was about to do, I needed to be full of less piss and more vinegar.

I made my way up the walk and knocked on the front door.

"Brian Foster," I announced.

Raevyn Legendre, half Bokor, half crime boss, didn't look at all surprised to see me. She stepped aside, her voice tinged with a community theater-level Jamaican accent, "Come in. Come in."

"Not surprised to see me?" I asked.

"I been expecting you," she said. Her skin was the color of coffee, her hair the color of bone, "They all said there was some guy in an ugly hat going around asking lots of questions."

"Well, you can't learn anything if you don't ask questions," I grinned.

We both smiled, but they were phony smiles, politicians' smiles. She led me past her parlor with all its faux Voodoo knick-knacks and a pair of very real Lorcin .380s on the center table.

It was very telling that she hadn't grabbed them; I guess she didn't see me as much of a threat. Her and everybody else in Albany.

There was a long hallway through the center of the house leading to a pair of bedrooms. My earlier snooping had revealed that Raevyn used the bedroom on the right for sleeping, and the one on the left was where she kept her ziplock bags of dried pufferfish, marine toads, and Hyla tree frogs, her Tupperware containers of Datura paste and lysergic acid diethylamide in crystal form.

I followed my host to her bare kitchen. There was a bottle of rum on the counter, her last bottle of rum, if I was correct. It was already half empty.

Raevyn Legendre, half Bokor, half crime boss, fully functioning alcoholic, poured me a glass and offered it, "Have a drink."

"I don't drink," I lied.

"Your loss," she emptied my glass, then refilled her own. "What you be wantin'?"

"I know you had Victor Bisolglio killed and a lot of other people too."

"You wearing a wire?"

I chuckled, "Why would I help the police?"

“You one of Bootsie Werdegast’s boys?”

"No, I graduated high school."

"Maybe you want to be a hero," she said.

"I just want the real story, for my dozen or so readers," I explained, "they love stories like yours. Do you know there are people out there that think you raise the dead to do your bidding?"

"Why you goin' believin' that nonsense?" Her accent slurred to an Irish brogue for a syllable or two then back again, "Everyone tells these crazy stories. I'm a drug dealer, I'm a witch, I'm an insatiable nymphomaniac..."

"Er... That last one is a bit of a surprise..." I didn't know whether to cringe or blush, so I did a little of both, "But back to the matter at hand. My sources tell me that Earl Edmonds O.D.ed at a party you held here almost a month ago. The same sources say that rather than get the authorities involved, you had some of your employees wrap him in an old rug and bury him in a shallow grave."

I paused for effect, but she just smiled.

"Now, someone dug up that grave a few days later, and I'm pretty sure that someone was you. Why did you do it? Because Earl wasn't dead. Oh, he looked dead, but he had been drugged with a little psychotropic cocktail people sometimes called," I made quotation marks in the air, "'zombie powder.'"

She raised an eyebrow and emptied her glass of rum. Then she poured herself another. The bottle was two-thirds empty now.

"This zombie powder causes a paralysis so severe that a layman might think the victim is dead. It's the stuff of Edgar Alan Poe's nightmares." I took a cautious step toward her, "And all the while, the poor bastard is in a state of living death. They're having nightmarish hallucinations. Imagine all that happening and being buried alive to boot."

She laughed at me, but I'm used to women doing that, so it's all good.

I continued, "I imagine the Earl you dug up was not the same man from just a few days before. I imagine it would have been easy to mess with his broken mind. How long did it take you to convince him he was a zombie?"

Raevyn emptied the glass again, but this time, she set it down on the counter beside her, "Why would anyone do something so... Theatrical?"

"Oh, I agree it is a very theatrical way to go about things, but then again, I'm not the failed law student from Wisconsin pretending to be a witch woman from Jamaica, so what do I know?"

That got her. She frowned and crossed her arms.

When in doubt, keep talking, so that's what I did. "Like they say on the Internet, Google is your friend. But don't worry, your secret is safe with me."

"Why-" she paused as if she was collecting her thoughts, "why would I go to all that trouble?"

"Because criminals are a cowardly superstitious lot."

I waited to see if she got the reference. She didn't, so I went on.

"You did it because you suspected there was a snitch in your organization. You used poor Earl to eliminate the usual suspects." I counted off on my hand, "They found what was left of Mordikai Aden in a dumpster. Shortly after that, a 911 call sent the police to Adrian Driscoll's apartment, but there wasn't much they could do for him. There wasn't much an undertaker could do for him either, if you get my meaning. Then there was Sandro Elsdon. He was killed alongside his girlfriend and two young kids."

"But why? Why not just put a bullet in their heads instead?"

"Because it taught your employees a very valuable lesson. Cross Raevyn Legendre and you will end up dead or worse." I took off my straw fedora and fiddled with it, "What are you going to do now that your pet zombie is really dead?"

"If what you're saying is true I would just make another. Maybe I got more waiting down in the basement. What would you do then? What if all I had to do to wake them up was just snap my fingers?" She tried to snap her fingers for emphasis, but her hand wouldn't quite obey her.

Panic settled into her eyes. Her legs failed her. All the while she slid down to the floor she kept trying to snap her fingers.

There was a handkerchief in my left pocket, I used it to pick up the bottle of rum and pour it out. I suppose you readers out there figured out what I did when I was snooping around her house.

Raevyn said, "Fa- fa-"

I'm not sure if she was trying to say my name or curse me out. I looked down at her, too disgusted with myself to gloat. My tone was almost apologetic, "You've got enough meth here to host a tweakers convention. I'm not sure if I gave you the recommended dosage of your zombie powder, so once I get a few blocks away, I'm going to make an anonymous call to 911 and let the chips fall where they may."

With that I started to leave, but I turned back and said, "I guess I got you dead to rights."

Then I left.

OK, so maybe I gloated a little...

###

...yep I just confessed to another crime on the Internet but once again my story in no way matches the way the powers that be want to portray events. If they arrest me it will raise too many questions as to what is really going on.

I did make the 911 call, just like I promised, but when the authorities got there, Raevyn Legendre was dead. They blamed the attack on pit bulls, which is an insult to all the well-behaved pit bulls out there and an insult to reality because the half-baked crime boss in question was allergic to dogs.

But something, maybe several somethings, gnawed her flesh down to the bone.

So I guess maybe she did have some spares somewhere in the basement, somewhere I didn't check. In their half-alive state, they must have heard my conversation with her.

And then? And then, sometime between me leaving and the police showing up, Raevyn managed to snap her fingers after all.

 

 

 

THE NIGHT BLOGGER The Graveyard Game (and other cemetery plots) Episode Three 'A Firesign Variation'

 

By Al Bruno III

September 12th: The powers that be will tell you that none of Albany's buses run after midnight on a Sunday, and anyone who says otherwise is crazy.

The problem is that people have seen a city bus prowling the streets in the hours before morning. They say its number is 55. They say its engine growls, its windows are filthy, and the make and model are decades out of date. There are even some folks who say getting onto that bus is the last thing you'll ever do.

Of course, the powers that be scoff at such stories, dismissing the handful of witnesses as drunks, madmen, or attention seekers.

Since some of my best readers are drunks and madmen, I decided to investigate this matter for myself. So I waited alone on the corner to see what the night would bring...

###

...it was 1 a.m. when I confirmed the existence of Bus 55. I heard it first, coughing and growling its way up the otherwise empty street. Then I smelled it; it was a strange smell, like a combination of diesel exhaust and ozone. The driver was just a shadowy lump sitting in front of the steering wheel, and it was obvious from the speed he was going that either he hadn't seen me or he had seen me and wasn't going to stop.

Throwing common sense to the wind, I stepped out into the road. I had just long enough to think to myself that this would be a really stupid way to die, and then the bus stopped just inches from my nose. I hadn't heard the brakes squeal or the tires screech. The bus just stopped.

The vehicle's pneumatic door slid open with an impatient hiss, and I climbed aboard. There were no interior lights to keep me from nearly missing the top step. The bus driver didn't glance at me as I paid my fare; he just kept glaring out the windshield. I cleared my throat, "Good evening. I had some questions about—"

The driver turned and glowered at me until I retreated to the back of the bus, cringing every step of the way. There were no other passengers, but I found a spot near the back. Once I sat down, the bus's door hissed to a close, and I was on my way.

But to where I had no idea.

My fellow friends and freaks on the FEAR AND TRUTH message board had been talking about this bus all week. The user called 'TrueSeeker' had managed to triangulate its location but didn't have the nerve to actually go and investigate the phenomenon themselves, especially after what happened to Sara Bishop. I, on the other hand, was more than willing to risk my neck and other body parts for the sake of a killer blog post. I slipped my iPhone from my pocket and snapped a few pictures. Nothing exciting or earth-shattering, just a little of this and a little of that.

The windows were so filthy that I only had the vaguest sense of the scenery passing by, but it seemed somehow to be going by far too quickly for the amount of acceleration I felt. I wondered if that was the big mystery, that maybe some transportation company was testing a new suspension system.

After what seemed like an eternity and a half, the bus stopped again. A stooped figure in raggedy clothes climbed aboard Bus 55 and took a seat near the driver. He had his jacket collar pulled up tight around his face; all I could see were tufts of hair.

I waited for my fellow traveler to do something, change position, look my way, or do anything, but he kept still. More miles rolled by, then another stop. Two more men got aboard, tubby with ill-fitting suits and bad haircuts. The interior of the bus was still too dark and shadowy for me to make out their faces clearly. I started fussing with my iPhone again, wondering if I could use the low-light photo app to get a better look at their faces.

That thought was quickly followed by the realization that I had no cell coverage. I looked up, wondering what the bus's ceiling was made of.

And that was when I realized more stops had been made and more passengers had been picked up. One of them sat down next to me.

The first thing I noticed was his feet, his huge feet dressed in wingtip shoes. The stocky legs that sprouted from those shoes were dressed in pinstripe trousers that had been patched here and there. He had no jacket, but he wore a paisley vest. His face was covered by a thick layer of ash-colored grease paint.

He was a clown.

And as the other passengers crowded in around me, I realized they were all clowns. But they were not the colorful birthday party performers that probably just popped into your mind. These were sullen-looking monochrome hobos, bleak creatures that had never known a circus tent or a fairground.

Who were these people? Were they just coming back from delivering nightmares, or were they living through nightmares of their own?

Then the clown sitting beside me flashed a desolate smile and spoke my name, his voice a raspy whisper that sent shivers down my spine. "Welcome, Brian."

My heart pounded as fear surged through me. How did he know my name? I tried to stand, but the clowns moved closer, their presence suffocating. The bus's air grew thicker, the smell of greasepaint and sweat overwhelming.

"Let me out," I demanded, my voice trembling. "I want to get off."

The clowns' laughter filled the bus, a cacophony of mirthless, hollow chuckles. The driver remained silent, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. Panic seized me. I pushed my way towards the door, but the clowns grabbed at my clothes, their grip cold and unyielding.

I struggled, pulling free from one grasp, only to be caught by another. Their hands were everywhere, tugging, holding, and pulling me back into the darkness. I fought with everything I had, my breaths coming in ragged gasps. The clowns' faces were close now, their painted smiles grotesquely in the dim light. One of them whispered in my ear, "Stay with us, Brian. Forever."

Desperation fueled my movements. I lashed out, kicking and shoving, using my elbows to jab at their sides. The clowns recoiled slightly, their grip loosening. Seizing the opportunity, I lunged towards the front of the bus. The driver's eyes met mine, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of sympathy. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by cold indifference.

I reached the door and pounded on it. "Open up! Let me out!"

The door didn't budge. I turned to face the clowns, their expressions a mix of anger and amusement. They advanced slowly, savoring my fear. My mind raced, searching for a way out. Then I remembered the emergency exit. I scrambled to the back of the bus, the clowns' hands grabbing at me, tearing my clothes, and scratching my skin.

I reached the emergency exit and slammed my hand against the lever. The door swung open with a screech, and I leaped out, hitting the pavement hard. Pain shot through my body, but I couldn't afford to stop. I forced myself to my feet and ran, the clowns' laughter echoing behind me.

I didn't stop running until my legs gave out. I collapsed on the sidewalk, gasping for breath, my body trembling. The sound of distant sirens filled the air, and I clung to the hope that they were coming for me.

###

This wasn't the first time the local police found me dazed and wandering the streets of Albany, and it probably won't be the last, but I was glad for the ride home. The officers who found me were kind enough not to ask too many questions. They chalked it up to another late-night misadventure and left it at that.

But I couldn't forget the terror I felt on that bus, the clowns' faces haunting my every thought. What happened? How did I get from that phantom bus to our local shopping mall?

I have no idea. All I remember—or at least I think I remember—is trying to fight my way to the exit while clumsy hands grasped at me and jolly voices made threats and offered candy.

Hours of research have left me no closer to any answers. There is no dark secret, no unfinished business or curse. There's no twist in my tale that will make sense of it all.

All I can tell you is that there is an impossible vehicle making its way through the darkened streets of Albany, and there's always room inside for a few fools more.

What was it the Firesign Theater used to say? "I think we're all Bozos on this bus."

Maybe I'm the biggest Bozo of all.

 

THE NIGHT BLOGGER The Graveyard Game (and other cemetery plots) Episode Two 'Whispers of the Red Night'

By Al Bruno III

August 29th: It is a matter of public record that the other prostitutes on South Lake Avenue got pinched twice as often as Mary Durward. Some of the working girls said it was because she was a snitch, but Mary insisted that she was lucky that way.

On this night, she wore her dark hair pulled back; she had on tight jeans, a half-shirt, and too much eyeliner. As usual, she walked the perimeter of Washington Park looking for customers. It had been a lousy night for business, cool with a hint of rain. Most of the drive-ups had been giggling college boys who lost their nerve the minute she started negotiating prices. Thankfully, she still had her regulars—husbands seeking the oral sex they couldn't get at home and old men in need of handjobs and conversation. As the clock neared two AM, she decided to call it a night, her heels clicking against the pavement as she headed toward the park's darker, quieter paths.

Mary might have made it home alive if she hadn't decided to take the shortcut through the heart of Washington Park. Despite knowing about the recent murders, she wasn't worried; death was something that happened to other people. The park was eerily quiet, the usual daytime bustle replaced by a silence that amplified every rustle of leaves and distant hum of traffic. She kept to the sidewalk that wound between the artificial pond, its surface reflecting the moonlight in ghostly ripples, and the tulip garden, now just dark shapes in the night. The rhythmic click of her pumps on the concrete echoed through the stillness, masking the soft footsteps of her pursuer. The last sound she heard was the chilling whisper of a blade being unsheathed, cutting through the night's deceptive calm.

Mary's luck had run out...

###

...by the time I heard her scream, it was already too late. Ever since the third murder, I'd started patrolling the area around Lark Street: not patrolling in a superhero sense mind you, patrolling in a reporter sense. I had promised myself I wasn't going to get involved in any weirdness, that this blog would be nothing more than a haven for Fantasy Football stats and occasional anecdotes about working at a pawn shop.

But here I was again.

Like I said, by the time I heard the scream, it was too late. I went tear-assing through the park to find Mary Durward, well what was left of her anyway.

She was lying on the sidewalk; her throat had been slashed, and she had been split open from gut to groin. Police reports said that the other victims had their internal organs removed. I was too uneducated on human anatomy and too busy throwing up on myself to be sure.

The Ripper had struck again.

Well, not THAT Ripper. Not exactly, but kind of.

Don't believe my crazy theory? Neither did law enforcement, the newspapers, or my landlady, Mrs Vincenzo, but it all added up. Women, usually working girls, were being savagely, swiftly, and expertly eviscerated by someone who knew exactly what they were looking for.

Once I was done emptying out my stomach, I started running; as I ran, I dialed 911 from my smartphone. Sure, I didn't have to report the poor woman's body; someone else would find it soon enough, but it would have felt wrong to do otherwise.

No one believed me that this was somehow connected to the events of 1888, but the pieces all fit. There had been other murders, seemingly in every generation but always in a different country—England, France, Germany, Finland, and finally here. And every time, it was five murders before the killer stopped. That's twenty-five killings spread over one hundred and twenty-five years.

I was pretty sure I knew where the killer was going, so I ran eastward, losing myself in the trees and brambles. It was pitch black, but there was a trail to follow, a trail made by adventurous bicyclists and wandering college students. It led towards Washington Park's number one eyesore. Halfway down the trail, I could almost see it, so I ran faster.

My foot caught a root or a rock or something, and I fell on my face in a spectacular fashion.

The Ripper, the stuff of legends. How many books were written about those murders in Whitechapel? How many theories have been flying around as to the killer's identity? If nothing else, my hypothesis will go down in history as the most insane, but the names and dates all match up. There are even rumors of confessions hidden in anagrams, but I can't be sure about that part. The 'confessions' are in print in three different languages—and each of them was published years after the murders took place.

Except this time, maybe. If I was right and I was clever, there might not be another gruesome tell-all masquerading as a children's book again.

How long did I lay face down in the dirt trying to remember my name? It seemed like forever. When I finally sat up, I discovered that I'd landed on my iPhone and smashed it. How many is that I've wrecked now?

Good thing I work in a pawn shop.

I started running again, stumbled a few times, and reached the long-abandoned Grecian Shelter. Just in case you have no idea what one of those is, imagine a long rectangular structure with no real roof but plenty of Corinthian columns. Another term for this kind of structure is a Croquet Shelter, and they do have a very ancient Greece-like look to them.

This is especially true for the one in Washington Park, which had been left to rot since 1929. Redesigns of the grounds had left it out of sight and out of mind. Sure, every few years, there were outcries from the local community to either restore it or knock it down, but nothing ever got done.

That kind of thing happens a lot in Albany.

The structure loomed before me, its overgrown vines twisting like nature's chains around the crumbling Corinthian columns. Some of the columns leaned precariously as if a single touch could send them tumbling. Yet, what truly captured my attention was the ugly purple glow emanating from within. The hair on the back of my neck prickled with an instinctual dread as I cautiously drew closer. There was a sickly sweet odor in the air, like pork but sweeter. I did not want to be there. I didn't even want to be in the same area code, but if I was right, who else could put a stop to this?

“Auditurum cantáte!” A voice cried, “Salve regina red!”

Great. I thought. Latin. That's never a good sign.

Once I was close enough, I could see that the illumination was coming from a device that looked like something a meth head locked in a Radio Shack overnight might build. I stepped into the Grecian Shelter.

Preston Myers was visibly startled by my appearance, so I had that going for me, at least. He was pudgy and bald, and his beard was black and flecked with gray. He always went out in public wearing a suit and a tie, but as you can imagine, his suit and tie were streaked with gore. When he spoke, he didn't growl or hiss; he used exactly the same tone he used when readings for the kids at the public library. He said, "Who are you?"

"I'm Brian Foster," I replied, stepping closer despite my fear. "And I want to know who you're doing this for."

"For the Rubrum Regina of course," the knife he pulled out of his jacket was cruel and curved, "you shouldn't be here."

"Tell me about it."

"I'm going to kill you," he stalked forward, "if you're a good boy, I'll make it quick, but if you run... If I have to chase you..."

"What is the Rubrum Regina?" I stepped left, and he stepped right, like it was all some kind of murderous dance. "What makes you do this?"

“Rubrum regina mater omnium mortalium est!”

Not the answer I was hoping for. I pointed to the tangle of wires and bulbs, "And what is that?"

"The sanctum fenestram," he smiled.

"And what's it for?"

"All the better to see you with."

In a heartbeat, Preston Myers lunged at me. I feinted left but dove to the right, crashing headlong into the 'sanctum fenestram,' smashing it to pieces. The room erupted in a shower of sparks and a blinding flash of light…

###

...I’m not telling if I wrecked that crazy machine by accident or if it was all part of a brilliant plan. What I will say to you is that as soon as it broke apart, Preston Myers dropped the knife, fell to the ground, and started to convulse. He was dead in a matter of minutes. I watched him struggle for breath but didn’t lift a finger to try and save him.

The police discovered Preston Myers’ body about an hour after they found Mary Durward’s remains. The reports of his death overshadowed everything else. By the six o’clock news, the murders of five Albany hookers had been dropped in favor of tributes to and remembrances of the great author.

No mention was made of the sanctum fenestram, or the knife, or the blood all over the great author’s clothes. The official story was that he’d suffered a heart attack while taking a walk near his home.

His home is miles away from Washington Park, by the way.

Of course, you and I know different, but that and a ten-dollar bill will get us an espresso at Starbucks.

All I have left now are questions. Why the cover-up? Was what I did enough? Did I break the chain, or will the bodies start piling up again sometime around 2037?

If so, I doubt I’ll be around to worry about it.

 

THE NIGHT BLOGGER The Graveyard Game (and other cemetery plots) Episode One 'The Graveyard Game'

By Al Bruno III

August 14th: Alone and fearless, Sara Bishop entered the long-abandoned Pinewood Cemetery so she could play the graveyard game. She had promised to meet someone at the hole in the chain-link fence, a cautious skeptic who would chronicle the entire event with prose, pictures, and maybe even a little video. Even though she had only met her conspirator via email and Skype, she had promised not to start the ceremony without him.

But in the end, her enthusiasm got the better of her...

###

...by the time I found Sara, she was glassy-eyed and barely breathing. She wouldn’t move. She wouldn’t react, not even when I snapped my fingers inches from her nose. I took her hand in mine and started patting her wrist because that always seemed to work in the movies. Her hand was deathly pale with well-chewed fingernails and old scars marking the skin of the wrist.

As I always do at moments like this, I imagined the voice of my landlady and frequent poster of bail, Mrs. Vinchenzo: “Oh Brian, what have you gotten yourself into this time?”

What indeed.

After a few more minutes of trying to get Sara to react, I stood up and pulled out my iPhone. The app for taking pictures at night was already active, so I started snapping away.

Click: Sara Bishop, comatose and staring vacantly into the starless sky.

I felt guilty going into reporter mode like this, but experience had taught me to trust my instincts. Something weird was going on, and as my frequent readers know, weird happenings and straw fedoras are my twin passions.

Click: the abandoned cemetery, toppled headstones partially hidden by knee deep grass.

The Graveyard Game was a ceremony gaining popularity on the Internet, rumored to summon the spirits of those who share your name. Even among strange ceremonies, its origins were murky. Some said it was an ancient ritual rediscovered in obscure forums, while others claimed it was a modern hoax designed to scare thrill-seekers. As far as I was concerned, it was half shadowy rumors and half outright lies. But the chatter on the FEAR AND TRUTH message board had been just enough to pique the curiosity of member Justice4Mina.

Justice4Mina’s real name was Sara Bishop, and she discovered the game while researching obscure occult practices for her thesis. She meticulously tracked down every mention of a Sara Bishop in old cemetery records, newspapers, and genealogical websites. When she stumbled upon the neglected Pinewood Cemetery and learned of the existence of a gravestone with her name, she knew what she had to do. Her enthusiasm was infectious, and her determination to uncover the truth—or at least a good story—convinced me to join her. Besides, I kind of liked her a little.

And look where that had gotten her.

Click: the two candles, one on the tombstone, the other where Sara had been kneeling.

The rules of the game were simple, find a gravestone that shares your name. Light two candles, one goes at the top of the headstone, the other in front of you. It was that simple, or so they said on the Internet.

If everything was done properly, the spirit of your namesake would appear to you.

Click: A building off in the distance, too big to be a caretaker’s house, too square to be a chapel.

I wondered how she had found this particular grave, this particular place. The Pinewood Cemetery had been left neglected for almost forty years. Surely, there had been other, more easily found Sara Bishops out there.

Click: Back to Sara again. Sitting up and staring at me.

A yelping sound caught in my throat, "Thank- thank goodness you're alright."

She tittered, but there was no recognition in her eyes—just a distant, otherworldly gleam. The twin candles began to sputter and brighten, casting eerie shadows that seemed to dance around us.

"It's me, Brian Foster. Remember? We talked on Facebook?" I pulled her to her feet. Still giggling, she swooned into my arms. "I think I should get you home."

Her grin widened, and her voice took on a strange, echoing quality. "I am home." The words sent a chill down my spine.

I tried to understand what was happening. Was she possessed by the spirit of another Sara Bishop, one long dead and buried here? The candles flared again, and I caught a glimpse of something—an ethereal form superimposed over Sara's body, a shadowy figure from another time. It was as if two beings were occupying the same space, and the spirit was struggling to take control.

"Which Sara is this?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"Which Sara!" She laughed out loud, her voice a disturbing blend of her own and something ancient and cold. She raked her hand down the side of my face. I dropped her. She landed like a cat, then bolted into the shadows and tall grass.

Pain flared on the side of my face, sharp and hot. I reached up, my fingers coming away wet with blood. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat echoing in my ears like a drum. Panic clawed at the edges of my mind. What had she become? What had I gotten myself into?

I blinked in confusion, trying to reconcile the memory of her short, blunt fingernails with the deep gouges on my face. The sound of movement surrounded me, whispers and rustles in the tall grass. The circle of illumination from the candles seemed to be closing in, the darkness pressing against the flickering light.

Run. The instinct was primal, a voice screaming in the back of my mind. I had to get out of there, but could I outrun a madwoman—or whatever she had become?

My legs felt like lead, but I forced myself to move, every step a battle against the paralyzing fear. "Foe of radiance and mate of gloom…" Her voice had become a whispering chant, the words curling around me like cold fingers, "…howl of dogs rejoicing… Through tombs of lifeless dust! Gorgo! Mormo! Luna!"

I fumbled for my iPhone, my hands shaking. The night vision app flicked on, casting everything in a ghostly green. I turned in place, scanning the area, every shadow a potential threat. Was she crawling through the tall grass toward me, or was she gone? Was I going to make it home tonight?

Suddenly, there was a swift, animal-like movement, then a flare of pain as she clawed my arm, tearing through my shirt and skin. Panic surged through me, raw and overwhelming. I crashed headlong into the tombstone and hit the ground, bringing the candle down with me.

Hot wax scalded my right hand and drowned out the sputtering wick. Sara shrieked and fell to her knees. The other candle fluttered, went out, and plunged us into darkness...

###

...we got the Hell out of the cemetery and found our way to an all-night doughnut shop. Sara told me she didn't remember anything, that all she knew was that she had been blind and cold. Over several cups of lousy coffee, I explained to her what had happened. There was no way she could doubt me, not when my face looked like I had just tried to field neuter a badger.

The sun is rising, and I'm back in my apartment, tapping away at my keyboard. I looked up the little chant I'd heard "Gorgo, Mormo" and all that. It is an incantation, a calling up of hungry spirits. My face and my arm are still sore to the touch. Had I almost ended up as something's midnight snack?

Again?

I keep thinking about what she said right before she scratched me. I'd asked her which Sara she was, and I thought she was just mockingly repeating my words back at me.

But maybe she wasn't. Maybe she was giving me my answer.

Had she said 'Which Sara'?

Or 'Witch Sara'?

There's a thought to keep me up at night.

This is Channel Ab3 Episode Seventeen: A Touch Of Red

Amidst a world ravaged by a deadly virus, a woman and her husband cope with fear, loneliness, and their crumbling marriage while facing their inevitable fate.

A Touch Of Red was written by Al Bruno III

It was produced and read by Auravoice

Our unpaid scientific advisor is Adam J Thaxton

The Channel Ab3 theme was written and performed by Rachel F Williams

Channel Ab3 logo was designed by Antonio G 

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FRESH OFF THE BUS FROM CREEPYTOWN: A Touch Of Red

By

Al Bruno III

My husband and I couldn’t leave the city, we weren’t allowed.

We both tested positive for the Red Virus. That gave us two years to live, three tops. In other countries the infected were being executed, killed in the streets. Here in enlightened America things were different, the President insisted on treating the infected ‘humanely’. Humane or not, only citizens with a clean bill of health got to go to the safe zones in the Midwest. The rest of us were forced to stay in the cities on the coast, observed by scientists in hazmat suits and protected by soldiers that wouldn’t look us in the eye.

When I think of what the disease will do to me, how it will transform me into something not quite human or alive anymore, I start to lose hope. I’ve seen the videos of what the press has dubbed ‘ghoul-things’. I’ve seen what they do.

A few weeks ago the government relocated all of us to a series of high-rise tenements on the East Side. They said that they would be able to defend us more easily this way. The apartments here are larger and nicer than anything we could have afforded in our old life, so I tried to make the best of it. My husband Brian, however, insisted that we were only there so that when the time came they could liquidate us more easily. He blames me for this, he thinks that I brought the disease home because I worked in a hospital, but I was in the billing office! He was just as likely to be the one that touched an unseen speck of dried blood somewhere, somehow.

I liked to think he still loved me but he’d stopped saying it, and he wouldn’t touch me, not even in passing. We didn’t sleep together, I stayed in one luxurious bedroom and he stayed in another.

Not that anyone around here ever really slept that much. All of us, the scientists, the soldiers, the infected, stole catnaps whenever we could in the mornings and afternoons.

There was no rest at night, the night belonged to the monsters. They knew right where to find us, something about the infection calls to them. They howled at the barricades from sundown to sunup. Sometimes they would manage to break through the fortifications. Then the howls would be drowned out with gunfire and order would be restored by morning.

I think that’s why we started having the parties. It wasn’t a conscious decision you understand, it’s just that the nights were too long and terrible to experience alone.

At first, we got together in little groups, no more than five at a time. We didn’t want to make our protectors uneasy, but as our hopes dwindled our gatherings got more elaborate. Soon all thirty or so of us were congregating nightly in the penthouse. We would cook drink and laugh and try to ignore the horrors going on out in the streets and inside our bodies. Brian was always there but he would just sit and sulk out on the balcony, drinking until he passed out, leaving me to carry him back to our apartment at dawn.

One nice thing about our keepers, they were pretty damn generous with the booze and food. I guess it was better to have us fat and happy than terrified and ready to riot.

Tonight’s gathering was going along nicely. Someone had scrounged up a karaoke machine and we were all four sheets to the wind, doing our best to belt out the songs of our glory days.

All except for Brian of course. He was out on the balcony, occasionally I would glance over and catch him glaring reproachfully at us. I kept trying to get him to join in or just return one of my smiles. It was hopeless.

About halfway through a rambling version of ‘Paradise by The Dashboard Lights’ Brian started screaming.  He was pointing and gesturing to the east. I ran out to the balcony to see what was wrong.

Ghoul-things. Thousands of them. The streets were clogged with walls of mutated flesh, twisted limbs and distended faces moving towards us. The soldiers on the rooftop were shooting at them, they were using machine guns and grenade launchers but for every monster they blew to pieces four more stepped into its place. We could hear the terror in the solders’ voices as they barked orders to one another and called for air support.

I reached for Brian’s hand. He pulled away, saying something ugly under his breath. I don’t know. I went crazy. I was afraid and I wanted someone to touch me and if he wouldn’t…

Next thing I knew I had the karaoke microphone in my hand and I said something like, “Let’s live tonight ‘cause we’ll all be dead by morning!”

Then I grabbed the nearest man and kissed him hard. At first he pulled away, then he pressed against me. We fell back onto an overstuffed chair, then onto the floor. We were like animals.

It was like a floodgate had opened. We were joined by another couple, then another. It was surreal, it was an orgy We were all trying to shut out the world and for a while it did. 

After a while we exhausted ourselves and the sounds of the slaughter going on outside reached us again. Brian was gone. For a moment I gloried in the thought of how the sight of me in the arms of others must have burned him. Then another thought occurred to me. It was enough to send me running half-dressed down the stairs to our apartment

I found Brian on his bed, passed out and barely breathing. Blood had begun to leak from his pores. He was changing. You could see it happening. It was like an army of maggots was running wild under his skin. I could her the subtle crackling of his bones remaking themselves.

There are procedures for the final stages, they had been drilled into us every morning, there were posters on the walls reminding us. We were told to watch each other for signs of changes. If you see something say something. You call for the scientists, and they call for the soldiers. The infected are taken away for one last examination and then it’s cremation by flame thrower.

I laid down beside him.

I’m waiting now, I’ve been waiting for almost two hours. The battle is still going on outside but I could care less. The Red Virus will be done with its work soon and what sits up beside me won’t quite be Brian anymore but he’s going to touch me.

One last time.