Lights Out (Sean)

[Joshua Bernstein]

Truthfully, Josh had expected his second suggestion to get shot down just as the first had; he certainly hadn't thought that he would be requested to actually come up with a ghost story. Of course, it might help if he had decided upon this activity in advance of the storm, so he could look some up. Maybe memorize something from the internet.

But no. He was going to have to come up with a story on his own.

However, he wasn't going to have a change of heart; he had suggested this, and therefore it was only right and proper that he face up to the consequences.

"Ahhh....of course." He agreed, squinting into the darkness as if it might give him some flash of inspiration. "Once there was a city. It had been prosperous, flourished under the laws of liberty and equality."

He paused to dip into his ice cream again, thinking hard about where he should go with this. He didn't typically do any storytelling, unless one counted the roleplaying sessions he and Sean engaged in. But in those cases he had the telepath to react to, should he find himself floundering for a direction.

"But within a decade its glory waned, and few dared to pass the city limits. And when they did, they were quickly pulled over by the police, who strictly enforced the speed limit in order to extort money out of the citizenry. One day, however, an intrepid young reporter who had heard about the city decided to investigate. His peers advised against it, but he refused to listen. A city so few heard anything out of, surely this was something to investigate."

He sighed thoughtfully, taking another bite from his dessert before continuing. "Having heard the warnings from the few who dared to enter, he went far below the speed limit, creeping into the city in the dead of night. The only other cars in sight were abandoned on the road, neon stickers indicating a need to be towed, or police cars carefully waiting for unsuspecting visitors to break the 25 mile per hour speed limit they had imposed just for this purpose."

"The intrepid reporter felt satisfied as he crept deeper into the heart of the city, sure that he had done nothing to stir up the police anger. He had made certain that all his lights were working before coming, and even his breaks were silent as the paws of a mouse. But what he didn't expect was for someone to dart out into the streets in front of him! He could feel the impact, and could only pray that the speed limit was slow enough that he hadn't harmed the pedestrian. He quickly stopped, not wanting to be involved in a hit and run, getting out of his car to investigate. But there was nobody there. There wasn't even a squirrel or possum or other animal people complain about walking out in front of their cars."

"While he was looking, a police car pulled up behind him, blue lights winking in the dark. The officer ahhh.......asked if there was a problem. And the reporter responded that he had thought he had hit something, but there was no body to be found. And ahh...then the officer asked him to come with him. And the reporter did not want to be considered to be obstructing justice, so he got into the car, although he asked what was happening. The police officer said he would show the reporter. To his astonishment, the police officer did not take him to the jail but instead to the steps of the capitol. There were bodies, many rotting, all over the capitol steps. And there was one body there, still breathing, wearing a UAW cap, and the reporter wanted to rush over and help the man, but the police officer restrained him, saying it was too late. The reporter watched in dismay as the man breathed his last. 'What is going on? This can't be the person I thought I hit, this is so far away.'"

"And the police officer pointed to the bodies, saying, 'Our city was cursed long ago, and the curse is only now coming home to roost. This is why we try to make people drive slowly, so they do not run our citizens over. But alas, it seems this cannot be. Even with slow driving they are compelled to jump in front of cars.'"

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Sean was not a story teller either; his writing skills existed to the extent of research articles and academic medical/psychiatric papers, and little else. Ryan had inherited what writing talent existed in the Neville family, possibly in the Finnerty family as well. He also had little interest in the horrific aspects of so-called tales of terror, and thus it was fine if Josh’s tale failed to inspire fear.

Personally, he also had no expectations that Josh’s tale would inspire fear, but the telepath kept that to himself. Instead, he settled up against his partner, turned to kiss his check – he hadn’t intended to brush his cheek but the darkness made proper aim difficult – and listened while he ate his ice cream.

The ice cream provided an excellent cover, as did the darkness. This way, Josh couldn’t see his smile of long-suffering amusement as his partner crafted his tale.

As with the attempt at a lustful fantasy last summer when Josh first moved in, Sean gave him points for effort.

With that, the point allocation ended.

It wasn’t much of a story at all, let alone a scary story. But it was original, and Sean, ever wanting to encourage his partner and not one to cruelly mock someone for their weaknesses, decided to start with that. “That’s very original, Slim.”

Adding the endearment might steer the conversation away from any other expected critique or response.

Licking his spoon, he moved the now half-empty bowl onto his nightstand, before settling back against his partner. “Have you ever seen ‘A Town is Turned to Dust’?”

[Joshua Bernstein]

Josh, for his part, was quite proud of his story. Although he had taken numerous English classes, none of them had involved much in the way of creative writing; and what thinking on his feet he did tended to be related to work, wherein he had the facts of a case and the law as points to work with.

"Thank you," He accepted Sean's praise at face value, assuming (for once) that his partner wasn't merely placating him. Particularly when the other man brought up a movie; he hoped that the comparison was favorable. "No, I haven't. Is that going to be the basis of your story or are you trying to say I'm original only to follow up by saying I ripped them off?" He teased.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

“Neither,” Sean replied, hoping to direct the topic away from Josh’s storytelling abilities to something slightly less uncomfortable. One that might involve less deliberate word choice and concern for ruffling the other man’s feathers. “Not exactly, at least.”

There were some similarities between the two stories, insofar as both involved small towns and curses. But those were where the similarities ended. First, A Town Has Turned to Dust was social commentary about racism prior to, and during, the Civil Rights Movement – although the networks had been frightened of losing demographics in the South and had changed the setting to the Old West during the 1800s. Second, the script was from a master of the craft, Rod Serling himself. Third, Sean’s storytelling abilities wouldn’t allow him to create anything in that caliber of tale, and he wouldn’t dishonor the story’s memory by engaging in plagiarism.

“But I thought you might find it interesting. I don’t think it was preserved, which is a shame, but it involves a town lynching an innocent man because of racism. As a result, the sun goes down on the town, literally, never to rise again.”

The teleplay had been very much a morality play, but one that he found important.

[Joshua Bernstein]

"Oh!" Josh responded, finding this story quite interesting. He happened to like morality plays quite a lot; in fact, he thought they were one of the most important aspects of storytelling.

Which was perhaps why he was a lawyer and not a writer.

"That sounds like a movie I would enjoy watching." He commented. He did very little movie watching, and when he did it was usually with Sean. It was a shame that one of the few that attracted his attention was possibly not ever to be found again.

Ah, well. He could find tales about racism in other forms.

"Well. I think it is your turn now."

[Dr. Sean Neville]

The Neville children had been allowed to watch a great deal of television growing up, although their parents did make sure they were watching the right television programs. His father and mother didn’t want them to watch anything with too much innuendo or too much violence. But they had watched reruns of Playhouse 90, episodes of The Twilight Zone and other writing-intensive programs. Despite all of that, Sean had absorbed no skills. “I didn’t see it when it first premiered, because I was a baby. But they reran it a few times, and I was fortunate enough to see it. I think they made a futuristic version of it back in the 90s but I’m sure too much had changed.”

Which was unfortunate, given the quality of the original program and the message contained within.

When Josh reminded him that it was his turn, the telepath nodded. That was probably lost on Josh due to the darkness, but such were habits.

Once again, he wrapped his arms around Josh and became silent, contemplating a horror story. He didn’t have experience with this, and unfortunately, what he found distressing differed from that of society. “Can you give me a moment to think?”

[Joshua Bernstein]

Josh's parents had allowed television. Josh had simply been too busy planning excursions with his friends, or hanging out with Rebekah, to do very much of that. Bekah hadn't liked TV much, believing it was a distraction from studying, and Donald preferred rolling joints and yelling at people about politics. And since Josh enjoyed both yelling at people and studying (and pot, at the time) he hadn't felt that he was missing out by this lack of television in his life.

But sometimes, when Sean mentioned programs like this, Josh felt that perhaps having a similar foundation in regards to media would have been helpful.

"Take your time. We do have ice cream to eat, after all." He responded, leaning against the other man's shoulder. Since he had been busy trying to decide upon a story he still had quite a bit left; he couldn't really see whether Sean had depleted his own or not, but he assumed he had at least a little left, since he hadn't heard the sounds of a bowl settling onto the bedside table.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Sean thanked the other man for giving him the moment to think. He wasn’t sure that he could think of a story on his own, or, if he managed to do so, that it would be any better than the one Josh had crafted. Particularly given that he didn’t care for this subject matter.

But he did have the experience of decades of telepathy, and society was fond of horror. If he thought for long enough, he was sure that he could remember something he had overheard along the lines. Something that his nephew had told him during one of their get-togethers. Something from an advertisement for a movie during October.

While he thought, he ate, enjoying his slowly melting ice cream and the toppings.

After several moments, he thought that he had something. But he had to check with his partner about the rules first. “Is it all right if the story is more of an urban legend? Or do I have to think of it myself?”

If legends were fine, then he had an idea. That would spare Josh the pain of having to listen to anything Sean described from his own imagination. It would also spare them both the difficulty of translations between what frightened psychics and what frightened non-psychics.

[Joshua Bernstein]

Josh shook his head before remembering that his partner probably couldn't see that in the dark.

"This isn't a game. There aren't rules, any sort of ghost story will do." He declared between licking at his ice cream. He didn't know how these affairs normally went, but it hardly seemed fair to demand ghost stories and then on top of that to expect Sean to come up with one on his own. He had known the telepath long enough to know that he had never participated in creative writing for fun, and that he also was not particularly interested in ghost stories as a whole.

It had just been a spur of the moment idea, inspired by Sean's comment about camping.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Sean nodded to himself, since that meant the idea he had was usable. Fortunately, since otherwise it would be a long night.

“This was a story in one of Ryan’s books when he was younger*,” the telepath explained. While it probably went without explanation, he didn’t want anyone (even if that audience was only Josh) to think that this was his work. Sean cared about proper attributions, even in informal and private settings. He wasn’t sure if he remembered every detail, but he thought he remembered the key aspects. Such as character names and the twist at the end.

“Tom and Alfred were cattle farmers who lived in a valley outside of a small town. When it got too hot, they drove the cows up to the mountains to graze for a couple of months. Then when it cooled down, they returned to their valley. Life was otherwise quiet, without very much to entertain them, aside from work, chores, and gardening. They had cows and they had each other, but that was the end of it.”

Sean paused to take another spoonful of his ice cream.

“One day, they decided to make a life-size doll as a scarecrow for their garden. Making it would pass the time, and they decided that it should look like a neighboring farmer that they both hated. They stuffed old sacks with straw, gave the doll beady little eyes and a long twisted nose, dark hair and a permanent scowl, reminiscent of the farmer’s features. They named him Harold, after their neighbor.”

Those were setting details. So far, so good.

“Every morning, they tired Harold to a pole in the garden before they tended to the cows for the day. Each night when they returned, they untied him and brought him inside, just in case it rained. When they were in a good mood, they spoke to him, telling jokes or asking him about his day while one or the other would pretend to be him, speaking in a high-pitched voice. When they were in a bad mood, they took it out on him. They would yell at him or curse him; sometimes they kicked him or punched him in his straw. In particularly bad moods, they smeared food over his face at supper time. Harold never reacted.”

Sean paused again, trying to remember what happened next. After a moment, it came to him and he continued. “One day, after smearing potatoes on Harold’s face, he grunted. Alfred couldn’t believe it, but Tom insisted that it was Harold. ‘Let’s throw him in the fire,’ Tom suggested, to put an end to him. But Alfred thought that the other man was imagining things. They reached a compromise to keep him in the corner of their hut to watch over him, and, if anything strange happened, they would leave him behind during their summer migration.”

The telepath knew that he would win no awards for this reiteration, but at least he was participating in the activity.

“They no longer talked to Harold or tied him up outside. Now and then, Harold would grunt, but nothing else happened. Eventually, Tom and Alfred decided that nothing was wrong, that it was probably a bug or a rodent, and they returned to how they had been. They tied him in the garden, shared good times in good moods, and took out their bad moods with verbal and physical abuse. Weeks passed, and Alfred made a startling realization: Harold was growing.”

He paused for dramatic effect.

“The next morning, during breakfast, Harold moved from the corner. He stood up and left their hut without looking at them. Sounds from outside and then on the roof told them he had climbed atop the hut and was pacing back and forth, quickly and steadily without need for respite. He stayed up there all day. The next morning, he climbed down and stood in the pasture, just watching Alfred and Tom. They were terrified.”

As they should be, if this had been real.

“They decided to take the cows to graze away from the house, partially to calm their nerves. When they retrieved the cows, Harold was nowhere to be found. Not wanting to press their luck, they continued their migration, calming down a bit as they put distance between themselves and their hut. But after a few miles, they realized they’d forgotten the milking stools and needed to go back. Neither wanted to, but they didn’t have the money to replace the stools. The two men drew straws to decide who would have to go back, and Tom lost. After a couple of minutes of reassuring him, Alfred continued with the cows, and Tom promised to meet him. It would take a while for him to make it to the hut and back, and Alfred was prepared to meet at the grazing spot.

“When Alfred and the cows reached a rise in the path, he looked back in the direction of the hut. He couldn’t see Tom at all. But, to his surprise, he saw that Harold had returned from wherever he had gone, and he was atop the roof again. While Alfred watched, Harold knelt and stretched out what looked to be a bloody skin to dry under the sun.”

That was the end of his story. It, and the illustration, had terrified his nephew has a boy.




*This is the story “Harold”, taken from the book Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark 3: More Tales to Chill Your Bones by Alvin Schwartz. I changed the wording, because Sean could never tell the story verbatim, but it is Alvin Schwartz’s concept, pacing, and breakdown.

[Joshua Bernstein]

Josh listened to Sean's story attentively. It was far better than his own attempt had been, which was to say that it was actually rather scary. Particularly in the dark, without power.

He hesitantly placed his bowl of ice cream against the bedside table, half expecting a hand to creep up from under the bed, then shrank against his partner. He wished he had come up with a less frightening idea.

Maybe cute animal stories.

That would have been better.

"Ah...how old was Ryan when he got this book?" The attorney wanted to know. He was sure this story wasn't at all suitable for anyone under the age of 18, and possibly above it, either.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Sean felt his partner tense against him. Once Josh had set aside his ice cream, the telepath wrapped both arms around the younger man, pulling him close to his body for comfort. He didn’t remark on the fact that he was doing so, or the reasons why he was doing so; he simply offered Josh the safety and security of physical contact.

They would be fine. There was nothing in the dark that wasn’t there in the light. And, come morning, the storm will have passed; hopefully, their power will be restored with no difficulty. Life would resume its daily pace.

At the question, Sean became contemplative. He hadn’t bought the book for his nephew, and since they hadn’t lived in the same state, he didn’t remember when the boy acquired each of his books and other belongings. Yet he had some memories of reading the books to the boy while he was still in elementary school.

“I think he was nine or ten at the time, if memory serves. I don’t remember his exact age, but they were horror books for children. With illustrations.”

The telepath remembered the artwork. He knew that his nephew did as well, since several of the pictures had given the boy nightmares as a child.

[Joshua Bernstein]

"Nine or ten?" Josh repeated, burrowing his face against Sean's shoulder, glasses and all. This might not have been the most comfortable position for his partner, but it certainly was reassuring to feel the other man there against him. Somewhere in his subconscious he felt that even should inanimate objects come to life and become homicidal Sean would be able to fend them off, if not hear their thoughts.

"That seems awful young for that sort of story..." He remarked uncomfortably, quite forgetting that when he was nine or ten he had already been introduced to the concepts of death and horror. His introduction had simply been with the history of his family, and current events, rather than anything fantastical. But America had seemed, if certainly nowhere near perfect, at least safe. Not so from the supernatural; should that be real no location could be safe. Not from Josh's point of view.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Josh’s glasses were sharp, pressed as they were into Sean’s shoulder blade. He understand that his partner required the comfort of physical contact, but this position was untenable in the long-term. As such, he shifted in the bed, turning slightly, and in doing so, drawing Josh with him so that the other man could bury his face in the telepath’s neck.

That would be marginally more comfortable.

“I don’t know what the age recommendation on those books was,” Sean admitted to his partner. In some ways, his own sense of scale for media was warped, given that he had experienced a relatively sheltered childhood, and then the telepathy had given him far more insight than desired at the age of twelve. At the same time, he also knew that Kathleen had screened material for her only son. The other boys in his group of friends all had access to those books at the same time. “But I think it was typical of that age group.”

The telepath had no interest in that material, all factors equal. He had listened attentively when Ryan had described stories, because he had listened attentively to everything his nephew said, but he was glad the boy had grown out of that phase. His comic books were far less disturbing.

[Joshua Bernstein]

Josh allowed his position to shift, only caring about the closeness, not the particulars of where his face was buried.

"Typical? I didn't read books like that at that age!" He protested. He was sure that Sean hadn't, either, and he was rather surprised that Kathleen had allowed it. He had (perhaps rather unfairly) determined that she probably morally disapproved of ghost stories and their ilk, so he couldn't see how she would let her elementary school aged son read a book about supernatural murders.

Never mind, though; this wasn't a good topic of conversation for the night.

"At least it's warm under the blankets. Or am I leeching all the warmth out of your body? You aren't cold, are you?"