Surprise! I’m not dead.

Been a long time since I posted I know. But I thought I’d share with you another short story I’ve written. Gonna try to get back into the swing of things with writing. Covid definitely shook all of our worlds up.

But without further ado, here is the story.

Two nights ago, I killed myself for the third time.

It seems like ages ago that I was living in the bright, sunny world of Los Angeles. I had a nice enough apartment, a steady job that paid the bills, and free time to pursue my writing passion. But I never could have predicted how fast my life would change.

I was lucky. My first book thrust me into the spotlight and garnered critical acclaim.

My second book sold even better than the first.

The problems started with the third.

From its inception, it was clear something was amiss. Frequent cases of writer’s block impeded my progress and little distractions kept pulling me away. As time went on my publisher grew impatient, demanding that I produce something soon. So I forced myself to write, willed myself to continue. Eventually, it was done.

The headlines called it a “failure”.

The readers decried it as “boring”.

The critics slammed it as “trash”.

For weeks I paced back and forth in my apartment, wondering where it had all gone wrong. How had I failed so spectacularly? Did I never have the talent to begin with?

I became a different person overnight. I spent hours every day lying on the couch, descending ever deeper into myself. Even looking at a blank computer screen was enough to send me into an emotional tailspin.

Soon enough, the thoughts began.

They were gradual at first…sneaking their way into my life from time to time. Maybe I would just step into traffic. Maybe I would jump off a building. Maybe I would swallow a bottle of pills. Images of how I’d do it flashed through my mind daily. Initially I just shrugged them off as products of life’s turmoil.

But when I woke up in the kitchen one night clutching a knife, I knew something had to change.

I decided to give up the apartment, the spotlight, the fans – everything. I reached out to a friend of mine in the Midwest to see if he could help locate some property. The place he presented me with was rather quaint: a two-story log home nestled in a grove of pine trees. It had a detached garage and a large, wooden deck out front which provided a spectacular view of nature. And it was close enough to the village proper that I wouldn’t have to travel far for any necessities.

It was, for lack of a better word, perfect.

I kept my name off the mailbox and hidden from the address books. I bought a P.O. box in a nearby town, but that was it. When I first moved, I checked it about twice a week. Then it became once a week.

Now it’s lucky if I decide to check it once a month.

The village of Alsey was a place most only knew through the windows of their car. With a population of only a few hundred, it was the perfect place to shed the spotlight I had once adored. During the first community meeting, I proclaimed my desire for privacy, and the village folk accepted it without question.

If there’s one thing small town America is good at, it’s keeping secrets.

Winter gave way to spring. Spring blossomed into summer.

I’d always loved the Midwest during this time of year: the scent of fresh pine, chirping bird calls in the morning, and crickets humming at night. There’s a symmetry to the area, a symbiosis. It makes you feel like you’re co-existing with the land, rather than trying to control it.

Green became yellow became red. The air harbored a chill. The bugs all but vanished.

Late September, the dreams began.

One night I had been enjoying a well-cooked steak when there was a knock at my door. I opened it to find a young lady, likely in her early twenties, standing on my front deck. Under the dim yellow light above the door, I could see that she had eyes like the ocean and a jacket the color of grass. A colorful, wrapped box was cradled in her arms.

“Happy birthday,” she proclaimed cheerily as she held out the gift for me. “I’m a big fan.”

Unwrapping the box, I found myself stunned to see a Remington brand typewriter. It was clearly decades old but had been cleaned and polished so much that its black finish gleamed like new. I thanked her with the best smile I could manage. With a laugh, she bounded back down the road.

Once she was out of eyesight, I tossed the wretched thing in the garbage can.

The past was the past. It deserved to be forgotten.

The first dream visited me that very night.

I sat up in bed, the room cast in shadow. The darkness ebbed and flowed, almost like it was alive. My body ached, every movement seeming to take monumental effort. I reached over to the bedside table and pulled open the drawer to reveal a black pistol. I took it and left the bedroom.

Stumbling down the stairs, I could barely see through the tears streaming down my cheeks. I pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and sat down, the dim night lights casting a doleful aura over the room. I loaded the pistol, the slide snapping into place with a sharp click. Thecreaking of the chair kept me company as I rocked back and forth, fingers rapping against the side of the gun.

Eventually, my hand seemed to move of its own accord, raising the weapon.

Cold metal kissed my skull. A deep, gasping breath escaped my throat.

I pulled the trigger.

Next thing I knew, I was throwing the sheets off of me in a frenzied panic. Jumping out of bed, I dashed into the master bathroom and flicked the lights on. The blinding white lights burnt away the darkness, revealing a disheveled caricature of myself in the mirror – dark brown eyes quivering wildly, reddish hair drenched with sweat. The more I stared at the reflection, the more I was convinced it wasn’t my own. My body felt wrong somehow…as though it didn’t belong to me.

Turning on the tap, I doused my face with ice cold water, hoping the shock would snap me out of it. Gradually, it worked. A weight lifted from my shoulders. The mania that had seized me soon abated, a deep confusion settling in its place.

I’d never had a dream that powerful before. As a child, I occasionally had terrifying nightmares that sent me running for my mother’s room, but even those were tame by comparison. Something about it shook me to the core. But I couldn’t put my finger on why. It was as though my body was aware of something my mind wasn’t…a subconscious act of terror.

Eventually, I returned to the bedroom, catching a glimpse of my haggard reflection in the dresser mirror. Pale blue light filtered in through the cracks in the window blinds, casting my face in pale shadow. Shivering, I hopped back in bed and pulled the covers over me.

My sleep was deep and dreamless.

“You haven’t heard?! Paul killed himself last night!”

“What?! That’s horrible! He always seemed so happy…”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him sad.”

“Do they know why he did it?”

“No…he had no financial problems as far as I was aware. His life seemed perfect. I just saw his wife a little while ago…she’s a complete wreck…”

Two women were having a conversation as I passed them on the streets of the village, our shoes clicking against the sidewalk. Their words washed over me with little impact. I was so lost in my own thoughts that I never considered the ramifications of their conversation.

I was – and still am – a stupid, selfish man.

The two women disappeared behind me and soon I arrived at the general store. It was a red brick building, a flimsy wooden sign announcing its Ma and Pa origins with all the subtlety of a foghorn. A tiny bell chimed as I entered, catching the attention of the old man behind the counter. He greeted me kindly, a warm smile stretching across his calloused features. A polished wooden cane sat under his left hand, supporting his aging form. I did my best to feign a smile back and began browsing the store: selecting some fresh fruit, a carton of milk, and a handful of canned vegetables.

“Rough night,” the old man asked as I brought the items up to the counter.

“Yeah,” I admitted, “had trouble sleeping.”

“Valerian tea’ll help,” he offered. “Cures insomnia without any of those nasty side effects. I got some in the back if you wa-”

I held up a hand to stop him.

“Thanks, but I’m fine,” I assured him. He bagged up the items and I left, hiding a grimace on my face. Eagerness like that always irked me. Serves me right for living in a small village I suppose.

Everybody knows everybody.

As I made my way back home, I passed the house Paul had lived in. A black and white police car sat out front, yellow tape blocking the front entryway. A pair of cops in uniform stood on the patio with grim expressions, talking to the widow. Clearly distraught, she kept wiping her red and puffy eyes on her sweater sleeve. The officers were asking her questions, but she could scarcely answer through the sobs that racked her body.

I didn’t linger. Something urged me to pick up the pace…

The second dream came a couple of nights later.

Just like before, the bitter throes of depression pulled me from a deep slumber. Throwing off the covers, I stumbled my way through the darkness, heading downstairs and into the garage. It was a sad affair: chipped concrete on the floor and orange, rusted flaps of metal adorning the walls. A rickety wooden door sat loosely in its frame at the far end, a portal to the outside world. My eyes locked on an old metal workbench in the corner. Reaching underneath, I retrieved a shotgun and a box of shells.

The legs of the metal stool screeched as I dragged it across the floor. A flickering yellow light hanging above my head was my only friend in that dusty garage. The chill in the air made my body shiver as I sat down, slid a shell into the shotgun, and cocked it.

Inserting the barrel into my mouth, I grimaced as the sour taste of metal oozed down my throat.

My breath quickened as my finger curled around the trigger.

A thunderous bang echoed into the night.

The shock of snapping awake sent me tumbling out of bed, pulling the sheets off with me. I did an awkward, frenzied dance as I tried to rid myself of them, soft fabric clinging to my legs like a voracious parasite. Once free I fled into the refuge of the windowless, white-walled bathroom. In a repeat performance the mirror presented the reflection of a man drenched in sweat, body trembling like a leaf in the wind, hair matted and snarled. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe, splashing frigid water over my face.

Like before, the feeling eventually subsided. My mind kept racing.

Where was this coming from? I had dark thoughts back in Los Angeles after the book failed, but I had gotten over it. I had put all that behind me when I moved. Was I wrong? Was there some part of me that was still dwelling on my failure? Was there some part of me that was so broken it was dragging the rest of me down with it?

Had I just run away from my problems instead of solving them?

When I finally stumbled out of the bathroom, mentally and physically drained, I had no answers. I didn’t even bother to collect the sheets from the floor, just collapsed into bed and drifted off.

Harold’s death reached me a couple days later.

I was talking a walk through the village when I passed by the central square, a small park decorated with brightly colored flowers and a stone fountain as the centerpiece. Faint words drifted my way, and I turned to see a couple of sad-looking women consoling each other. As I walked closer, their words became clear.

“-with his own shotgun?”

“In the garage, yes.”

“But…but why? Why would he kill himself?”

A sour taste filled my mouth, and an involuntary shudder rippled through me. Not wanting to appear too strange, I entered the town square and meandered around, making sure to stay within earshot of the two women. Their conversation was illuminating to say the least.

“I can’t believe this is happening…Paul was enough of a shock. But Harold? How could he want to end his own life? It’s just not fair…it’s not fair,” one of them wailed, tears welling up in her eyes. The other woman offered a tissue and a comforting rub on the shoulder.

“I know Marie…it’s terrible. I’m scared out of my wits! Two suicides in one week? It’s simply unheard of!”

The dots connected. The web strung itself before my eyes. Harold had shot himself with a shotgun in the garage. Paul had killed himself with a pistol in the kitchen. I had acted it out in my dreams, the puppet master for some demented shadow play.

Was I predicting these events? Was it all a coincidence?

Or was I causing them?

I wandered the village the rest of the afternoon, taking in the local gossip. The same themes were repeated ad nauseam: both men were happy, nice guys who showed no signs of depression or suicidal intent. No one could fathom why either man had done it.

I could have written it off as mere happenstance. But something inside me wouldn’t budge. The connection ran deeper. It had to.

That evening I stared at my bed for a long time, fearful of sleeping. What if these dreams weren’t dreams, but something akin to prophecy? What if it was even more than that? What if I was somehow…killing these people? I knew these thoughts were irrational. But their whispers in my ear felt so tantalizingly…correct.

In the end, it was tiredness that forced my hand. And so – reluctantly – I put myself to bed.

Nothing happened that night. In fact, days passed without a single dream.

After an entire week went by, I began to breathe easier. I thought, perhaps it was all over. Perhaps I could find peace once again.

Late one afternoon, I found myself walking through the village on my way to visit an old friend. A dreary air still hung over the place. Even the sky itself was dark and gloomy, as if reflecting the general atmosphere. A chilly gust of wind ruffled my brown jacket and caused me to shiver.

Funerals had been planned. Celebrations of life scheduled. The villagers were grieving.

I wanted no part of it. I wanted nothing more than to bury my head and forget it all.

I passed by the general store, a black and white “closed” sign hanging in the front window. Turning the corner, I ambled past rows of old-fashioned houses: some of wood, others of brick. This was the side of the village travelers never saw, the vibrant array of personalities reflected in the odd assortment of houses that had been built.

At the end of the street was my destination: an old, two-story house with wood painted white. On the porch, a man in an old rocking chair rose when he saw me, bright smile stretching across his lips. He had light blonde hair, a rounded face, eyes like warm amber. Cliff Wrenshal was a good man. We’ve known each other since high school, and he was the one who helped find my current residence. After exchanging greetings, he held the door open as I stepped inside.

It was a quintessential, rural American home: a floral wallpaper kitchen with wooden cabinets and a small stove. The second-story led to a bathroom and a slew of bedrooms: one master and two smaller ones for the kids, who were now in college. His wife looked up from the stove and smiled at me as we entered – her starry, blue-eyed visage obscured behind a wall of steam. Cliff led me into the parlor, which he had taken over to display his collection.

Unique, antique firearms were his passion. One look around the room showed there was no questioning his seriousness about the hobby. Shiny, gleaming finishes of brown, black, and gray greeted the eyes from within large wooden cabinets. Other, more exclusive items were sealed inside their own personal boxes, each with intricate golden imprints on the cover. The walls were varnished to perfection, dark brown finish sparkling in the light that streamed in from the bay windows.

Cliff motioned to a couple of wooden armchairs and handed me a beer. Once we were seated the conversation began in earnest.

He asked me about my time in L.A. I asked him about life in the Midwest countryside. We hadn’t really reconnected since I moved into town. I had never been good at keeping in touch. But in the moment, it didn’t matter.

We drank. We laughed. We pined for our youth. Typical adult stuff.

Then Cliff began gushing over his latest acquisition: an old pump action shotgun he had bought at auction.

The atmosphere changed in an instant.

The air grew dark and heavy. My gut began to churn. My back stiffened, a chill creeping up my spine. My arms broke out in goosebumps. Cliff kept talking, but I couldn’t understand him. It was as though he were speaking to me from the other side of a tunnel, his words muffled and indistinct.

I began to sweat.

I tasted metal.

My hands gripped the armrests so fiercely I thought they would snap off.

Cliff’s eyes narrowed and his mouth formed an expression of concern.

“-something wrong?”

His words came through suddenly as the darkness lifted. I blinked furiously. Then shot up from my seat.

“I-I have to head home. I uh…I think left the stove on by accident,” I sputtered.

My hands shook as I slipped on my shoes and jacket, ignoring the repeated inquiries about my well-being. I almost tripped on the front steps as I made my way into the street. Stealing a glance backward as I walked, I saw Cliff. He was still standing in the front doorway, face lit by the setting sun, watching me with concern. I averted my gaze and kept moving.

The air was oppressive, forcing itself down on me. The fall wind now seemed malevolent, swirling around me with palpable hatred. I could imagine eyes in the windows of the houses I passed…watching…judging…

I quickened my pace. When I made it home, I sprinted up the steps and shouldered my way through the front door. Ripping off my coat I flung it onto the rack, then pulled off my shoes and threw them into the closet. Sitting down on the couch, I stared at my hands. They were cold, pale, and shaking.

I sat there for a long time, still as a statue. The sun fell behind the veil of clouds, a thin orange haze piercing through the trees. As the last bits of light were swallowed up by the darkness, I knew what I had to do.

I had to stay awake that night. I could not go to sleep.

Falling asleep would mean another dream.

Another dream meant another death.

I told myself I would not allow that to happen. Sitting on the couch, staring out the window into the black, I mentally prepared myself for a long night…

Sitting on the edge of the bed I groaned. My leg ached and I rubbed it with my hand, trying to soothe the pain. I felt dreary and exhausted, wishing I could just let go. Let go of the pain. Let go of everything…

I grabbed the cane leaning against the wall and left the room.

Limping down the darkened hallway, I opened a door at the far end. It led into a small, dark room with a large desk in the center and a bookcase off to the side. A brown hunting rifle mounted on a wooden plate caught my eye. Gingerly, I lifted it down and pulled open a desk drawer, revealing a few scattered rifle rounds. I pulled the lever back, loaded a bullet, and snapped the bolt into place.

Ping. The noise it made was strangely satisfying.

Cradling the rifle under my arm, I made my way across the hallway to the bathroom, cane thumping against the floor the whole time. I closed the door behind me and took a seat on the toilet. It wasn’t just my leg that was aching…it was my entire body. I wanted it to stop. I needed it to stop. Maneuvering the hunting rifled under my chin I flinched, the coldness of the barrel catching me off guard.

I took a deep breath.

Curled my aching fingers around the trigger.

And squeezed.

My eyes snapped open as I screamed, tumbling off the couch and landing hard on my back. Scrambling to my feet, I made a mad dash for the downstairs bathroom, stubbing my toe on the kitchen counter in the process. Hobbling and cursing, I stumbled into the bathroom and slammed the door shut.

I flicked the light switch on. Unlike the brightly lit master, the downstairs bathroom had only a single hanging bulb, which barely dispelled the shadows of the tiny space. The reflection I saw in the hanging mirror was half cast in darkness. But I could still see the quivering, disheveled visage of a man. My skin was clammy and my heart pounded hard against my ribs, like a prisoner demanding to be free.

An irrational desire to punch the mirror overtook me. I wanted to pound the glass with my fists. I wanted to scream, to curse my reflection for being careless. Struggling for control, I managed to turn the tap on and drenched myself in bone-chilling water.

There was nothing I could do now. What was done could not be undone.

As I emerged from the bathroom, scrubbing my face with a towel, I decided not to go into the village the following morning. It was safer that way. Anyone I came into contact with was in grave danger. I was poison. I was a virus, a blight upon the world.

And I had no desire to find out who had been my latest victim…

My intention to stay away from the villagers was dashed the moment I saw the red-haired woman ascending my front steps. I didn’t need to see the sadness in her green eyes or the eerie pallor of her face to know what news she brought.

“Charlie killed himself last night,” she told me after I opened the door. Her voice was monotone and barely above a whisper.

I blinked. For a moment an image of the old man’s smile flashed through my mind, his offer of Valerian Tea echoing in my ears. I shook it off and comforted the young woman, giving her a hug and telling her that everything was going to be all right.

Inside, I wanted to scream. I wanted to yell at her to go away. I was dangerous and I couldn’t be trusted. I wanted her to run.

But I kept quiet. Nothing I said would make any difference. The dreams wouldn’t stop.

People would keep dying.

And I would be to blame.

After she left, I sat at the kitchen table for hours, staring into nothingness. I tried to arrange my thoughts, tried to make sense of everything. If I could come up with some kind of explanation, some kind of reason for why everything was happening, maybe I could come up with a plan. Maybe I could come up with a solution and stop this.

But nothing came.

Instead, my mind wandered – conjuring up images of shadows, slick like oil, their tendrils creeping into people’s minds. In the depths of the inky darkness, I saw a face stretched into an expression of horrific agony – mouth curled into an impossibly wide scream and eyes of deep, endless black.

My face. My eyes. It was all mine.

I haven’t returned to the village in days. What I did or where I went seemed irrelevant. There was no escape, no solution. I was powerless.

And now, night falls once again. I steel myself for what is to come.

I know what will happen: I will lay down in bed, close my eyes, and dream.

Come morning, there will be one less human inhabiting this village…

My eyes open. Darkness hangs over the room, choking away the light.

My thoughts are no brighter.

Climbing out of bed and walking downstairs, I catch a glimpse of flowery wallpaper, colors dulled by the darkness. At the bottom of the stairs I turn and enter another room, gravitating towards a small box sitting in front of a cabinet. Opening it reveals a plush red lining with a shiny silver revolver. I remove the gun from its case, loading a single round into the chamber.

Click. The cylinder locks into place. I take a seat in the nearby armchair.

Tears continue flowing down my cheeks. I can’t do it even though I know I want to do it and that I should do it but I can’t. I just…can’t.

Deep breaths…deep…breaths…

Eventually I find the courage to lift the revolver to my head, finger curled around the trigger.

But suddenly, the world shifts. My body tingles like an electric current is flowing through it. The self-loathing I had felt is just gone, evaporated like water into the air.

Lowering the gun, I am puzzled by the sudden lack of emotion. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I can make out some of my surroundings. It’s a sitting room of some kind. I can see the darkened street outside the large bay windows, houses drenched in shadow. Moonlight floods in, glinting off pieces of metal in the various cabinets along the wall.

Trees creak in the wind. Crickets chirp faintly in the distance.

Without warning, a new compulsion seizes me. I know what I must do. Rising from my seat, I slip on a pair of heavy boots and step out the front door, descending into the night.

Darkened houses slink by as I walk. An owl hoots from a nearby forest. Errant leaves crunch under my feet. Fall is in full swing in Alsey. The trees are eye-catching with their yellows, oranges, and reds. The air is chilly, nipping at me through my pajamas. I realize with chagrin that I hadn’t even bothered to put on a coat.

At the end of the street, I turn the corner, passing by the general store. The slanted wooden sign catches the light of a streetlamp ominously, almost like it’s winking at me.

I walk for a long time. Eventually the buildings thin out and I turn onto a rough dirt road. Out of the gloom a large wooden home appears before me, singular porch light illuminating the front deck. I trudge up the steps and enter through the front door.

No one bothers to lock up in this neck of the woods.

Inside, it is pleasantly warm, the faint aroma of cooked meat lingering in the air. Under the dim lighting, I can just barely make out the cushioned couch seated a short distance away from the kitchen counter. All is quiet aside from the ambient humming of the refrigerator. I cross the room, heading for the stairs.

The wooden steps creak, protesting my ascent.

Emerging into the second-floor hallway, I walk down the corridor to a darkened door. Turning the knob slowly, I push it open.

Pale moonlight streams in through the window, casting a blue gloom over the room. I can see a dresser in the corner near the bathroom, mirror set into the upper frame. Thin, white blinds ruffle in the breeze that flows in from the open window.

And there, sleeping in the twin-sized bed, is me.

For a moment, I am overcome with a sense of terrible wrongness, my feet rooted to the spot. Gritting my teeth, I force myself to move forward. The floorboards creak, my heavy boots thumping against them as I make my way across the room. Standing at the side of the bed I look down. I can faintly see the features of my own face, peaceful and lost in deep sleep.

Lucky bastard.

Lifting the revolver, I place the barrel against the sleeper’s head. He – or rather, me – begins to stir. I am overwhelmed with a strange sense of disassociation, of being in two places at once. Movement in the dresser mirror catches my eye.

As I watch, my image warps like ripples in a pond. Something else takes the place of my reflection for a second: light hair, bright eyes, rounded chin. It feels very familiar, like a memory teetering over the edge of oblivion. But just as quickly as it appeared, it vanishes. My own haggard features snap back into place as the mirror ceases its distortion of reality.

Turning away from the mirror, I steady my grip on the gun.

Pull back the hammer.

Take a deep breath.

And pull the trigger.

Shortly after 9 AM, two police officers burst through the bedroom door of the two-story residence to find forty-one year old Clifton Wrenshal sitting in a chair, clad in flannel pajamas, still cradling a steel finish revolver in his lap. Lying in the bed is a male in his late thirties, dead from a single gunshot wound to the head.

The officers order Wrenshal to drop the weapon on the ground and put his hands up. He shows no sign of acknowledging their presence.

After a moment of indecision, one of the officers steps forward to relieve Mr. Wrenshal of his weapon. He offers no resistance. With the gun secured, they once again order him to put his hands up.

No response. The two officers look at each other, then shrug.

The handcuffs go on Mr. Wrenshal’s wrists without incident. But although he doesn’t resist, he isn’t moving on his own either, like he’s under some kind of spell. With no other choice, the officers pull him to his feet, each looping an arm under him. Thick, heavy boots scrape against the wooden floor as Mr. Wrenshal is forcibly removed from the premises.

As the trio emerges from the house, they find that a large crowd of people has gathered. News travels fast in small places like this. The village people murmur to themselves, shocked that Mr. Wrenshal would have ever murdered someone, especially such a dear friend. And all this after an alarming string of suicides in the village.

About halfway to the police car, the spell suddenly breaks. Mr. Wrenshal’s face stretches into a wide, sinister grin. He begins to laugh, a demented cackle erupting from his throat. To the horror of the crowd, he keeps screaming the same thing over and over.

He did it.

He finally did it.

He finally killed himself.

You can like the Rumination on the Lake Facebook page here or follow me on Twitter here.


And so it ends.

That might sound a little bit dramatic, but like anything in life, change is inevitable.  Which is why this announcement shouldn’t come as too much of a shock:

I’m doing away with the scheduled blog posts.


This isn’t to say that the blog is now dead.  I still plan on posting on it from time to time, but more when I feel inspired to actually write something for it.

If you remember, back at the beginning of 2018 I said that I was shifting away from posting once a week to once a month.  After the insanity that was 2017 (one short story a month as well as a post every single week…yikes), I needed to scale back so I could have more room to breathe so to speak.  And once again, that is what I am doing here.

I came to a bit of a realization over the past year or so.  Far too often, the deadline for my monthly post would creep up on me and I wouldn’t even realize it.  And then, once I did, it felt more like drudgery than anything inspired.  There would be times where I would sit in silence for a brief period of time just trying to brainstorm what I should write about that month.  When something starts to feel more like busy work than anything creative, that’s a problem.

And one I tried to ignore for far too long.


Again, this is not a “so long, blog is dead now, farewell” post.  Nothing of the sort.  But I needed to take a step back and re-examine my method and reason for doing this in the first place.  Initially, the whole point was to keep me practicing my writing.  And for a while, it served that purpose very well.  But as time passes, it becomes more and more difficult to find new topics to write about, or find something different to say about a topic you’ve already covered.  I’m sure I repeated myself far too many times about certain subjects.  I began way too many posts with “Like I said back in this post, blah de blah blah blah”.  And then I would go on the say essentially the same thing, just with different word choices.

Part of being a writer is being able to snag inspiration where it might not come easily to you.  But at the same time, a writer needs to be able to recognize when their regular method is no longer producing the results they want.  A writer needs to be able to embrace change, regardless of the direction it takes them.

So from this point forward, I will not be adhering to a schedule when it comes to posting to this blog.  This means that some months could see multiple posts, and some months could see none at all.  I won’t make any promises as to the frequency of my posting.

Besides, I feel like six years of consistent posting is a good run.


Now I know that this might disappoint the legion of thousands that follow my blog (sarcasm is fun!), but at the same time I feel that this is a necessary step in my own personal evolution.  Inertia is a hell of a thing.  It’s far too easy to get stuck in that rut of doing things the same way over and over again.  There is comfort in the routine, but the routine can also be a trap.

So thanks for sticking with me for this long.  Stay happy, and most importantly, stay safe out there.

Once again, you can like the Rumination on the Lake Facebook page here or follow my personal Twitter here.

Let’s Talk About the Iowa Caucus

The 2020 Iowa Democratic Caucuses were a disaster.  The fact that it took nearly a week for the vote totals to be released only further cements that conclusion.

There were a lot of factors in the deterioration of voting results, not the least of which was a new smartphone app that evidently malfunctioned.  Apparently the chairman of the Democratic Party in Polk County reported that only about 20% of his precinct chairs could even access the app.  Things only got worse and worse, and by the end of the night there were no results.  Nor were there any the next day.  It took about three days before any real results emerged, and nearly a week before things were nearly finalized.  But even so, some precincts have to be partially re-canvassed, a process which was scheduled to take place over February 16-18, just these past couple of days.  All of this leads me to one conclusion:

Political caucuses are well past their prime and need to be done away with.

To start with, the format of the caucuses is problematic.  Basically, the way they work (it can be different varying on state AND party, which only makes things even more confusing) is that people who are selected to be delegates declare a candidate they wish to vote for.  If the group of delegates passes a threshold percent (usually something like 15%), then the candidate is considered viable.  The delegate groups that don’t meet that mark then become “free agents”, and are able to move around and join other groups.  So essentially, for a candidate to receive ANY delegates from a precinct, their group has to meet that threshold.

Even typing that out gives me a minor headache.

But the truly damning thing, in my eyes, is the time frame.  Caucuses are typically only open for a period of a couple of hours.  Which means that, if you happen to be scheduled to work during that time, you’re pretty much out of luck.  And this is why the argument that caucuses are set up to favor establishment candidates is made.  Because who typically has the free time to go to a caucus and vote?  Older, retired people.  And who do they typically tend to vote for?  Mainstream, establishment politicians.

About the only real positive thing I can say about caucuses is the fact that you get to meet with and debate like-minded people.  And even that is just a small notch on the belt for caucuses, especially after the utter dysfunction that occurred earlier this month.

Also, did you know that under rare circumstances, precincts decide which candidate to award delegates to based on the outcome of a coin flip?  Because when it comes to possibly steering the future of our country for the next few years, truly nothing could be more decisive than a FREAKIN’ COIN TOSS.




At the end of the day, caucuses are truly a convoluted mess.  Now, Fox News would have you believe that the failure of the Iowa Democratic Caucuses shows that Democrats by and large are incompetent.  But Fox News is just a mouthpiece for the Republican Party, and are just telling Trump supporters what they want to hear.  They’d likely have a million and one excuses if you brought up the fact that the 2012 Republican Caucuses in Iowa suffered a breakdown as well.  In that situation, it was such that the totals for eight precincts were never even counted, so we will likely never know what the true vote total was.

Much like the electoral college, political caucuses are an aging and sickly dinosaur that should be put down.  After all, how is it fair that you only have a small period of a couple hours to cast your vote for a particular candidate, as compared to an entire workday in a primary.  Not only that, but primaries tend to be much smoother.  Instead of having to take two hours to go to a caucus, you can head to your polling place on lunch break, receive a ballot, vote, and walk back out the door in fifteen minutes or less on average.  Takes up far less time and, as we’ve seen when it comes to the televised debates, people’s minds are unlikely to change based on the discussions that would take place at a caucus.

Supporters of caucuses will say that they are integral to the political system, but as far as I’ve seen, they’ve caused more trouble than anything.  Besides, how is it that Bernie Sanders can win the popular vote, but Pete Buttigieg can still end up with the most delegates.  Granted, it was only by one, but doesn’t that seem a little bizarre?  It’s the same situation when a candidate wins the national popular vote but can still lose the election, much like what happened in 2016.  The whole process just seems counter-intuitive, and needs to change.

Because after all, it’s not their future that politicians are toying around with.  It’s our future and the future of those that will come after us.


Thanks for reading!  Check back in March on the third Wednesday for another post, and as always, have a wonderful month.

You can like the Rumination on the Lake Facebook page here or follow me on Twitter here.

Let’s Talk About Star Wars (the new trilogy)

With “The Rise of Skywalker” having been out in theaters for nearly a month now, I felt it was time to write down my thoughts on this new trilogy of Star Wars movies.  Initially, when a new Star Wars movie was announced, everyone was absolutely hyped.  And with good reason: it had been the first movie made in the series in a decade.  So when “The Force Awakens” hit theaters in 2015, it was an event.  There was so much press coverage and so much excitement that it was actually a struggle to avoid any spoilers for the movie.  Someone at work actually went to the lengths of covering his ears any time Star Wars came up during our news broadcast.

So yeah, it was a thing.

But fast forward to now, and “The Rise of Skywalker” sort of hit theaters with barely more than a whimper.  I saw almost no posts on social media about it, and the news coverage was scant, aside from the traditional package about Hollywood and movies that we run every morning.  It came and went without making much of a splash.

So what happened?  Where did all the excitement go?

Part of the issue started with “The Last Jedi”, the second movie in the trilogy.  It took things in a different direction than what people were used to, which polarized the fans as a result.  Some people liked the movie.  Some people didn’t.  I initially liked the movie, although nowadays my opinion is more of a “meh, it was okay” than anything.  There were good and bad parts of it.  Rey (played by Daisy Ridley) had the strongest part in the movie, with her obsession over knowing who her parents were driving her to make a bad decision later on.  But then there’s the awkward third of the movie with John Boyega’s character and Rose Tico (played by Kelly Marie Tran).  It feels lopsided, with some bizarre preachy moments about rich people not caring who wins the war but profiting off of it.


Because that’s what you wanted right? A Star Wars movie about the one percent?


I have no issue with movies tackling real life issues, but Star Wars just doesn’t feel like the place to do it.  Especially when you consider that the villains are literally space Nazis.  It just feels out of place here.  In fact, Finn’s whole third of the movie just feels out of place and inconsistent.

But I digress.  “Rise of Skywalker” was viewed by many critics and viewers alike as almost a sort of apology for “The Last Jedi”.  And therein lies the problem.

“Force Awakens” was an apology for the prequels.

“Last Jedi” was an apology for “Force Awakens”.

And “Rise of Skywalker” was an apology for “Last Jedi”.

Every movie in this trilogy was a response to another movie.  They don’t stand on their own, because they’re trying too hard to make up for the mistakes of the previous movies.  So in the end, we get characters that don’t have a proper story arc, a finale that doesn’t feel justified at all, and the random resurgence of an old villain who, by all rights, should be dead.

Yeah, Emperor Palpatine being back was dumb and a move that seemed like it was only made to appeal to the nostalgia in the fan base.

Now, when I walked out of the movie theater after seeing “Rise of Skywalker”, I thought it was okay.  It wasn’t great, it didn’t really feel like a proper ending to the trilogy, but I still had some fun with it.  But the more and more I think about it, the more I start to dislike it.  There’s so many stupid things in the movie that just feel lazy and rushed.

And honestly, if you asked me after the first half of that movie, I would’ve said I downright hated it.  Because the first half of “Rise of Skywalker” can be summed up in one word: McGuffin.

For those who don’t know. a McGuffin is a trope in fiction where an item serves to drive the character’s motivations but has no real significance on its own.  And my god, that first half was chock full of them.

“We got to go to the planet to get the thing so we can find the planet and use the thing to find the other thing so we can find another planet”.  I wish I was joking.

When the movie finally slows down and has some character moments, it definitely gets better.  But it doesn’t feel deserved.  In fact, it feels like they crammed three movies worth of story development into one.  The other two movies feel basically inconsequential as a result.

There’s a lot more specific things that bother me with “Rise of Skywalker”, but for the sake of spoilers I’m not going to get into that here.  Bottom line is, the trilogy as a whole does not stand up on its own.  At times, the movies barely feel connected with each other.  It feels as though there was no proper plan, no story sketched out beforehand.  It’s like Disney just didn’t care, and let the directors make things up as they went along.  It’s astonishing how lazy the trilogy feels in the end.  “Force Awakens” is probably the best of the three, even though it’s basically just a re-skin of “A New Hope”.

I’ve never been much of a Star Wars fan myself.  I enjoy the movies, and have played some of the games, but I never got so into it that I read the novels or anything.  I’ve maybe read one or two in my life, and that would be it.  But even a casual movie-goer can see just how poorly planned out this whole trilogy was.  There never feels like there was a buildup to anything, there’s far too many convenient things that happen simply in service of the plot, and thematically they feel all over the place, particularly “Rise of Skywalker”.

I could go on forever about this, but let’s just end with this: remember when Finn was a character back in “Force Awakens”?  That was great right?  Poor John Boyega…his character basically accomplished nothing in the latter two movies.  Wasted potential…but then again, that feels like the trilogy as a whole.  It could have been great, and washed the bad taste of the prequels out of our mouths.  But instead, we got a mediocre, lopsided mess that is never really sure what it wants to be.


Thanks for reading.  Check back next month for another post.  And as always, have a great month.

You can like the Rumination on the Lake Facebook page here or follow me on Twitter here.

Let’s Talk About Disjointed Chronology

Last month I talked about “In Medias Res”, a Latin term meaning roughly “in the middle of” and referring to when a story begins with some action that usually occurs later on in the story.  I mentioned how I, personally, enjoy stories with disjointed chronologies.  So I wanted to expand upon that idea.

A beginning, middle, and end.  That’s how it goes right?  Every story has them.  But what if the end is at the beginning?  That’s what “Memento”, a movie by Christopher Nolan, did.  It starts at the end of the movie, and basically plays things out in reverse order.  Although I’ve never seen the movie, I love the idea of a plot that is told out of order, that is pieced together bit by bit.

One of the most common disjointed chronologies occurs in stories where the main character has amnesia.  For example, the video game “Amnesia: The Dark Descent” begins with the main character stumbling through the halls of a castle, struggling to maintain his memories of who he is and where he lives.  By the end of the intro, he can barely manage to utter his name.  He then wakes up on the floor of a hallway and the game begins.

As you wander through the castle, you eventually come across a note written by yourself, revealing that the amnesia was self-inflicted, caused by a drink your character consumed.  The note tells you to descend into the depths of the castle and kill a man named Alexander.  It doesn’t explain why, but insists that this is the only course of action left to you.  And as you work your way through the castle, scattered notes help you piece together your past and what, exactly, led you to this place.

The idea of finding notes is a common one in video games, sometimes replaced by audio or video recordings, telling a narrative in pieces.  Often, these pieces are out of order chronologically, and it’s up to you to put together what happened and when.

Last time I talked about how the game “Uncharted 2: Among Thieves” used a set piece that occurred later in the story as a means to hook the player at the outset and keep them engaged and interested in what was happening.  But disjointed chronologies have more power than just getting the audience interested.  They can also highlight the mental state of a character.

This is an idea expressed in “Memento” where the main character suffers from “anterograde amnesia”, a form of memory loss that occurs after an accident, leaving the sufferer able to recall details before the event but unable to form new long-term memories after.  This is reflected in the main character of the movie, Leonard, who uses a sophisticated series of photos and tattoos to remind himself of where he is going and why.

In this way, the out-of-order events help us identify with the main character and his plight, creating a unique story experience that would be missed if everything were told in simple, linear order.  Not that there is anything wrong with a linearly ordered plot.  But there is something to be said for a story that jumps around in time, keeping you guessing as to what happens next.  Disjointed chronologies can be very powerful, acting to engage the brains of the audience and make them work for a cohesive narrative.  Unfortunately, sometimes a storyteller goes too far with that idea.

“Primer” is an indie movie about two engineer friends who, in the course of inventing things, accidentally create a means of time travel.  While it sounds like an intriguing premise, I could not for the life of me tell you what the hell happened by the end of that movie.  I have nothing against a good, mind-bending plot, but “Primer” took things too far, deliberately making the plot obtuse and hard to follow.  In the end, I was barely paying attention because I was mentally exhausted trying to follow what was happening.  This wasn’t helped by the fact that the writing was also obtuse.  You would often enter a scene where the main characters were already in the middle of a conversation, making it difficult to follow what they were talking about.

In the end, “Primer” seemed like it tried to be too intellectual, and ended up missing the point altogether.

When it comes down to it, some people love disjointed chronologies, and some people hate them.  It all really depends on the context.  They can create a unique narrative experience that lets the audience really connect with the main character and craft a story that engages the imagination.  Or they can purposefully obfuscate details to the point of confusion, creating a plot that might only make sense to the one who wrote it.  Like any tool for a writer, a chronology told out of order can be very powerful, but destructive if wielded improperly.  Telling a story out of order simply for the sake of it is usually not a good idea.  There has to be some reason behind it, a method to the madness.

Otherwise, all you will have is madness.

Let’s Talk About In Medias Res

“In Medias Res” is a Latin phrase that roughly translated means “in the middle of”.  It’s a common technique in fiction of all types to begin a story in the middle of some kind of action that occurs later on in the narrative, before cutting back to the story’s true beginning.  It’s a very effective tool for a writer to use, because it catches their attention with some kind of spectacle or tense moment that makes them want to know how the character or characters got into said situation and why.

A really good example of this comes from the Uncharted series of video games, specially Uncharted 2: Among Thieves.  The game opens with the main character, Nathan Drake, waking up alone on a train with a gunshot wound in his chest.  As if that isn’t bad enough, Drake soon realizes after looking out the window that the carriage is dangling over the edge of a cliff.  Seconds later, falling debris knocks him out of his seat and nearly plunges him straight off the cliff.  Fortunately he manages to grab hold of the rear railing just in time.

The reason this opening sequence is effective is because it isn’t a trick or some kind of cheat.  This is actually happening to the character at a later point in the story, a point that players then slowly catch up to as the play.  But what makes it even better is that, for the opening hour or so, the game cuts back and forth between the beginning exposition and the train wreck, keeping players engaged with the story without making it drag on.  The only thing I think that could have made this introduction better is if the train wreck scene was used a few more times throughout the game before players caught up to it in terms of the timeline.  But that’s less a complaint and more of a personal wish on my end, as I’ve always enjoyed disjointed chronologies when it comes to storytelling.  Telling a tale out of order is so much more interesting to me.

In Medias Res is a very popular tactic in storytelling, one that you’ve likely seen used many times without really realizing it.  But it’s not always elegant.  Sometimes, it ends up feeling tacky or even downright deceitful.  It can feel contrived, meant only as a cheap trick to hook the audience with a scene that has little to no impact on the rest of the story.

Which brings me to the first John Wick movie.

At the beginning of John Wick, we see the titular character clambering out of a car, battered and severely wounded.  Sitting down on a sidewalk, he pulls out his phone and watches a video clip of his wife before collapsing unto the pavement.  The movie then jumps back in time to the beginning, exploring Wick as a character and his motivations.

While I appreciate that this opening scene sets up Wick’s attachment to his wife, the whole “is he dead or not” ploy fell flat for me.  It’s too common a trope in movies and television shows.  Usually, it just ends up being there solely to trick the audience into being interested.  Eventually, you discover that the main character doesn’t actually die or was even all that injured in the first place.  Part of my dislike of John Wick‘s use of the trope is likely due to the fact that they made two sequels, which would be impressive if they made an entire trilogy about a character who died in chapter one.  But even despite that, it still feels a little cheap, especially when later you find out that he basically just stands up and walks away without much of a problem.

By the way, John Wick is a fantastic action movie.  I feel like I should mention that before I give the impression that I thought the movie sucked.  My gripe with the opening scene is one of the only minor complaints I had with the movie.

But I digress.  There are even cheaper forms of In Medias Res.  And one of my biggest pet peeves with the trope goes a little something like this:

“Oh no big action scene!  SPLOSIONS!  BANG BANG shooty shooty!  Oh no, main character got hit!  He’s gonna die!  Nope, just kidding.  It was all a simulation or a practice drill of some kind.”

I absolutely hate this version of In Media Res, primarily because it has barely any impact on the rest of the plot, if at all.  It usually functions to reveal a character flaw or failing that they will overcome sometime later in the episode, in the midst of a situation that somehow happens to mirror the opening simulation or drill.  Far too often, it just feels lazy and tacked on, especially when the character only has the failing for that one episode and it is never brought up again.

Television shows are guilty far too often of lazily using this trope.  There are so many episodes of television shows that either begin with “oh this character might die” or “big action scene is revealed to merely be a training exercise” that I could probably fill a small book with them all.  And while tropes can be used effectively (such as with Gothic architecture in horror movies), oftentimes it becomes little more than a cheap fallback for writers who can’t think of something better.

And especially nowadays that television has gotten more serialized and complex, this type of bland writing really stands out.  It’s one of the reasons I don’t really care for procedural-type shows anymore, because you could almost make them a case study in tropes just based on how often they use them.  In fact, the show Robot Chicken made a skit making fun of Law and Order for how formulaic it is by replacing all of the characters with chickens.

The fact that you can actually suss out some of the details of the “story” in that skit makes it even funnier.

But much like other writing tropes, In Medias Res has great power, but it has to be used responsibly and correctly to truly have an impact.  It works best when used to highlight a poignant or climactic moment for a character, which emphasizes the contrast of how said character was in the beginning of the story compared to how they have changed during the event and its aftermath.  But it’s also far too easy to use as a crutch, as a gimmick to entice the audience into paying attention, only to realize that they’ve been played when it’s revealed that said event barely even mattered at all.

Because after all, even in the lightest of stories, we like events to have meaning or importance for the characters.  Otherwise, the journey is pointless.  And the audience is left unsatisfied.


Thanks for reading!  Check back on the third Wednesday of December for my next post.  Have a wonderful Thanksgiving and stay warm out there!

You can like the Rumination on the Lake Facebook page here or follow me on Twitter here.

Shadows in the Forest

It’s that time of year again!  The spooky time.  And what better way to celebrate than with a spooky short story?  Enjoy!

Content warning: swearing, violence, general spooks.  Story begins after the break.


Fuck,” Bruce Thompson yelled as hot grease hit his hand. He threw the spatula onto the counter and rushed over to the sink, turning cold water on full blast. As he rinsed his hand under the ice cold water, he cursed himself.

“God damn it….stupid, stupid.”

He had been cooking some bacon and hadn’t been paying attention to what he was doing. As he flipped one of the strips over, it splashed hot grease onto his hand.

After a minute or two of running his hand under the water, Bruce turned the faucet off and looked it over. Fortunately, there didn’t seem to be any scaring. It was just bright red for the time being. Regardless, as he lifted his head and stared out into the line of trees beyond his kitchen window, he chided himself for making such a dumb mistake.

His uncle’s old cabin wasn’t much to look at. Faded wood donned the outside, with a ramshackle wooden roof capping it off. Old wood met new in places where Bruce had done some repairs. After the previous winter, it needed some work to keep things insulated and warm.

A smoky, burning smell reached his nostrils.

“Ah shit,” he cursed to himself as he returned to the stove and scooped the strips of bacon out of the pan. Parts of them had been blackened, left to burn while Bruce had been daydreaming.

It’ll have to do, he thought to himself, pulling a plate out of the cupboard.

As he sat at the rectangular wooden table in the kitchen and ate, Bruce once again lost himself in thought. Eight months. Eight months since he’d moved out here. Eight months since he left civilization behind.

Now in his late forties, Bruce had never been anything particularly special. At six foot two, he was only slightly above average height for a man. But his hard-edged face, combined with his deep blue eyes, gave him an intimidating sense of authority. That was probably why he became a police officer.

Bruce served on the force for nearly twenty years. Then, he shot a kid. And that was it.

It had been nearly two years ago. That night had been quiet until his radio buzzed with a report of an armed robbery in progress. Bruce responded to the call and rushed to the scene, a local gas station convenience store. He entered with his gun drawn. The suspect had a gray hooded sweatshirt on, baggy blue jeans, and white sneakers. Bruce raised his gun and commanded him to put his hands in the air. The suspect wouldn’t comply and Bruce was forced to fire upon him.

Turned out the suspect was a twenty year-old still in college. It was a bad situation. The fact that the kid happened to be black only made things worse.

The trial went on for nearly a year, media circus and all. For a while, Bruce Thompson was all over the television and the papers, referenced on the radio and in blogs. In short, everyone knew him. And everyone had an opinion on him.

Eventually, it ended in a acquittal. But the fallout of the situation was that he was forced to turn in his badge.

One moment. All it takes is one moment for everything to fall apart.

Bruce shivered, drawing his light flannel jacket closer to his chest. Aside from the jacket, the long-sleeved white shirt and blue jeans did little to fight the chilly weather, even inside. Looked like a fire would be in order. After he finished eating Bruce threw on a heavier fleece jacket and made his way outside.

The cabin sat in a small clearing, surrounded on almost all sides by trees. The only exception was a small dirt road that led from the gravel to his cabin. You had to travel a while down the gravel road before you hit pavement. But that was how Bruce liked it. He wanted to be as far from people as possible.

Even after the trial was over, the chaos still continued. Someone spray painted the word “pig” on his front door. The local TV news station did a story on it and plastered his address on-screen for everyone to see.

It was only downhill from there. Eight months ago, Bruce decided he needed to get away. For how long, he didn’t know. He had remembered his uncle’s old cabin that had been gifted to Bruce when he passed. It was two states over, but that was fine. The farther, the better, he had thought to himself at the time. He still felt that way.

Bruce made his way around the side of the cabin. There was a large blue tarp off to the side, held in place by two large stakes impaled into the ground. He removed the stakes and lifted the tarp, revealing a collection of wooden logs he had gathered recently.

There was a small wooden shed nearby, a ramshackle little thing that look more like an outhouse than a tool shed. This was where Bruce kept all his tools, namely his axe and chainsaw, along with some extra cans of gas. He stepped around the black wheelbarrow sitting tipped upside down and made his way to the shed. Opening it, he found his tools right where he had left them. A spider had spun its web in the back corner of the shed and skittered away as the outside light hit it. But Bruce ignored the spider and grabbed his axe.

An old wooden stump sat nearby, which he used for his wood chopping. He dragged a couple armfuls of logs over to the stump and set to work, the thunk of the axe splitting wood echoing through the chilly fall air.

Once he was done, he moved most of the firewood over under the tarp and staked it back into the ground so the wind wouldn’t blow it away. He picked up the rest in his arms and began to make his way back inside. But when he got to the front door he paused, his eyes drifting over to the forest beyond the clearing.

He could never explain why, but it had always given him the creeps, especially on gloomy days like today.

Sometimes he thought he heard noises coming from the depths of the woods at night. But he assumed it was just nocturnal animals or his imagination. Perhaps it was even some late night revelers having a campfire. Probably getting high too, he thought to himself with an arrogant smirk.

Once inside, he loaded the wood into the fireplace. Compared to the rest of the cabin, the old stone fireplace had actually stood up well to the test of time. Aside from a covering of dust on it when he had first arrived, it was otherwise intact. It had a round, black chimney and shot up and through the roof, belching smoke whenever there was a fire. Shoving some crumpled newspapers along with some kindling into the fireplace, Bruce struck a match.

Soon enough, he had a roaring fire going.

Sitting down on the plushy old couch, Bruce picked up a book and began reading, resting his feet on the coffee table. The book wasn’t anything fancy, just a typical fantasy story of good versus evil featuring wizards, fairies, goblins and the like.

Sometimes, simple is better, he thought. Sometimes simple is what you need.

The fire crackled as he read, pulsing warmth into the living room and kitchen. Bruce lost himself in the story so much that before he knew it, he looked up and saw through the large back window that the sun was getting low in the sky. Sliding a bookmark in between the pages, Bruce set the book down and got up. He glanced at the empty wood holder near the fireplace. A small pile of wood chippings lined the bottom. Might as well stock up before it gets dark, he thought to himself. He went outside, retrieving a couple loads of split wood and depositing them into the holder. He put out the fire in the fireplace then retired to his bedroom.

The bedroom was a small affair. It hung to the left at the end of a short hallway with a window leading off from the living room. There was a small sliding closet door to the left of the bedroom entrance, and a window on the right. The bed was directly at the opposite end of the room from the doorway, small bedside tables on each side. The leftmost table had a lamp and alarm clock set on top. The red display of the clock read “9:30 P.M.”.

Slipping into his blue pajamas, Bruce pulled the brown covers off the queen-size bed and crawled in. Fortunately the bedroom was the best insulated room in the entire place, something he made doubly sure of after his first couple of months here. Arriving at the tail end of winter, he nevertheless had to deal with some seriously cold nights. At one point, Bruce thought he might even freeze to death in his sleep. But he made it through, and spent most of the spring and summer patching up holes in the roof and generally updating any broken fixtures in the place. One such fixture was the light in the bedroom, which was so caked with dust that it refused to function at all. Bruce replaced it with one that had a ceiling fan built in, and never looked back.

Bruce couldn’t say he was exactly nostalgic for the place. His only real memories of it were from when he was just a kid. Back then all he wondered about was when his uncle was going to get an actual working TV. But now he appreciated the quietude of the place. It was a welcome change from the constant roar of passing cars, the constant jeering of the protesters outside…

Bruce laid his head down and soon drifted off to sleep.



The sound jolted Bruce out of deep sleep. Still groggy, he glanced over at the bedside clock. It was just a little after two in the morning. What was that sound he heard exactly? Almost like the sound of a twig snapping.

Then his ears picked up on another sound: crunching…like someone walking around in the grass outside.

Now fully awake, Bruce sat up and opened the drawer on the bedside table opposite the lamp, retrieving a black flashlight and a silver revolver with a brown grip. He flipped open the cylinder just to check. Six chambers. All loaded.

Bruce made his way back into the main living area, straining his ears. The crunching noise had stopped. Nevertheless, he went around shining his flashlight out of every single window in the cabin. He saw nothing. Not content with his brief investigation, Bruce stepped out the front door, swinging his flashlight from left to right.

Nothing but a cold fall night.

He began to feel silly, standing there in his cloth pajamas as the crisp air chilled his face and feet. He was just imagining things. That’s all it was. It had to be.

As he turned, the flashlight beam shined onto the entrance of the forest. For a moment, Bruce paused. A wave of intense unease crept up his back, making the hairs on his neck prickle and stand on end. But he shook it off as quickly as it came and stepped back inside, locking the front door behind him.


The pitter-patter of rain on the roof woke him up the next morning. Bruce sat up in bed with a groan. He had planned to head into town to grab some groceries. Looks like that’ll have to wait, he thought to himself as he went into the bathroom to take a shower.

The bathroom was on the other side of the short hallway, and was one of the most extensively renovated areas of the cabin. When he first arrived, the floor was little more than a moldy carpet and rotting wooden walls. Now, it had a clean, white tile floor with patterned, white tile walls. The ceiling had been redone with newly varnished wood that still shined in the light.

It was truly the place that reminded him most of his former house.

Stepping out of the shower, Bruce pulled on a pair of blue jeans and a brown sweater. He stood in front of the bathroom sink: a typical, white basin with a silver faucet head and long, brass handles that read “hot” and “cold”. Bruce looked himself over in the mirror. The once black luster of his hair was starting to fade, but hadn’t yet turned gray. He knew it was coming though. His family had a history of early onset gray hair. The fact that it hadn’t happened to him yet didn’t make him feel any better.

He opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out a small, orange container with a white top. “Haloperidol”, it said on the label. “Take two in the morning before or after breakfast”. He unscrewed the cap and shook out two circular orange pills, popping them into his mouth and downing them with a glass of water.

Things had not gotten better after the trial.

Bruce’s mental condition had deteriorated significantly in the intervening weeks and months. It became so bad that one day, while grocery shopping, he broke down sobbing and couldn’t stop. The next thing he could remember was waking up in a hospital bed. The doctors told him he had a nervous breakdown and recommended he see a therapist.

His therapist – a young male with short-rimmed glasses, medium-length brown hair, and a tweed suit coat – prescribed him Haloperidol after a few scant sessions.

He felt pathetic…weak…like less of a man. But he took the pills anyway.

After he moved to the cabin, he switched pharmacies to one in the local small town of Auburn. He had gotten tired of all the staring, the hushed whispers. At least here people didn’t recognize him. Or, if they did, they left him alone.

After a quick breakfast of cereal and coffee, he put on a rain jacket and decided to investigate outside to see if there were any signs of a trespasser from the night before.

The rain was pouring hard. His coat was drenched before the front door had even closed. He made a quick circle around the cabin, checking near the wood pile and the shed. Nothing. He moved around to the back of the cabin, where a stone fire pit sat. Nothing but damp ashes. He completed his round, ending back at the front door. There was no trace of anyone from the night before. But he didn’t expect there to be. The deluge pouring from the sky would have erased any leftover signs of a person’s passage.

The rest of the day was uneventful. He spent it reading on the couch, listening to the rain batter his tiny sanctuary. It didn’t let up until the sun had practically dipped below the horizon. Periodically, he got up to check for leaks from the roof. Fortunately, he found none. His renovating skills were evidently better than he thought.

The sun went down and darkness laid a blanket over the land. Bruce had a late evening snack, then retired to bed. Laying his head down on the pillow, memories of the previous night surfaced again, and he laughed at how silly he was. It was just his mind playing tricks on him, just the darkness putting him on edge. Tonight would be a much better night…



The familiar sound woke him up. Only this time, it was much closer. It sounded like it was right near his bedroom window in fact.

Bruce sat up in bed, listening intently. The crunching grew louder and louder, likely amplified by the fresh rainfall on the grass. The noise got closer until it sounded like it was just outside his bedroom window. Then abruptly, it stopped. Bruce sat there for what felt like minutes, but nothing else happened. He let out a sigh of relief, certain his mind was just playing tricks on him.

Nothing prepared him for the shock of seeing a silhouetted figure in a hood stroll past his window, shadow etched onto the curtains by the pale moonlight.

Bruce felt his heart jump into his throat. Panicked, he practically ripped open the bedside drawer to retrieve his gun and flashlight. Bolting outside, Bruce raised the gun and shined the flashlight ahead of him, slowly making his way around the cabin perimeter. He was breathing heavily, sweat clinging to his hands and face. Darting around the corner towards his bedroom, he shined the flashlight along the cabin wall. Nothing. His heart sounded like it was beating inside his eardrums. His hands began to shake, the gun twitching in his grip.

Damn it Bruce, get a grip, he scolded himself.

“If there is someone outside,” he shouted, remembering his police training, “make yourself known!”

His voice echoed into the night. But only silence greeted him.

Bruce made his way around the back of the cabin, then back around to the front. Nothing. He saw no signs of anyone.

For a while, he could do nothing but stand just outside the front door, confused. He had seen the shadow walk past his window, hadn’t he? Was it possible that it was just a tree blowing in the wind? No…couldn’t be. The trees are too far away from that side of the cabin. It was definitely a humanoid figure. But why would someone be pacing around the place? Were they casing it for a robbery? Were they just some punk kid looking to mess with people? Too many questions, not enough answers.

He stood in thought for a long time before he became aware that his feet felt cold and wet. Looking down, he realized he was still in just his socks. He had forgotten to put any shoes on. Grumbling, Bruce walked back into the cabin and went to the bedroom. He returned the gun and flashlight to their storage place, stripped off the wet socks and placed them in the nearby laundry basket before going back to sleep.


The next day’s weather proved to be much more accommodating. After breakfast, Bruce made his way into Aurora to shop at the local grocery store, driving his old blue pickup truck. It was roughly a thirty minute drive through the countryside, trees as far as the eye could see. Bruce enjoyed the drive. It took his mind off the previous couple of nights and made him feel relaxed. The radio chattered away as he drove, rattling off different pieces of news.

Bruce suddenly became aware that the radio was talking about a police shooting. He turned it off.

The town of Aurora wasn’t big. Its population was only around a few thousand people. Most of the city’s businesses and social areas were centered on a single main street, with the grocery store sitting at the end of it. Bruce pulled into the parking lot and went inside. After grabbing the necessities, he perused the shelves looking for anything that struck his fancy. He eventually picked up a pack of chocolate-covered almonds and called it good.

On his way to the counter, he passed some six-packs of beer. He shook his head. Not now…not later…not ever…

He greeted the old man at the counter and began unloading items from his basket. The store was one of those old mom ‘n pop stores that are always in these small towns. The locals loved those places, loved the friendly atmosphere they always gave off.

“Gotta support the local businesses,” they always say. Like it made a damn bit of difference.

It was only a matter of time before a Walmart or some other big chain store plopped down nearby. And then ma and pa would be closing shop.

Everybody loves the free market, Bruce thought, until it screws them over.

After he returned home and unloaded the groceries, Bruce went outside to chop up some firewood. Bruce dragged over a load of wood to the old stack, grabbed the axe from the shed, and got to work. He actually enjoyed the task of wood chopping. Aside from it being good exercise and keeping him in shape, it allowed him a sort of relaxation through repetition. His body and mind were occupied with the task at hand.


He had become somewhat of an expert in wood chopping over the past few months. The arc of his swings and his form were very good, and he was usually able to cut the log in half with only two or three strikes. Some of the wood had gotten damp from the previous night’s rain, which made things just a tad more difficult. The tarp had kept out most of the water, but it wasn’t perfect.


A satisfying thunk accompanied his every swing. There were a lot of things he disliked about living here, the winter being one of them. But he couldn’t deny a sort of appreciation he had gained for the art of chopping wood.


He stopped mid-swing, axe dangling over his head. Slowly, he let it fall to his side and turned toward the forest. Surely he hadn’t…?

The stillness in the air was suddenly apparent. The wind seemed to have disappeared, the trees were eerily still. A knot formed in Bruce’s stomach, and he could feel the hard thump of his heart beating.

The voice had been deep and male in tone. There was a strange familiarity in it that he couldn’t deny. Like an echo…a fragment…

“Hey neighbor!”

The voice coming from down his driveway interrupted his reverie. Bruce turned to see a middle-aged man jogging toward him. It was his closest neighbor, Roger Whatever-His-Last-Name-Was. Bruce hadn’t really bothered to try and remember. He was a nice enough guy, a little chatty at times, but well-meaning. He had short brown hair (Bruce noted with no small amount of jealousy that it hadn’t yet lost its color), deep green eyes, and a healthy physique. He was only a couple inches shorter than Bruce, wearing a light brown jacket with jogging pants and a pair of ear buds hanging loosely down the front of his coat.

“How about that rain yesterday,” Roger asked with a light smile. “Came down pretty good didn’t it?”

“Yeah…it did,” Bruce said, a little distractedly. Roger took notice.

“Hey…something wrong?”

Bruce turned and gazed at the forest for a moment.

“Did you hear a voice from the woods a moment ago,” he asked, turning back towards the trees.

“No…I don’t believe so,” Roger said, his tone shifting to one of concern. “You sure you’re good?”

Bruce shook himself a little and returned his gaze to Roger, managing to contort his face into a friendly smile. “Yeah I’m fine,” he said with a chuckle. “I thought I heard someone calling me from inside the forest, but I must have been hearing things. Probably just the wind.”

But there hadn’t been any wind.

“Hah,” Roger laughed. “Yeah that’s probably all it was. People hear things out here all the time. Sound travels quite a ways in this area. Maybe a group was walking through the woods and you heard their voices in the distance.”

“Could be,” Bruce replied with an exaggerated nod. “Could be…”

There was a brief moment of silence. He was keenly aware of Roger looking him over, almost like a psychiatrist analyzing body language, looking for any hints of trouble. Bruce felt embarrassed, and it took all his willpower to prevent himself from breaking eye contact.

“I hate to be a bother,” Roger began, “but is everything okay? I normally see you out and about when I’m on my late afternoon jog, but lately you haven’t left the cabin much.”

“No I’m good,” Bruce insisted. “Just been taking care of some inside stuff. Preparing for winter…that kind of thing.”

Roger seemed to accept that answer.

“Ah…gotcha. I know after last winter you weren’t exactly looking forward to it this year. You did good work on the place man. I bet this winter will be a breeze for you.”

“That’s the plan,” Bruce said with a wink, resting the axe on his shoulder. The unease he had felt just a moment before had evaporated. Despite his occasionally irritating nature, Roger was good at making people feel relaxed.

“Well hey, if you ever need help with home improvement this winter, just give me a holler. I’m just down the road a ways, as you know,” Roger said.

“Will do.”

“Good man.” Roger lifted one ear bud to his ear as he started moving back toward the road. “Well I should get going. The wife will be mad if I’m not back in time for dinner.”

“Hey,” Bruce called after him, pointing the axe in his direction. “Say hi to Nancy for me will ya?”

“Sure thing. If I don’t…you gonna come after me with that axe?”

Bruce slapped the axe head against his free hand in a mock threatening gesture.

“We’ll see…” he said with a mischievous grin. Roger laughed.

“Well gotta go! See you later Bruce!”


Roger turned away, putting the other ear bud in and jogging lightly down the road. Bruce watched until he disappeared around the corner, blocked from sight by the trees. About five minutes later, he had finished his task. He moved the cut pieces of wood back over to the pile, pulling the blue tarp over them.


Bruce rushed back inside, letting the front door slam behind him.



The rest of the afternoon went by without incident. The sun had dipped below the horizon by the time Bruce started cooking some burgers on the stove. The scent of searing meat reached his nostrils and left his mouth watering for more. It had been a while since he had eaten hamburgers, and tonight was a long time coming.

He wasn’t sure what time it was, but at some point he became suddenly aware of a flicker of orange light behind him, reflecting off the wooden wall. He turned, not really sure what to expect.

His jaw dropped. A hooded figure sat outside, with a fire roaring in the pit.

For a brief second, Bruce couldn’t move. His legs felt like stone, rooted to the spot. He just stared at the silhouette outside. He could even hear the faint crackling of the fire. The figure seemed to be unaware of him, intently focused on the roaring flames.

Then, the fear vanished, replaced by a red flash of anger.

Bruce stomped into his bedroom, retrieving his firearm and flashlight. He rushed out the front door without hesitation, raising the gun as he stormed around the side of the cabin.

“Look, I don’t know who the hell-”

But his words and the anger that fueled him vanished as he rounded the corner. There was nothing.

No hooded figure.

No fire.

There wasn’t even any sign of a fire. Blackened ashes still lay in the fire pit, left over from the last time Bruce had used the pit.

That had been weeks ago.

The world suddenly felt like it was tilted, making Bruce unsteady on his feet. He stumbled forward, nearly slamming his shoulder into the cabin wall. He felt almost like being drunk, unable to think or walk straight.

But no, he was not drunk. He hadn’t had a drop since that night almost two years ago, that night he had been slurping on a bottle of whiskey when the dispatch radio crackled to life…


He felt a creeping shiver rush up his spine, tiny electric needles pricking his back. Spinning around fast, he accidentally lost his footing and fell. He ended up sprawled on the grass with a yelp, staring out at the darkness of the trees.


“No…no no no,” he mumbled to himself as he got up from the ground. He hurriedly made his way back to the front of the cabin, holding his hand against the wall to steady himself. Bruce ripped open the front door and rushed inside. He leaned against the door, panting.

Bruce, it’s only-

“Shut up shut up,” he screamed aloud, covering his ears with his hands. “You’re not real! You can’t be real!” He panted heavily, his whole body shaking. He slid down the door until he was sitting on the ground. The urge to cry was overwhelming…an intense wave of raw emotion rolling over him.

Seconds felt like minutes. Minutes felt like hours. But eventually, his breathing became steady. He pulled his hands away from his ears and listened.


And then, Bruce laughed at himself. So stupid. So fucking stupid. Voices in the woods? What is this, some cheap b-rate horror movie? Bruce got to his feet with a chuckle and moseyed his way back to the kitchen.

His good humor only lasted for a moment when he laid his eyes on the blackened pieces of meat still cooking away in the pan.

“God damn it,” he muttered to himself, picking up the spatula and removing the slices of meat.

It wasn’t quite the meaty reunion he had wanted, but surprisingly, despite being a little crunchy, the hamburgers actually tasted just fine. Add in some lettuce, tomato, and bacon, and he could’ve had himself a regular BLT. But for now he just plopped some cheese on top. He sat down and ate at the kitchen table, the fear a distant memory. Of course it had been his imagination. What else could it have been?

Denial is a powerful motivator.

When he had finished eating, Bruce got up and set his plate in the sink. Turning around, he found the revolver staring at him from the kitchen table. He had forgotten to put the gun away, had just set it down on the table along with the flashlight after getting back inside.

“You’re getting on in years old man,” he told himself. “Your mind’s going and you’re starting to see and hear things.” He picked up the gun and flashlight, making his way toward the bedroom.

He had almost forgotten there was even a window at the end of the hallway. When the hooded figure suddenly loomed up from behind the curtains, Bruce uttered a startled cry and stumbled backwards, falling onto his back. Gasping heavily, he sat up and pointed the gun at the window But the figure was gone.

Suddenly, Bruce found himself wishing he had his service weapon from back on the police force: seventeen-round clip, semi-automatic…much better than the clunky revolver with its six-round cylinder and obnoxious recoil. But he was stuck with it.

Young Bruce had thought the gun looked stylish and cool.

Old Bruce thought Young Bruce was a dumbass.

Still shaking, he nevertheless managed to pick himself up off the kitchen floor and make his way to the bedroom. He set the gun and flashlight down on the bedside table and collapsed into bed, not even changing into his pajamas before falling asleep.


The local park in Auburn afforded a good view of the surrounding area. Trees waved back and forth in the breeze, and the sun was high. The nearby lake sparkled in the sunlight, gleaming white. As Bruce casually strolled through the park, he knew it was just what he needed.

He had felt so cooped up in the cabin the last few days that he just need to get outside and take a walk, needed to get some distance between him and the forest. The day was perfect. It had actually warmed up for once, and Bruce was able to get away with just a light jacket. The breeze wasn’t too harsh, and the sun felt warm on his skin.

As he walked, he noticed a small family playing in the grass: a mother, father, and two boys. Bruce had never bothered to settle down and have a family. He never had the time for it. His job was his life in that regard. Never married either. Sure, he had a couple of flings over the years, but nothing serious ever came out of them. He made certain of that. No need to get tied down, Bruce thought to himself.

Nevertheless, as he watched the father and the two boys toss a ball back and forth, a pang began to form in his stomach, a type of yearning. He wondered how things might have been different if he had taken the time to develop a serious relationship. Would he have ended up in the same place? Would it have lasted?

Bruce shook off the sudden feelings of regret and continued walking, basking in the warm light of the afternoon. After about an hour of strolling around the park and surrounding areas, he returned to his car and drove back home.

As he pulled up to the cabin, he couldn’t shake the sensation that it had transformed into a prison…


Bang bang bang

Three loud knocks shook him out of his sleep. Well that’s new, Bruce thought to himself, still so groggy that the seriousness of the situation hadn’t yet set in. Bruce got up from his bed and went to take a look, leaving the flashlight and gun behind. As he entered the kitchen, the banging sounded again.

It was coming from the front door.

Now fully awake, the fear began to grip him. Who the hell is knocking at my door at this time of night? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer. Without even being aware of having done so, Bruce found himself standing in front of the door, hand outstretched toward the door handle.

He blinked. Why in the hell would he do that? There was no one out there that he’d want to talk to, not this late in the night.

The knocks came again, this time quieter but more insistent.

Knock knock knock…

Bruce flew from the door and rushed back into the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him and locking it. He clambered into his bed and pulled the covers up over his head. His whole body shook, in the grips of ice-cold terror.

The knocking came again…only this time it was coming from right outside his window…

Knock knock knock…

Bruce scrunched his eyes shut. He didn’t want to look. He didn’t want to see.

The knocking continued in intervals for what felt like hours, but was probably only ten minutes. Eventually, it stopped and the oppressive feeling in the air vanished. Bruce stopped shaking and his breathing slowed down to normal.

He didn’t remember falling asleep, but the next time he opened his eyes there was light streaming into the room from the slight opening in the curtain.


Fuck this, he thought to himself as he haphazardly threw clothes into a suitcase. Fuck. This. I was a cop for nearly two damn decades. I’m not gonna let some damn noises in the dark be the end of me. I’m not gonna let my imagination get the best of me.

That morning, he made the decision to get away from the place for a little while. He wasn’t sure where he was going to go, but he figured he could find a cheap motel for a few nights.

Once everything he needed was in, he slammed the suitcase closed and latched it. Making his way outside, he threw the luggage into the back of his truck. The air had chilled again, and he shivered a little as he climbed into the truck. He put the key into the ignition and turned.

He turned it again.

And again.


The engine didn’t even chug. The truck was dead.

Bruce sat there staring in disbelief. How was that possible? He couldn’t be out of gas. He had topped the car off just yesterday. Could it be the battery? He checked to make sure he hadn’t left the headlights on or anything else. Nope, everything was off, just as he had left it. Even the overhead dome light was turned off.

He was silent for a moment, utterly still like a statue. Then, without warning, he began furiously punching the steering wheel, cussing and screaming. This lasted for a good ten seconds before he fell silent, his hands aching. He unclenched his fists and looked at them. They were bruised red, raw from the sudden rush of anger that had overwhelmed him, that had driven away all common sense.

As quickly as it had come, it passed. Rationality reigned once again.

Roger…Roger would be on his jog this afternoon. He could ask him for help when he passed by. Suddenly his situation did not seem so dire.

But a realization hit him, and his heart sank like a stone. He was out of firewood. And the only way to get more – his eyes moved slowly toward the treeline – was to go in there.

Intense trepidation filled his entire being. He still hadn’t been able to explain his irrational fear of the place, nor the strange apparitions and voices he had seen over the past week. He wasn’t yet ready to accept a supernatural explanation. But there was definitely something wrong with the forest…he knew it deep inside every time he looked at the trees.

Now, staring into its depths, the knot in his stomach only grew tighter.

The way he saw it, he had two options: either risk freezing to death, or face his fears. As he open the car door and stepped back outside, he decided on the latter. He grabbed the chainsaw from the shed, dropped it in the wheelbarrow, and made his way into the woods.


Bruce kept his eye focused straight ahead, didn’t want to look to either side, didn’t want to see if there was anything watching him from behind the trees. He was in the grip of full blown paranoia, sure that everything in the forest had eyes on him. He gritted his teeth and kept pushing forward, the wheelbarrow rocking and jostling over every little bump in the ground.

Eventually, he came to a small clearing. It was here that he found his target: a couple of large oak trees that had been struck down by a storm. He had scouted them out the last time he went in the woods to chop up some logs. He parked the wheelbarrow and ran his hand along the bark of one of them. He was relieved to find it completely dry. That should make the job easier, he thought to himself as he pulled his ragged work gloves on.

A buzzing roar ripped through the air as Bruce started the chainsaw’s motor. It made quick work of the fallen tree, cutting it into nice, thick logs. In a short time, he found himself done with one tree and began work on the other. It felt like barely any time at all had passed before he found himself with a wheelbarrow full of logs, ready to be split.

Bruce found himself looking forward to the feel of a warm fire in the fireplace as he swiveled the wheelbarrow back around, making his way back along the path through the trees. In his current state of mind, he felt so silly about everything that had come to pass over the past few days.


Damn, he thought to himself, I should’ve bought some marshmallows at the store. He always enjoyed campfires as a kid, making s’mores. Maybe that was what he needed, a good reliving of the past.


He was in high spirits as he pushed the wood-filled wheelbarrow down the trail, the crisp fall air filling his nostrils. Yellow and red leaves were fluttering down from the trees above, as they shed their foliage in preparation for the coming winter. This year would be different. This year he would keep a good stockpile of wood going. He would have a fire every night, and wrap himself up in a nice, warm blankets.

He wouldn’t let the cold get to him. And, if anything went wrong, he could always call upon Roger for help.


His mood came crashing down the moment he heard the voice. He stopped the wheelbarrow and turned around, eyes quivering as he scanned the treeline. No…no no no…this is not happening again, he thought to himself. This is NOT happening.

Bruce…it is only natural that you feel this guilt after all that has happened…

The familiar voice echoed, wispy and faint, but distinct at the same time. He was beginning to place it in his memory, but how could it be possible…why was he hearing him all the way out here?

Your mental state is hardly surprising…

His psychiatrist…that goddamn tweed wearing shrink. Why here? Why now?

Wait…don’t shoot!

Another voice yelled out into the forest. His heart began to beat rapidly, thundering in his chest. He stood frozen on the path, staring into the darkness of the woods.

All units, we have a 10-65 in south end…

A distant voice…a radio from another place, another time. Memories…shadows…resurfacing…

Just another “good guy with a gun”, right?

“No…shut up,” he said aloud, putting his hands over his ears.

Jail the pig! Jail the pig! Jail the pig!

“Shut up shut up shut up,” he shouted, his voice becoming more hysterical.


The voices were so loud now…they were practically screaming in his ears.


SHUT UP SHUT UP FOR FUCK’S SAKE SHUT THE FUCK UP,” he screamed at the top of his lungs.

Almost immediately everything stopped. Bruce pulled his hands down from his ears and looked up. The silence was deafening…everything was absolutely still. It was as though time itself had been stopped. There was no movement, no noise, nothing.

But he could still feel it…deep in the woods, watching…and waiting…

One second, everything was still. Then, without warning, an inky black mass erupted from the treeline in front of him. It surged forward like a massive wave…liquid darkness…shadowy evil…

Bruce wasted no time. He abandoned his wheelbarrow and sprinted as fast as he could back towards the cabin. His lungs were burning hard as he ran. He could feel the darkness behind him, keeping pace, maybe even moving a little faster than he was. He broke free of the trees into the clearing and sighted his cabin…his comforting, warm cabin. Bruce rushed toward the cabin as the darkness continued to ooze toward him from the forest. When he reached the front door he took one last glance toward the forest.

He wished he hadn’t.

The darkness now towered above the trees, eclipsing the sky. Day turned to night in an instant. The inky mass rushed upward and then started to pour down, toward him, toward the cabin.

Bruce ripped open the door and ran inside, slamming it shut. He stood in the entryway for a moment, panting and terrified.

It was the burning in his throat that made him realize he had been screaming.

Thinking quickly, Bruce locked the front door. He rushed around the cabin, shutting the curtains and making sure all the windows were locked. He could feel the black mass pulsing outside, coiling, looking for a way in. His head began to hurt, as though someone was putting pressure on it. Once he had locked and curtained all the windows, he rushed into his bedroom and shut the door. He retrieved his gun from the drawer and sat down against his bed.

His temple pounded. His forehead felt swollen. He held his head in his hands, rocking back and forth, scrunching his eyes shut. It was the migraine to end all migraines, and no matter how much Bruce tried to ignore it, the pressure only intensified with each passing second.

He could feel it. It was boring into his mind, his soul…

And then, he screamed.

He wasn’t armed! He didn’t have a gun! He never had a gun!”

Almost instantly, the pressure relented. The presence was still there, but for the moment, his body and head felt some relief.

But it didn’t matter. He had said it. After all this time of denial, it had exploded out of him.

The truth was a runaway train that couldn’t be stopped.

Bruce stared ahead blankly, his eyes glazing over as the facade he had erected over his life came crashing down…


We love to tell ourselves that we are the hero in our story. The idea soothes us, give us solace when life is bitter and unforgiving. But the reality is that the narrative of our existence is much more complicated.

That night, as he sat in his squad car with a half-empty bottle of whiskey, Bruce Thompson found himself itching for some action.

He had been sitting at the same intersection for an hour now, watching out for traffic violators: speeders, drunk drivers, and so on. It was a boring job and a boring night. Wednesday was not a good day of the week to be stuck alone at a traffic stop. But it was his job, and so he was here.

The crackling radio interrupted his ruminating.

“All units, we have a 10-65 in south end, armed robbery in progress at a local gas station convenience store. Any nearby units in the area, please respond.”

Bruce picked up the radio.

“Thompson, squad car four. Can you send me the address? I’m right in south end.”

The radio crackled with static briefly, distorting the female dispatcher’s words. But Bruce believed he heard the address clearly. He punched it into his GPS and sped off to the location, sirens wailing.

It was only a couple of minutes before he was pulling up to the gas station. He slammed on the brakes, leaving his car parked just outside the front doors. He jumped out, hand already at his holster. In his haste to rush inside, he didn’t even notice the two people sitting outside having a smoke, nor did he see the odd look they gave him.

He burst through the door, drawing his gun into his hand. A quick scan of the store revealed that there were only two people present: the cashier, a young male with brown hair and brown eyes, and someone in a gray hoodie, baggy jeans, and white sneakers.

Bruce caught the confused, scared look of the cashier seconds before he raised his gun. At the time, he just took it as fear from being held at gunpoint by a robber.

“Police! Put your hands up and turn around slowly,” he commanded.

The hooded figure flinched, frozen stiff. Then, hands still close to his side, the figure began to turn around. Something metallic glinted in the light streaming in from outside.

One word flashed through Bruce’s mind.


“Wait…don’t shoot!” But the cashier had spoken up too late.


Bruce fired four shots, each one striking center mass. The person in the hoodie jerked spasmodically as the bullets hit their target. The figure collapsed to the floor in a heap, their breathing hoarse as blood pooled on the tile beneath them.

Bruce stood there for a long time, staring…disbelieving…

It was a kid…just a kid…he was probably in his early twenties. He had dark skin, dark brown eyes, and – from what Bruce could see – black curly hair underneath the hood. There was no gun in his hands…just a set of car keys, along with a pair that were probably for his apartment.

He couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. His gun was hanging limply by his side, as the horror of what he had just done washed over him.

Bruce Thompson had the wrong address.

Bruce Thompson had misread the situation.

Bruce Thompson…was a murderer.


Everything was a blur after that. He was carted to and from the courthouse every day after the trial started. And every day the protesters were waiting for him.

“Jail the pig! Jail the pig,” they shouted. That was their favorite chant. Even Bruce had to admit that it had a ring to it.

He said nothing during the trial, didn’t want to say anything. He vaguely remembered the prosecutor’s opening arguments. “Just another “good guy with a gun” right? I’ll leave it to you, the jury, to decide. I know you’ll make the right choice.” Then the prosecutor sat down, shuffling his papers. A moment later, his lawyer stood before the jury. He painted Bruce as a dedicated professional, a great cop with a long career. He told them all about how Bruce had served for nearly twenty years, painted him as a pillar of the community.

Was it all lies? Bruce didn’t know anymore.

It was only after the trial that he found out about the video one of the two witnesses outside the store shot on their phone and how it was confiscated by the police. It managed to get mysteriously corrupted shortly after the prosecution requested that the video be turned in as evidence. He didn’t realize how his buddies on the force had surreptitiously removed the half-empty bottle of booze from his squad car, how they had “forgotten” to give him a breathalyzer test on the scene.

He realized none of these things. Or didn’t care. It made little difference.

The trial ended as the jury handed down a verdict of “not guilty”. Evidently the prosecutor wasn’t able to prove that Bruce had intended to kill the kid when he fired.

Had he shot to kill? Even he didn’t know. He just remembered thinking “gun” and then his weapon going off. Regardless of the verdict, he was forced to turn in his badge and was placed on probation.

Months went by, and he stayed in his house as much as he could. He didn’t want to go outside, didn’t want to go into public. The accusing glares followed him, the hushed whispers, the hateful yelling…it was everywhere. He didn’t want to step outside and see the graffiti plastered all over the front of his house. He had given up on painting over it because for every one he covered up, four more would appear in its place by the next morning.

He spent a lot of time with a knife or gun in his hands, sitting at the kitchen table, pondering how easy it would be…

Then, one day when he was forced to go out for groceries, he was wandering the aisle when he spotted a kid playing around with a colorful toy gun. The kid pointed it at him, mimed shooting him.

“Bang bang,” he said. “You’re dead mister.”

That was it…that was the final blow. The tears flooded out and he collapsed into a ball on the floor. The next thing he knew people in white coats and blue uniforms were looking down at him.

He saw the therapist the next week.

“Bruce, it is only natural that you feel this guilt after all that has happened. Your mental state is hardly surprising,” he remembered the therapist saying. “I’ve treated a few cops in my time, and the symptoms you are showing are nothing unusual. Have you been having any nightmares?”

His dreams were filled with gunshots and screaming, were filled with the bodies of dead children…

A few sessions later, he walked out of the therapist’s office, pill bottle in hand. Haloperidol…he had been diagnosed with what the therapist termed as “Post Traumatic Stress-induced Psychosis”. Now he was on meds, just like the rest of the country.

A couple of months went by, the graffiti and the protests outside his house never letting up. Then one night, someone hurled a brick through his living room window.

He decided to leave town the next day.

He packed up his essential belongings and was gone that same day. He drove all day, across state lines, farther and farther from civilization. He slept in a parking lot that night, cold and miserable.

The next day, as he continued his drive, the radio reported that there had been a house fire. It was his house. It burned down the night after he left.. He listened to the news with little more than a cold numbness. He deserved to burn, along with that house.

He arrived at the cabin later that day. It was a frigid, late winter afternoon, and the state of the cabin was pathetic to put it mildly. No one had been there in years.

The first few days were the hardest. Nightmares assaulted his sleep every night, and whenever he woke up he was greeted only by the bone chilling cold of winter seeping in to the cabin through any passage it could find. He was eventually able to procure some firewood for himself. He made a nice warm fire every night and slept on the couch, at least until the weather warmed up.

And somehow, someway, as time continued to march on, Bruce began to change his narrative. He told himself that the kid he shot had indeed been a robber, had indeed been armed and had indeed meant to shoot him. He told himself that he had been in the right, that he had made the only decision he could.

He began to believe it.

The lie became reality.

And the truth became nothing more than a distant, repressed memory.


I shot that kid, he thought to himself. Shot him in cold blood…god I’m a miserable, stupid fuck.

Bruce sat against his bed for what felt like an eternity, wallowing in his self-imposed misery. How had he let things get this far? How had he convinced himself that he had been in the right? It perplexed him, but at the same time he knew it didn’t matter. The past was the past. There was no changing it.

Bang bang bang

The intense knocking interrupted his thoughts and broke him out of his trance. Bruce stood up and made his way into the kitchen hesitantly. It was pitch black outside as far as he could see, but somehow he knew the darkness was ever shifting, pulsating, observing…

The banging grew louder and more insistent. It was at the front door. Bruce opened his mouth to say something, but the words caught in his throat and refused to come out.

He raised his gun as the door before him began to buckle, the wood splintering as whatever was behind the door continued its assault. Bruce felt his grip on the gun tighten. His breathing intensified, the adrenaline rushing through his veins. He felt focused, ready to take action.

The door broke with a loud cracking noise and fell to the ground.

Bruce fired.


A moment passed. He let the gun fall to his side. He stared. No…it can’t be…that’s impossible…

Dead brown eyes looked up at him from underneath a gray hoodie, little strands of curly black hair slinking out. It was him…the kid. The kid that he had shot. The hooded figure that had been taunting him at night. The kid was here. But that was impossible. He was dead. He had died nearly two years ago.

He still had the wounds. They looked the exact same as they had that night, meaty chunks of flesh ripped aside from the passage of the bullets.

The darkness quivered outside…laughing…

A stark sort of clarity came over him. Of course it had to be this way. It was always going to be this way. There was no other end for him, no other course. His fate had been decided the night he pulled the trigger. It didn’t matter what he did, how he struggled, what he changed about himself. All paths led him here. There were no more forks in the road.

His hand moved as if it had a mind of its own. Cold steel kissed Bruce’s temple.



Sheriff Terry Turner shook his head as he gazed down at the two bodies.

“What’ve we got here George,” he asked the coroner.

“If I had to guess,” the coroner replied, “looks like we got ourselves a murder suicide.”

The sheriff shook his head again, deep green eyes looking over the corpse with a hole in its head. Bruce goddamn Thompson…so this is where you’d been hiding all this time. He nodded at the other body.

“Who’s he?”

“Roger Freeman,” the coroner replied. “Local neighbor. He was the one that called us last night, said he heard Thompson in the woods screaming his head off. He phoned it in, then must’ve come here to see what the problem was. I’m betting it was him that broke down the door to get in, after he couldn’t get a reply from inside.”

“Little did he know Thompson was waiting on the other side, with a loaded gun,” the sheriff finished.

“Poor fella…he was just trying to do the right thing,” the rookie deputy standing next to him said sadly, his brown eyes twinkling. The sheriff had no reply. He had seen so many scenes like this. What was one more?

“Thompson ran all the way out here,” the rookie mused. “Didn’t someone burn his house down?”

The sheriff shook his head.

“That’s what they thought at first, given all the controversy surrounding him. But in the end, they found it was just a faulty outlet that sparked and set the whole thing ablaze.”

Just then, another officer emerged from the back hallway, carrying an orange capsule.

“Sir, take a look at this.”

The sheriff took the pill bottle from the officer’s hand. He let out a low whistle.

“Haloperidol huh…that’s a pretty strong anti-psychotic right?”

“Yes sir,” the officer replied.

“But from the looks of it,” the sheriff continued, “this pill bottle’s been empty for a while…weeks even.”

“If the last refill date on the bottle is correct,” the officer said, “then it’s been empty three weeks.”

Sheriff Turner looked over the bottle, then back down at the bodies on the floor. He was silent for a moment. Then he shrugged.

“All right, I think I’ve seen enough,” he said, handing the bottle back to the officer. “Bag it and tag it.” He turned to the coroner. “You’ll send me the autopsy notes when you’re done right George?”

“Yes sir…just finishing up here and then I’ll cart these two to the morgue,” he replied.

“Good. Let’s go kid,” he motioned to the deputy and the two of them exited the cabin. Once they were outside, the deputy spoke up again.

“So, what are we putting down on the incident report?”

The sheriff let out a small laugh. The deputy looked confused.

“Did…did I say something funny?”

“No,” the sheriff replied. “I’ve just forgotten what it’s like to be new. I’ve been at this so long that crime scenes just speak to me, you know what I’m sayin’?”

“I-I think so,” the deputy stuttered.

When they got back to the sheriff’s truck, he leaned on the roof, examining the deputy carefully.

“It’s a pretty open and shut case. At some point in the past few weeks, Thompson went off his meds. With his fragile mental state following everything that had happened, it was only a matter of time before he suffered a break. The lack of meds must have accelerated the process. He became paranoid, delusional. Probably thought Mr. Freeman was a robber or something and shot him dead. And then, after seeing what he did, he shot himself,” the sheriff concluded, miming a gun to the head.

For some reason the deputy didn’t look totally convinced.

“What’s on yer mind kid,” the sheriff asked. The deputy paused for a moment before answering.

“It’s just…I’m thinking about Thompson.”

“Yeah? What about ‘im?”

“Well, when we talked to those local shop owners over in Auburn, they said he seemed cheery and normal, like it was just another day for him.”

The sheriff was starting to get irritated.

“And…what,” he said.

“I don’t know,” the deputy replied. “I just think it’s weird that he seemed so normal just days before he shot himself.”

“Look kid, Thompson was off his meds. Nothing he did probably made any sense to anyone but himself. You gotta learn to let things go sometimes. I doubt you’d find anyone too interested in knowing why he did what he did. Thompson was public enemy number one in a lot of people’s books for a while.”

“I just thought it was worth looking into,” the deputy said.

“Well it ain’t. His motivations don’t matter. He was crazy, simple as that.”


“I thought we were supposed to chase every avenue of investigation.”

“There’s a difference between avenues of investigation and plain nonsense,” the sheriff replied. “Guess which one you’re going after?”


“Sorry…I just thought I was being helpful,” the deputy said, looking downcast.

The sheriff sighed, his anger cooling.

“It’s all right kiddo…you’ll learn to recognize what is useful information and what is just fluff. It’s part of being a cop…learning to read between the lines. Now come on,” he said, pulling open the driver’s side door, “let’s get back to the station and finish this up.”


The sheriff stopped, one leg inside the car. He got back out, staring at the forest beyond the clearing.

“Hey Sheriff,” the deputy’s voice called, “everything all right?”

“Did you hear a voice just now,” the sheriff asked after a moment.

“No…might’ve just been the wind.”

“Yeah,” the sheriff said. “Just the wind.”


“That’s all it was.”

The two of them got into the car and closed the doors. The sheriff did his best to hide the fear in his eyes, but his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He didn’t want to think about the hospital, didn’t want to think about all those nights he chose to work the job rather than visit. He didn’t want to think about that demon cancer, how it took her over and wasted her body away.

He didn’t want to think about how she had died alone in her bed, while he was dealing with a couple of drunk teenagers.

Sheriff Turner put the key in the ignition and turned the car on.


He shifted the car into reverse and backed up so quickly that the deputy let out a nervous chuckle, gripping the door handle to steady himself.

“Whoa…easy there chief…we in that big of a rush?”

Sheriff Turner didn’t respond. He shifted into drive and sped off down the driveway. He didn’t know why, but his gut was telling him he needed to get as far away from the forest as possible.


Spotlight: Blair Witch (video game)


When The Blair Witch Project came out in 1999, it was a big middle finger to everything Hollywood was about: no loud jumpscares, no fancy special effects, no larger than life characters, none of that.  It was just a faux documentary about a group of students who get lost in the woods and are never seen again.  Sure, nowadays the movie is routinely the target of mockery and parody, but back in the day it was something completely different.  And people believed it was real too.  The creators of the movie went as far as to create fake missing persons posters for the cast.  Regardless of your feelings on it, The Blair Witch Project gave birth to a new genre of movies: found footage.

Fast-forward two decades, and after a couple lackluster movie sequels (one that came out a few years after the first and another that came out just three years ago) the Blair Witch name isn’t one people flock to anymore.  Now, in what seems like something that should have happened ages ago, we have a video game based on the Blair Witch franchise.  But the question is, is it good?  Does it live up to the Blair Witch name?  Well, like most things in life, the answer is not a simple one.


Off into the woods again.


Let’s start with what Blair Witch gets right: the atmosphere.  From the outset, you can feel the isolation and the tension as you and your dog enter the woods in search of a missing kid.  The game manages to tie in with the franchise right at the start with a couple of references to the missing students from the original film.  But this game takes place in the 1990’s still, and at the time it takes place the footage of the students has yet to be found (remember that in the first movie the students disappear and the footage isn’t found until years later).

Things start going wrong quickly (in a good way).  You find yourself lost in the woods, end up at a mysterious campsite, and find a video camera whose tapes allow you to literally manipulate objects in time.  This is a very cool idea, but I found it really odd and kinda funny how the game addresses this.  Instead of letting you discover that power on your own, the game literally throws up a screen that just says deadpan “the red tapes allow you to manipulate reality”.


Oh you know, just time and space altering video tapes…no big deal.


All silliness aside, I liked this mechanic.  I wish it had been used a little bit more (it pops up a decent amount of times in the first half of the game, but takes a backseat by the end), but I thought it was an inventive angle on the mysterious nature of the Black Hills Forest.

(Note: I did have a strange glitch with the video tapes where they wouldn’t play properly until I rewound them and then they would play normally.  I’m not sure why this is, it may have had something to do with my graphics settings but I cannot be sure.  Something I thought was worth noting.)

As for the story, the premise is simple: you play as Ellis, a former police officer who joins the search for a missing boy named Peter.  Right from the get go, there are hints about Ellis having mental problems, which factors heavily into the game.  It’s never stated outright, but it’s pretty obvious Ellis suffers from some form of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), and his memories of combat and one event in particular keep surfacing as the woods seem to taunt and torment him.  It’s a great evolution of the Blair Witch style of psychological horror, and it’s a damn sight better than the 2016 movie.

I swear, the people behind that movie were probably saying to themselves “so this movie is known for being the anti-Hollywood movie…what can we do to evolve this idea?  Hmmm…oh I know!  Loud noises and obnoxious jumpscares!  Everyone loves those!  Right?”

There’s nothing more immersion shattering than a movie that tries to artificially scare you with a sudden cut to a loud nightclub scene.  I wish I was joking.

In any case, Blair Witch the game seems to understand the more psychological nature of the franchise.  But I almost feel like it goes too far with this.  At some points, it stops feeling like a Blair Witch game and more like the developer’s previous games, namely Layers of Fear and Observer to name a couple.  By the end of its four to five hour playtime, you’ve spent so much time exploring the repressed memories of Ellis’ psyche that you almost forget that there is a Blair Witch or any outside force acting on the character.  To give credit, it’s very well done, but it sometimes fails to feel very Blair Witch-esque.

This is especially true during the game’s last act, as you enter the infamous abandoned house that serves as the climax to both the original film and the 2016 sequel.  You spend a rather long amount of time wandering through shifting corridors, having ghostly voices and flashbacks to Ellis’ past.  Again, this is not a bad thing at all, but I feel like they should have pulled back on it a little bit and focused some more on the “being lost in the woods” aspect.  That’s what Blair Witch is to me: being lost in the woods and then spooky noises.  Not wandering through a shifting house facing your inner demons for nearly an hour.

Which brings me to my next caveat with the game: its pacing.  Now, for the most part the pacing is good.  It keeps you moving from place to place, and is generally adept at keeping you on edge.  However, there are a couple of spots where the pacing falls a little flat.  The aforementioned wandering around the house is one such spot.  There’s just so much time spent wandering through that shifting house, and it all feels like it’s building up to some huge, intense climax.  But no, it just kinda ends as you get to the basement, and then shortly after you get one of the endings to the game (there are multiple endings by the way).




But there’s another area where the pacing leaves something to be desired.  In this section you find yourself traversing an abandoned lumber camp.  And it’s here that the game commits one of gaming’s most annoying sins: padding.

The lumber camp sections serves no other purpose other than to make you run around, collect a few objects, then power up a machine to lift a log that’s blocking your path.  I’m serious.  That’s all that happens in this section.  It’s literally just a pointless obstacle gating off the next section of story.  And the tape mechanic is only used at the END of the section.  The rest of it is literally just riding a rail cart around to different spots, collecting important items, and placing them on the machine.  There is a short enemy encounter in the middle, but that’s about it.

Speaking of which, the enemies are actually pretty well done.  The game doesn’t let you get a good look at them at any point, and later sections have you relying on your camera to see where they are, which only gives you a red silhouette of the creature.  That, and their twitchy nature and movement just adds to the creep factor.  I do wish there was more than just one enemy type, but for what is there, it’s well done.

I feel like that’s the name of the game when it comes to Blair Witch: it’s well-done, but flawed at times.  It does a great job with atmosphere, but occasionally falls flat in pacing.  It initially does a great job feeling like a Blair Witch game, but sometimes becomes too engrossed in its own brand of horror.  If you’re a fan of horror, I’d say it’s worth a look.  There are far less competent games out there that rely on little more than cheap tricks.  Blair Witch at least has substance to it, even if it stumbles from time to time.


Thanks for reading!  Check back next Thursday for a special post, and have a great Halloween!

You can like the Rumination on the Lake Facebook page here or follow me on Twitter here.

Horror Analysis: The Strengths and Weaknesses of Different Story Mediums

The horror genre is one that has been around for a very long time.  Pretty much since we’ve been aware that things go bump in the night, we’ve been telling stories about them.  Some served a precautionary purpose, to keep kids from wandering around alone late at night.  But some were just for fun, to frighten others or even to frighten ourselves.  There is a morbid curiosity that draws people to the genre, one that continues to this day.

So for this week’s post, I wanted to dive into the strengths and weaknesses of different storytelling mediums, specifically three: books, movies, and video games.



Strengths: Books have a unique ability to tap into the human mind, making it spin an image of what it is describing on the page.  Since books don’t have the same visual strength as movies or games, they rely on this ability to engage our imaginations, forcing us to come up with our own visual interpretations of events and places.  And in that sense, books are very powerful.  The mind can weave a web of macabre images much better than any movie camera or video game engine.  Rather than being hamstrung by the limitations of visual production, books leave it up to the person reading to generate the movie in their heads while reading.  This means that a person’s own fears or anxieties can feed into the power of the narrative, making something spookier than perhaps even the author intended.

Weaknesses: Unfortunately, this reliance on the imagination is a bit of a double-edged sword at times.  The mind is a powerful thing yes, but if it isn’t given enough stimulation then it won’t generate as spectacular an image as it could.  This makes it necessary for the author to be exceedingly good at descriptive writing, particularly in horror.  If you can’t evoke emotions of fear or dread in the reader, they won’t buy into your story.  You can’t just say “the house was creepy”.  You have to show them the house was creepy, like saying “the old, dilapidated swingset creaked forlornly in the backyard, caked under years of orange rust.”  That evokes some feelings in the reader.  But it’s a tricky balance.  Show them too much, and it gets boring to read.  Show them too little, and they won’t be invested.



Strengths: The art of the visual medium is indeed a very powerful one.  Cinematographers can use various tricks and techniques to draw our attention to something or make us feel uneasy.  Strange, tilted camera angles tend to make a viewer feel slightly disoriented or anxious, and darkened lighting only aids in that effect.  In older days, movies relied a lot on lighting and setting to craft its feelings of horror.  As the technology only grew more and more sophisticated, so did the methods of scaring people visually.  Music can also play a key role in this, as it tends to heighten certain emotions in people depending on the type of music playing (i.e. classical music makes people feel relaxed).  Movies can also be sneaky.  They can place something spooky just off the side of the screen, and whether or not a viewer sees it depends on them.  Compare this to a book, which would have to literally describe said thing otherwise no one would know it’s there.

Weaknesses: I’ve bemoaned this a number of times before, but as movies became more and more sophisticated it also become more and more of an industry.  And industries like trends.  So when movies like Paranormal Activity hit the scene and were huge hits, cue the onslaught of movies involving cheap jumpscares and demons.  As I’ve said before, I actually enjoyed the Paranormal Activity movies (the first three anyways).  But the constant influx of similar themed movies gets pretty old.  There can only be so many chapters of Insidious and so many movies set in the Conjuring movie universe before people start wondering “okay, but what’s next?”  You can only do so many movies with characters being stalked in the shadows by some supernatural being before it falls flat.  And then Hollywood is on to finding the next big trend.

Rinse and repeat.


Video Games

Strengths: The interactive nature of video games are their greatest asset when it comes to horror.  Things feel a bit different when you are controlling the character being chased rather than watching it happen or reading about it.  There’s a whole new sense of dread that comes from being forced to enter an area you don’t want to go in.  You know you need whatever is in there, but at the same time you know that something could be stalking around in the darkness, waiting to eviscerate you.  Games have a dynamic factor to them that also makes them very enticing.  Take for example, the game Prey from 2017.  The game takes place on a space station that’s been overrun by alien entities.  But some of them have the ability to disguise themselves as ordinary objects.  One second you’re looking at a coffee mug, and the next some shrieking black mass of tentacles is attacking your face.  It’s not scripted either.  If given enough time, they will run away and disguise themselves again as a nearby object, lying in wait for you to come around again.

Weaknesses: Video games’ weaknesses are two-fold.  First, there is repetition.  Take Alien Isolation as an example.  It’s a fantastic game that nails the atmosphere of the Alien franchise.  However, your first time through the game will likely take close to twenty hours to complete.  On top of that, since the alien itself is pretty much invincible, the only thing you can do is distract it or scare it off.  This can lead to a lot of trial and error sections of the game where you are continually killed by the creature and forced to repeat that same section multiple times.  Nothing sucks the life out of horror faster than frustration.

Secondly, it’s difficult to predict what a player is going to do.  A lot of times, a player will miss a scare because they weren’t looking in the right place at the right time.  Developers can use certain tricks such as lighting to draw a player’s eye to a specific spot, but even then it’s not guaranteed will look there when the scare happens.  Even good horror games occasionally wrench control away from the player in order to keep them focused on a particular scary moment.  This can backfire and annoy the player more than actually evoking any sort of fear response.



No medium is explicitly better than the other at crafting horror stories and scary moments.  Instead, I prefer to see them as providing different lenses to view the genre through.  I will definitely say that I consider horror movies to be the weakest of the three, but that’s more because of the multi-million dollar industry influencing what movies do and don’t get made.  In terms of potential I think all three mediums have great power.  It just takes the right mind to tap into it.


Thanks for reading!  Check back next week for another spooky post, and have a wonderful week!

You can like the Rumination on the Lake Facebook page here or follow me on Twitter here.

Maritime Mysteries

In last month’s post I wrote about a story that may or may not be true, the fate of the Ourang Medan, a Dutch freighter supposedly found adrift in the 1940’s.  So for my second post of the month, I decided to write about some more maritime mysteries that have captured people’s imaginations.  So let’s begin.


Mary Celeste

“Our vessel is in beautiful trim and I hope we shall have a fine passage.” – Benjamin Briggs, captain of the Mary Celeste, in a letter to his mother.

The mystery of the Mary Celeste is one most people have undoubtedly heard about.  This may be due in no small part to the fact that its story got muddled with fantastical retelling and insane conspiracy theories as to what happened aboard that ship.  But here is the story as we know it:

Mary Celeste originally began life as the Amazon, originally carrying cargo such as timber across the Atlantic.  It had its fair share of misadventures, colliding with fishing equipment and the like, as well as accidentally sinking a naval warship in the English Channel.  Not even ten years after her construction, a storm in 1867 ran her aground and left the ship so damaged that it was deemed a derelict wreck.

Over the next couple of years the ship changed hands a few times, eventually gaining its new name Mary Celeste.  A series of structural changes enlarged the ship greatly, and it eventually came under the command of Benjamin Briggs, who would captain it on the fateful journey.

In the fall of 1872, the ship was loaded up with barrels of denatured alcohol bound for Genoa.  After a brief hiatus to wait for weather conditions to improve, the ship set out on November 5th.  Another ship, the Del Gratia, left port eight days after the Celeste, with a cargo of petroleum, following in the Celeste‘s path.

They would be the ones to discover the ship adrift a month later, in December.

When the crew of the Del Gratia climbed aboard the Celeste, they found that the ship’s rigging and sails were in poor condition, and the single lifeboat was missing.  On top of that, there was some equipment damage, including the ship’s compass housing which had its glass cover broken.  There was a few feet of water in the cargo hold, but not enough to be a danger.  Most of the rooms were wet, but in decent condition, although most of the ship’s papers were gone.  The gallery was neat and orderly, with all equipment stowed away.  There was no obvious sign of fire of violence, which gave the appearance of an orderly evacuation for some unknown reason.

The ship was towed to Gibraltar for a salvage hearing, which is where rumor and misinformation began.  Frederick Solly-Flood, who conducted the hearing, got it into his head that some sort of crime had been committed aboard the Celeste.  Worse still, he accused the ship’s owner of possibly engaging the crew in a mutiny to kill Captain Briggs and then faking a incident with inclement weather.  But Flood’s theories collapsed after scientific analysis of the ship revealed that the stains of red found in several places on the ship were not blood, and that the damage to the timber was nothing more than the natural wrath of the sea.

Numerous theories as to what happened on board the ship range from mutiny all the way to paranormal incidences and even abduction by aliens.  However, one of the more compelling theories is that a pressure-wave type of explosion rocked the cargo hold.  There would have been an impressive flame, but no damage to the ship and no soot left behind.  This could have freaked out the crew, and they abandoned ship, fearing that it would soon explode again and send them all to a watery grave.

Unfortunately, there is no way of ever knowing what really happened.  All we have are our theories.


Flannan Isle

“We seemed to stand for an endless while,
Though still no word was said,
Three men alive on Flannan Isle,
Who thought, on three men dead.” – Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, The Ballad of Flannan Isle

The lighthouse in the Flannan Isles off the western coast of Scotland was first lit in December of 1899.  Among other things, it featured a railway track powered by a series of cables and a steam engine to help facilitate the delivery of provisions for the lighthouse keepers and fuel for the light beacon.  These days, the beacon is automated, with a reinforced helipad constructed so that maintenance visits could be done even in extreme weather conditions.

But what the Flannan Isles lighthouse would become infamous for was the disappearance of its three lighthouse keepers in 1900, barely a year after it was lit.  The incident, much like the Mary Celeste, has been subject to speculation and fantasy.  But it has also inspired pop culture, including an episode of “Doctor Who” titled “Horror at Fang Rock” in 1977.

On the 15th of December, 1900, a passing vessel noted that the light in the lighthouse was not lit despite the poor condition of the weather.  It wouldn’t be until nearly two weeks later that another vessel, with the lighthouse relief keeper in tow, visited the isle.  In those days there were four men for the lighthouse: three staying on site, and a fourth back ashore ready to relieve one of the keepers.  No sign of the keepers could be spotted, even after the ship captain blew his horn,  Investigation of the island discovered that the main gate and door were closed, and the beds were unmade.  A set of oilskins (water proof clothing) was also found, suggesting that one of the keepers left without it in a hurry, strange considering the conditions of the storm.

There was still no sign of James Ducat, Thomas Marshall, and Donald McArthur.  It was presumed shortly after that the three lighthouse keepers were dead.

It was discovered that the western landing of the isle had been severely damaged by the recent storms.  The theory then arose that the three lighthouse keepers had been blown over the edge of the cliff or drowned while trying to secure a crane.

Investigation of the log would reveal odd details, such as Donald McArthur crying.  McArthur, who had a reputation for getting into fights, did not seem to type to cry.  There were descriptions of intense storms, which was odd considering that no such storms had been reported in the area leading up to the event.  This suggested that the logs were manufactured somehow or the storms were heavily localized.  The investigation concluded that Marshall and Ducat had gone to secure a box that contained mooring ropes and the like.  McArthur, knowing the danger that the sea could pose on that particular spot (the western edge had a small cave in it, which allowed the water to rush in and then explode outward with surprising force), jumped up from his chair and rushed outside to warn them, leaving his oilskins behind.  The three of them were then swept over the edge by waves, never to be seen again.

Of course, fantasy and reality collided in the years following the incident, much like with the Mary Celeste.  Popular theories included being abducted by foreign spies, they arranged for a boat to take them away to a new life, an attack by a giant sea serpent or giant seabird, and even an encounter with a ghost ship filled with malevolent spirits.  However, the theory of them being swept away by waves or wind remains the most plausible explanation.


Carroll A. Deering

“I’ll get the captain before we get to Norfolk, I will.” – Charles McLellan, First Mate of the Deering.

The Carrol A. Deering was constructed in 1919 in Maine, and was one of the last large commercial sailing vessels of its time.  It had been in service for about a year when it began what would be its final voyage.

In July of 1920, the Deering picked up a shipment of coal bound for Rio de Janeiro in Brazil.  The ship’s original captain, William Merritt, fell ill during the journey and was dropped off with his son in Delaware.  Willis B. Wormell, a 66-year old retired sea captain, took command of the ship.  His first mate was chosen to be Charles B. McLellan.

The vessel reached Rio without incident, delivering its cargo as promised.  Captain Wormell gave his crew shore leave and left to meet up with an old captain friend of his.  It was there that he was reported complaining about his crew, saying that he couldn’t trust anyone but his engineer.

In December of 1920, the ship left for Rio and stopped in Barbados for supplies.  It was there that First Mate McLellan got drunk and complained to another captain in port about the apparent lack of discipline on board.  He also said that he’d “get the captain” before the Deering reached Norfolk.  McLellan was promptly arrested, but in a strange twist Captain Wormell forgave him and paid his bail, allowing him back on board the Deering.

The next sighting of the Deering was by a lightship of the coast of North Carolina.  There, a man told the lightship captain through a megaphone that the ship had lost its anchors in a storm off Cape Fear and that the company should be notified.  The lightship captain noted this, but with his radio out was unable to report it.  The following day, another ship noticed the Deering setting a course that would run it aground on the Diamond Shoals, a dangerous spot for ships off of Cape Hatteras.  But the vessel did not see anyone on the deck nor did they try hailing anyone, assuming that the ship would eventually see the either the lighthouse or lightship and steer away.

At the end of January 1921, the ship was spotted at dawn by the Coast Guard station and Cape Hatteras.  It would be another few days before the vessel could be boarded due to the rough waters.

When the ship was boarded, it was found that much of the equipment had been damaged.  Crew personal effects were missing, and the galley appeared to have been in the process of setting up the next day’s meal when the incident occurred.

No signs of life were found on board.

A subsequent investigation came to the conclusion that the ship had undergone a mutiny by the crew, as evidenced by the First Mate’s comments as well as the captains.  However, no official ruling was ever filed.

Other explanations persisted of course.  Piracy was thought to be a possible cause, with even Communist piracy considered.  Hurricanes were considered, although the evidence left behind pointed at an orderly evacuation rather than a panicked one.  Then there was the paranormal explanations, with some claiming aliens abducted the crew (it’s always aliens isn’t it) or that the crew fell victim to the Bermuda Triangle, despite the fact that the ship’s final resting place was several hundred miles away.

Recovery of the ship proved impossible, and it was destroyed using dynamite.


Thanks for reading!  I’ll have another post next week, and have a spooky scary October!

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