Weirder Than Weird (13 page)

   
“Right you are, Mother, let’s go to bed.”

   
As they went inside, the old man turned and paused for a moment glancing back at the fields that have caused him so much anxiety over the past few years. “You know, Mother,” he said with confidence, “This old farm’s luck has finally changed… I’m certain of it!” and shut the door.

ESCAPE

   
Why the front gate of the prison lay open was a mystery but there it was, a beckoning pathway to instant freedom. The old man cautiously stepped into a blinding sun not seen by his feeble eyes for a very long time and a moment later compelled himself to run. By some miracle, his tired old legs found their youthful vigor and he soon set a pace that he never would have imagined possible, one fed by the elation of shaking off the misery that had been his life for over forty years. The crackle of rifle fire never followed nor the commanding voices of his despised captors that would stop him cold in his tracks by fearful obedience. He ran effortlessly through the cobbled streets of the surrounding village, his heart pounding out a joyful rhythm with every step as he distanced himself from that interminable nightmare.

  
For the first time in years, he could feel the sun’s warming rays enveloping his pale body like a soft winter coat and to his delight, the laughter of children seemed to be all around him, a chorus of carefree voices in full bloom, lifting his spirits even higher. Rounding a corner, he came upon a grey haired woman in a flowery apron hanging the day’s laundry. As he trotted past her he spoke a friendly greeting and she turned to him with a bountiful smile. This newfound freedom began a stirring of sweet memories, the old woman invoking images of his own mother performing a similar chore from his childhood and his eyes started to mist over. For a moment, he thought that he would like to stop and talk, but his mind had always been bent upon a single desire all these years, that of being reunited with his beloved Susan and this would be his only chance.

   
He quickened his pace until he seemed to be running at a full sprint and the village soon melted behind him. He could no longer hear the clapping of shoe leather against hard surface, the sound was reduced to a light crunching, for he now found himself treading upon a pathway of golden sand and a glistening azure sea spread out before him like a sparkling desert. He made his way down to the water’s edge and kicked off his shoes. An incoming wave reached his ankles, the cool water curling and caressing his tired feet. Falling to his knees, he scooped up a handful of wet sand and held it against his heated brow. A weariness suddenly came over him and he fell backwards, his limber body collapsing easily into the inviting surf.

   
“I’m free!” he shouted to the sky, “After all these years …I am finally…FREE!”

   
A dark silhouette framed by the burning midday sun suddenly appeared over top of him and his heart took a bounding leap. “Susan! My dear sweet Susan!” he shouted, but as he focused on the figure it was not that of his long lost angel but a man in uniform and the sun had now strangely transformed into a radiant light bulb dangling overhead by a thin wire.

   
“Now old man, Susan wouldn’t be that dame you sliced up all those years ago now would it?” chuckled the toothless prison guard.

   
The old man looked confused at first to find himself strapped into a large wooden chair but his cruel reality came flooding back to him in a burst of grim horror. Only moments ago his mind had managed to escape the confines of his nightmare but there was still a worldly price to be paid. The guard took a step backwards and motioned to a man on the other side of the window, a lever was thrown and the sun like bulb dimmed in response. The room filled with a terrifying hum as a million ravaging volts ripped into the wooden throne and into the old man.

   
“Well, old timer,” the guard shouted above the crackle and hiss, “There’s really only one way for a man to gain his freedom from Crenshaw prison, and you, my dear fellow, have finally found it!”

DEVIL’S TOWER

     “The following is an account of one man’s disturbing story
--my own. I feel an obligation, however, to inform you that my tale takes a most bizarre and frightening detour from what most of us would consider, well, normal. Just a friendly warning.”

*        *        *        *

     “In the waning year of 1931, I was twenty-one years young and fresh out of college. I earned my degree in Journalism and was bursting with youthful confidence knowing that a long and happy life of journalistic endeavors lay before me. Only, things didn’t turn out quite the way I expected.

      “Coming out of college, there were bills to pay. Lots and lots of bills. My original intention was to gain employment with one of the more prestigious newspapers or magazines in the country, but after a number of dispiriting rejections I settled for a newer, albeit seedy magazine at the time called-- Weird Society. A true forerunner of the tabloid magazines that were to follow in later years, Weird Society wasn’t really intended for intellectual stimulation; on the contrary, this was the beginning of the depression years and the magazine’s focus was to bring to a gloomy yet, sensational-hungry audience some form of entertainment-- a diversion of sorts to help them forget, at least for a time, the dismal circumstances behind their own pathetic lives.

     “As it turns out, people were extremely eager and willing to drop their last dime in order to read about a phantom ship crossing the ocean or the latest ghost story. More often than not, they would  immediately turn to the gratuitous sex romp that was included in every edition. In the beginning, our stories were based mostly on heresay, legend, or a large dose of fabrication from enthusiastic staff writers who had absolutely no compunction about stretching the truth from here to Sunday. This type of writing was not only encouraged by the magazine’s editor, but demanded. With new subscriptions coming in daily, the magazine’s coffers swelled to record heights and the powers that be finally determined that an air of authenticity would be needed in order to keep the magazine alive and in long- term circulation. This meant that its reporters were now charged with finding original and exciting stories outside their borders.  Much to my delight, I became one of those globe- trotting reporters.

     “Of course, being that I was the newest addition to the staff, I didn’t rate choice assignments to places like Italy or Spain. Instead, I went to less far off and less exotic lands like Paraguay and Chile to report on odd stories that had to do with things like haunted villages or unidentified lights in the sky. It seemed that I was the reporter of choice for Central and South America, but I didn’t grumble much-- it was still quite an adventurous experience for a young lad who had never stepped a foot outside his own small town before.

     “After a few well received stories, I was appointed to an indefinite stay at a little town in Peru called Mancora. My editor thought it more practical for me to stay centrally located in case I should have to pick up and leave to track down a story. The truth is, the company didn’t like the idea of me coming all the way back to the States after every story, which of course, cost them a boat load of money. I’m a practical man myself; I could see their point, but even in spite of the wonderful friends that I made in Mancora and the obvious paradise that I lived in, I still became desperately home sick.

*        *        *       *

     “My tale actually begins on one particular hot day in mid-August. I was just lounging around in my underwear trying to work up a not-so-interesting story when I got a knock at my door. A young lad handed me a telegram from my editor back in the States, but I hesitated to open it right away. I had full control over my own stories and the only time I received unsolicited news from him was on the rare occasion when he wanted to congratulate me on my latest submission. Of course, I hadn’t sent him anything in over two weeks, so the telegram set me on edge. I fully expected bad news as I slowly tore open the envelope, but relief came over me as I read. ‘Wilson. You are to proceed to a town in Bolivia called “Tapacari” where you will contact a man named Juan Chavez at…’ The telegram went on with additional details and I was relieved that it turned out to be only an assignment. That afternoon I was packed and on the first train out of Mancora and headed toward Bolivia. But as you will see, I never did make it to my destination.

*        *        *        *

    “‘This is the end of the line, Senor.‘ came a voice from overhead, shaking me awake. I groggily came around from my nap to one of the baggage conductors looking down and smiling a big toothless grin at me.

     
“‘Are we in Tapacari already?’ I said, glancing around, looking somewhat disoriented.

   
“‘Oh, no, Senor. This is Palo station. This is as far as the train can go.’ He motioned to the window. ‘You see, the tracks stop here.’

     “I looked a bit confused and he could tell that I was annoyed. ‘My good man, I was told…’

      “‘Senor, I’m sorry if there was a misunderstanding. Still, if you want to go on to Tapacari, you will have to make arrangements in town for a horse, or maybe you prefer to walk. The town you seek is only twenty miles away but I’m afraid you will have to get there on your own. I’m sorry, Senor.’

     “That pretty much settled it
. Arguing was pointless, so I grabbed my bag and headed into town.

*        *        *        *

     “I could see why the track ended the way it did. The terrain appeared to gradually slope upward into a number of sharp stony hills that went on for miles outside the city. In contrast to the rocky terrain further on, the small town of Palo was a virtual paradise of lush green jungle and heavenly scented flowers. I strolled past a number of adobe homes on my way into town, waving a greeting to the smiling faces I met along the way, and finally arrived at the only hotel. I went inside and inquired as to where I could rent the horse and supplies I would need. Because of the late hour, I decided to stay the night and get up early the next morning for a fresh start. After making all the arrangements for my trip, I had some hours to kill before nightfall, so I slipped into one of the local cantinas to cut the dust out of my throat.

     “I stepped through a swinging pair of double doors and walked up to a long wooden bar. The place was dark inside, the only light coming from what could be squeezed past the double doors and two oil-filled lamps. By the smell alone, it was probably a good thing a person couldn’t see inside too clearly. ‘Nice combination of grease and sweat,’ I thought to myself as I sat down. I was a little disappointed that there weren’t any senoritas around. There were only two men talking at the end of the bar and one disheveled figure draped over a round table in the corner, snoring away.

      “‘What can I get for you senor?’ came a voice, seemingly from out of nowhere. A second later, a bald old gentleman popped up from behind the bar.

    
“‘Beer,’ I said.

    
“‘You’re an American, are you not?’

   
“I nodded yes.

    
“‘So what brings you to our little town of Palo?’ he asked, handing me the beer.

  
“‘Just a bit of research,’ I said. ‘I’m a writer for a magazine back in the …’

     “The old man quickly cut in. ‘What is the name of your magazine
, senor?’ he asked, in an overly zealous way.

    
“‘Weird Society,’ I replied.

    “His eyes seemed to light up like the
Fourth of July. He raised one of his fingers in the air, hesitated, then disappeared behind a curtain of beads. I didn’t know how to react to the old man’s sudden exit, so I just worked on my beer. Out the corner of my eye, I noticed the two men at the end of the bar staring at me and mumbling to each other.

     “Within a minute or so, the old man returned, proudly carrying last month’s edition of Weird Society.

    
“‘I’ll be damned!’ I said as I took hold of it and started leafing through its pages.

    
“‘Where in the world did you get this?’ I asked. ‘I didn’t think that we were in circulation in this part of the world--at least not yet.’

     “The old man smiled. ‘My brother lives in the States and he sends along many of the magazines that he has read. Weird Society is one of my very favorites!’

      “I turned one more page and tapped my finger upon it. ‘This… this is one of my stories.’

     “The old man was beside himself with joy and practically begged me to sign his copy. I was tickled by his enthusiasm.

     “
At that moment, the two men at the end of the bar got up and left without saying a word. For some reason, I felt uneasy. A few minutes later I was stepping through the double doors myself and onto the dirt road. I took a short cut through one of the alleyways that led directly to the hotel, but as I started through, I heard footsteps from behind. I turned to see who it was, but there came a sharp blow to the back of my head, then everything went black.

     “After some indeterminate amount of time, I regained consciousness and found myself stretched out on a bed of hay in the back of a moving wagon. My hands were bound behind me and I could hear two men up front talking. My head throbbed terribly and I felt as though I was on the verge of panic. I struggled to get to my knees but before I could right myself, one of the men turned back and struck me across the face with a heavy wooden stick. I saw a momentary splash of blood as I was flung back into the bed of the wagon. I cursed the man who struck me but he turned and barked some words of warning. I could now see that the two men were the ones from the cantina, and they meant business.

     “I decided
it wise to lay silent for awhile as I tried to figure a way out of the mess I was in. I watched the droopy vines and greenery overhead pass slowly by as the creaky old wagon labored it‘s way along. At some point during our journey, I could feel an incline to the wagon and the trees became less and less noticeable, gradually turning to sand-colored rock.

     “Within an hour or so, we arrived at our destination and I was forcibly pulled from the wagon. Before me stood a massive stone edifice, silhouetted against a grey and darkening sky. It rose to at least a hundred feet and had a round configuration, not unlike some great castle turret of days gone by. A dark foreboding seemed to emanate from the structure and a sudden fear ran through me like flame upon my very soul. I turned to one of my captors. ‘I’ll give you all the money I have, please just...’

      “He laughed in my face and pulled my wallet from his shirt pocket. ‘We already have your money, Senor. The question is… How much are your magazine friends willing to pay to get you back in one piece?’

     “He and his partner thought the remark very funny. It was clear now what they intended to do. I would be held for some type of ransom. My thoughts returned back to a lecture given to me on this very subject by my editor before I left for Peru. He said, ‘Wilson, folks in other countries don’t take kindly to foreigners. They’ll throw you in jail no sooner than look at you, so you best be on your guard at all times.’

     “I can remember thinking that his warning, although well intentioned, was a bit over the top, so I didn‘t put much stock in it. Oh, how wrong I was! The more I thought about it, the more dejected I became. Not because I thought my company would in any way forsake me, but it was obvious that these two criminals were not the most sophisticated. It was questionable whether they could successfully carry out such a devious plot as this.

     “‘If they screw up,’ I thought, ‘I’ll probably either be killed or left to rot in this God-forsaken tower, never to be heard of again.’

     “I was pushed to the wooden door at the base of the tower
, then pushed once again into its dark interior. One of the desperados removed a torch from a bracket on the wall and lit it. The flame blazed brightly and my eye immediately caught sight of a number of dark figures on the floor scurrying off to find the comfort of shadow. The inside was dank and foul, smelling of rot and mold and things long dead. White streaks of cascading niter encrusted the walls on all sides and a gossamer curtain of spider-webs stretched across our path at every turn. The ghostly shrouds were quickly erased with a crackle and a hiss as we followed the torch bearer to the far wall. A winding staircase of stone ran its way up the inside circumference of the tower, spiraling to the top. The torch bearer gave a grunt and motioned to a bale of hay sitting by the bottom step. I must have hesitated too long, not understanding, because I received a sharp rap to the side of my head by his partner.  ‘Pick up!‘ he yelled, but I shrugged at the absurdity of the command, for my hands were still bound behind me. Still, I received another rap on the head for my impertinence, and a moment later I heard the distinct click of a switchblade opening. The