Tales From the Ashes

Volume One...Issue Twelve...February 1, 2001

Published by "The Wizard of Odd"

- REMEMBER THE HAUNTS OF THE VERY RICH -

(-All items are the sole property of Wayne Brown. Use of my properties without my express written consent, is against the law!-)

"NAVIGATION BUTTONS"

2ND STORY..... 3RD STORY.....

GAMES.....SPONSORS.....COPYRIGHT INDICIA

FREAKY BUILDING! "A SLIGHT PROBLEM WITH URBAN RENEWAL"

by Wayne Brown June 1979

(Copyright Š1979)

"Freakin' weird! Thass s'only way ta 'scribe it. Whass dat? De house a'course. Dat six-story brownstone o'er on Hampton Lane. Ya know, de one wit' dem iron bars 'cross der winders. Unfreakin' real! I lost t'ree good men dere, four more lyin' in der hospital and now my crew refuses ta step wit'in four blocks of der place. ...And you should see whad it did ta my truck! Damnedest thing I ever dit see." The middle-aged workman stopped long enough to catch his breath through a non-filter cigarette, and chug a glass of cheap beer. After swiping his mouth on his worn, flannel sleeve he continued his diatribe in that quaint accent of his.

"I 'ad her backed up ta der gut-chute der utter day, and all o'a sudden der goddam chimbley come'a tumblin' down right smack 'cross der cab! Really freakin' weird! Usu'lly when a chimbley fall, it crumbles int'a a zillion pieces and just scatters der brick and mortar. Dis son-a'-bitch come down inna one solid piece, right 'cross der front of der truck...and it'd been leaning in der opp'site direction...towards dat em'ty lot on der nort' side! Anyway, it smash my truck like a goddamn pancake! I'd just gotten out ta take a leak, ot'erwise I'd been crushed, too! Dat damn house is haunted. Y'hear me?...HAUNTED!!!"

Carl Freeman, General Contractor, stubbed his eighth cigarette nervously into the dented tin ash tray. His hard, calloused hands with their nicotine-stained fingers, then came together, as if to pray. He looked up at his young companion, a reporter from the "Dayton Daily Herald".

"I tellin' ya, Brownie, don' get me wrong. Is all freakin' true!...Der Gospel, y'hear?...but I don' wantcha ta print any o' dis. I mean, if it get out dat Big Carl Freeman was a'feared of ghosts, I mean, you know. I couldn't get a contract for a doghouse!" Carl drained the last of his 16-ounce Rolling Rock into the 6-ounce beer glass, salted the foam and then gestured to the barmaid.

"Jody! Hey, Jody! Bring us a coupl'a more brewskies, y'hear?"

"Mister Freeman, if you didn't want me to print any of this, then why did you ask me here in the first place?" The young reporter looked quizzically at the eccentric contractor and fanned the smoke from the ash tray with distaste.

The stocky, hard-as-nails Freeman peered across the square, formica table. It tottered slightly as the burly, first-generation immigrant pointed one stubby fore-finger towards the curious, bemused reporter.

"Look Brownie. I scare't alright, but I not stupid. I wanna someone ta know der story. Y'see? I mean, I scare't of der place, but I'm'a goin' back dere and I'm'a gonna bring her down...Or I die tryin"!...And if I buy it, I wanna someone ta know whadda happen, kapish!?!"

"Alright, Freeman. I'll do what you ask...on one condition." The young man smiled faintly as he humored the superstitious peasant.

"Yeah? Whass dat?" Freeman chugged another glass of beer, belched and inhaled a long drag from a camel.

"You let me watch."

The century old brownstone loomed ominously against the turbulent, threatening sky. The lone sentinel of a bygone era, pitting it's ancient strength against the cold, sterile concrete of a burdgeoning modern city. Dayton, Ohio had seen many changes over the years, usually due to the shrugging of the mighty Miami River's shoulders.

Once the crossroads of America, this modest metropolis had literally been through "hell and high water". Harsh winter winds across flat plains, cold biting storms and ice floes eating into manmade bridges and dams.

Railroad tracks slice through the town like the stripes on a chain gang, and just as cruel. Old buildings, of a dismal past leaned heavily upon fresh, new neighbors. A Renaissance of architectural splendor brushing past forgotten bastions of a time long gone.

A city of contradictions with the USAF in residence. Wright-Patterson Air Force Base the home of the infamous "Project Blue Book". In the southern hemisphere, Kettering, an industrial park with trees of iron and lawns of steel. The enormous City Center guards jealously the tiny "White Castle" outlet with it's tiny, greasy, square burgers, sold by the dozen...and everywhere...Urban Renewal...

Number 43 East Hampton Lane is such a place. Historically a place of death and madness. Yet, it's beauty and craftmanship, though well-weathered, would never be equaled again. No expense had been spared on her construction way back when, and only the most capable tradesmen were employed when her walls were erected.

An ambitious Kentucky lawyer had foreseen the advantages of high-rise construction and apartment living as far back as 1894, and deigned to further his financial stability by building the copious palace. Of course, his insight had been correct. The palace soon attracted the social elite, the upper class, and his bank accounts' soon swelled with their greenbacks. As an added attraction to his idly-rich clientele, he installed a ballroom and a night club (private membership, of course, liquor was kept "under the table"...).

During extravagant soirees', the Police Chief was always invited to ensure "Security". His presence was always observed by the more prominent Society "Madams", and in the grand tradition of his Irish anscestors, the Chief would see to the quality of the viands proferred.

The latest musical sensations from across the entire East coast would find there way to Hampton Lane, and Jazz musicians were particularly in demand. Dayton's spiritual community found much to descry, but the "Bible Belt" had met it's match in "The Garden of Hedon", as the complex came to be called.

43 East Hampton Lane soon became the place to be for the next thirty years, until 1929, when all Hell broke loose. Particularly, within the walls of the ill-fated brownstone palace.

There were no less than nine suicides, and six murders behind those walls within the first few months following "Black Friday". The pressures of losing one's financial status, coupled with an over indulgence in vice-related activities, was apparently too much for the tenants and their guests. Here within their "Garden of Hedon", the losses were even more so realised. The lawyer, also felt the crunch and 43 East Hampton Lane, soon fell into a state of disrepair and despair.

In 1949, a development company, purchased the now nearly vacant brownstone for a song. They immediately reopened the now tenement-like structure to the pocketbooks of the poor. Whereas the building had originally boasted twenty six large and comfortable townhouse apartments, the new owners now managed to squeeze eighty-eight, closet sized, living areas into the once spacious halls. However, the roaches and rats were very comfortable, and the new tenants preferred their over-priced sardine cans to the alleyways of the cold and windy city.

Over the years, many of the indigent tenants complained of strange sights and sounds, and the uncanny proliferation of accidents amongst themselves. The complaints, however, were largely ignored and said to be the fault of other neighbors and the general superstitious illiteracy of the poor and lazy.

The remaining background of 43 East Hampton Lane is sketchy. Though several more murders, suicides and "accidental" deaths occurred there prior to it's condemnation in 1969. These incidents were attributed to the general increase of violence and drug use in society over the years.

In 1973, the building became slated for demolition with a new shopping mall planned for the site. A local historical society stepped in and obtained a stay of execution for the old brownstone. In March of 1979, Carl freeman was commissioned to partially renovate the building in an effort to placate the historical "busy-bodies". The mall had been redesigned in order to incorporate the original first and second floors of the historical building.

"I' tellin' ya, Brownie, I t'ink dat place want ta kill me!" Carl was pretty riled up. His hands were shaking and he kept shuffling in the passenger seat of Wade's Classic car.

The vehicle was Wade's pride and joy, restored with love and elbow grease over many long weekends in his neighbor's garage. He often thought of the Buick Electra as one might think of a child, or a beloved pet. He had told Carl, he couldn't smoke. He wondered now if that had contributed to the workmen's agitation.

"That's crazy, Carl. How can anything made of brick and wood have wants, and thoughts? Buildings can't think. They're not alive! You're just taking a bunch of coincidences and finding something that isn't there!"

"You don't know dis, dis house is EVIL!...You see! You will know..."

Wade L. Brown, Investigative Reporter for the Dayton Herald, turned the wheel of his Classic Buick Electra to the right, and slowly negotiated the turn down East Hampton Lane. He could see piles of construction detritus and dark green dumpsters scattered hap-hazardly on both sides of the lane. Other buildings had met their respective fates with but a whimper in the nearly leveled cul-de-sac. One stood tall amidst the rubble, defiant and strong.

He thought to himself as he steered down the now vacant drive.

"Haunted house! Shit! He's just a drunk. No, he'd only had a couple and you know how those construction workers can drink. He must be nuts. He's one of the city's most successful contractors! Hmmph! Of course, his insanity alone, might make for a good article."

It was then he first saw the front of "The Garden of Hedon", and suddenly, he knew that Carl Freeman wasn't nuts. There was something preternatural about the place, and it wasn't the dark, dilapidated condition of the brownstone, which would make any youngster believe in ghosts. No, it was something deeper than that. He could have sworn the building was breathing.

He pulled the car over to the curb. As he and Freeman got out, he noticed the smell. What was it? He was vaguely reminded of the odor of burning flesh, that smell he remembered from Viet Nam. But no...that wasn't it either. He then noticed the chimney. Six stories of red brick and mortar, laying intact upon what was once a two and a half ton flatbed truck. He was too unnerved to laugh at the irony of it.

Freeman approached him, stretching and smiling with what he knew to be false bravado. He had lit one of his damned cigarettes, and was waving the spent match.

"Okay, Brownie. You stay back now. I' gonna take dat mother down right ta der last brick! I don' care whad dose historical clowns say, dis bastard's gonna die!!!" He walked toward the only other substantial structure on the site. A huge wrecking crane stood idle to the side of the building. Wade had missed it driving in.

"Carl...wait..."

Freeman ignored the reporter's sudden plea and with a confident leap, he was at the controls of the leviathan crane. The noise of it's diesel engine, coming alive as Carl stroked it, was deafening.

The crane was situated about sixty feet from the building. Carl expertly nudged the machine, slowly working it to spin. The wrecking ball began it's long swinging arc towards the face of the brownstone. It would take several more swings before the ball would have enough momentum to punch the building, shattering the beams, columns, sills, and headers which made the skeleton of the thing.

Freeman was smiling sadistically and yelling something inaudible. Undoubtedly more curses. Suddenly, the entire building on 43 East Hampton Lane, began to shake and rumble, and then...it ripped itself out of the ground, like a hurricane rips up a tree by it's roots, and flung itself forward, smashing across the top of Freeman's crane, crushing it, and him like an egg.

Despite the roar of the diesel, Brown could hear Freeman's dying screams as his war came to an end. It was over...for Freeman and this building ...both were dead. He turned and walked in shock to his car. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a moving shadow. He ducked quickly and then heard the crash. He looked increduously at his broken windshield and on the front seat...a red brick sat amidst the shards of glass, beckoning...

Perhaps it wasn't over afterall...

-The End-

(I have made some minor grammatical changes to the original MS. -Wayne Brown)

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" IN THE BEGINNING...(NO: 1)"

by Wayne Brown...June 1997

(Originally submitted to

the "PLAYBOY: SHORT STORY CONTEST")

Environmental indicators verified the viability of the planet's atmosphere. Average mean temperature, oxygen & nitrogen content, the existence of water molecules, carbon in abundance...all sufficient for the "Purpose". Electrical currents stimulated the primordial ooze. Meteorological activity was rampant. Yes, this planet would do. It would have to. The ship was crippled. The shields were failing. Power guages were barely registering, and the life support systems were nearly exhausted. The mission was near it's end.

The journey had been long and arduous. Desperate hope in the "Purpose" had dwindled to stark pessimism. So many attempts! So many failures! Perhaps this time success would be in their grasp. It had to be this tiny planet, third from the sun, of this long-forgotten sector, in this insignificant galaxy. It must be! The ship could venture no further.

They had destroyed themselves. After countless millenia, greed, avarice, egocentricism had finally claimed their due. The greatest civilisation to ever exist was now a crumbling ruin. from it's once glorious home world, to it's furthermost colony...nothing remained, but ashes and dust. In one last dying gasp, they had managed to send the Arks. Singularly-piloted starships laden with the last vestiges of their life...to seed another world...to start again. Survival through the progeny of their once proud race. Perhaps this time things would be different.

Science had taught them the mechanics of biology. Their technologies had given vent to space travel. Though, that same technology had also been their undoing. These greedy and selfish carnivores, utilised the tools of science to subjugate their masses. Ultimately, war, conquest and slavery became their most precious institutions. Death and destruction finally gave sway to oblivion. A little knowledge was not a dangerous thing, but a lot certainly could be.

Those who spoke against the rape of science, and the ravages of the heirarchies, were systematically eliminated...at least until the very end, when they were called upon to find a solution to their impending doom. It was decided that they would expend all their resources in an attempt to seed a new homeworld. Thousands of "Arks" were then dispatched in as many directions. Hopefully, at least one would find a suitable Eden.

Specially bred pilots were selected for their health and temerity. They were rigorously trained for their new-found purpose. No distraction would sway their course. The ships were designed to sustain their lives and the integrity of their respective cargo, and to seek out appropriate gardens to sow.

Aeons had passed and communication between the "Arks" had long since ceased. Success was fleeting. Most of the "Arks" had not found suitable landings, and the few that did, had met with failure upon the planting of their crops. The lack of success was attributed to inaccuracies in environmental predictions, equipment failure and otherwise bad luck.

Hydraulics whined, klaxons sang, steel tempers flared and stress factors elicited loud groans from welded joints. The vessel slowly sank in the atmospheric sea. It's retro-capacitors straining, but inevitably succombing to the overwhelming power of the planet's gravity.

Three mechanical legs erupted from the side of the ship. Groping frantically, each seeking purchase in the roiling, primordial soup. A satisfactory landing was soon achieved. The ship sighed in relief, exhausting gaseous ballast and relaxing it's overly stressed hull.

The ship listed to the left, one of it's tripods sinking into the muck. The pilot realised his time was waning. He had to sow the seeds quickly. He knew the ship would not last long on this unstable terrain.

Tremors shook the ground. Lightening slashed the sky and the thunder roared it's defiance.

Again the ship shifted, this time to the right. Hurriedly, the farmer flipped switches, spun dials and activated circuits. A hatch began to open in the belly of the ship, and a long telescoping tube descended into the welling mire below. A pump began to sing and the genetic plasma of a long dead race, began to flow into the awaiting earth.

Amino acids, DNA, memories, the very essence of trillions of lives were injected into this virgin world.

The ground gave way beneath the Ark, toppling it into the river of mud. The hatchway had not yet secured and as the Ark sank, it quickly filled with the newly infected slime. The pilot, his task now complete, helplessly awaited the inevitable kiss of death. The ooze enveloped and slowly suffocated the tired and ancient farmer. His dying thoughts his eulogy.

"I pray they make not the same mistakes. If they screw it up again, I swear, as surely as my name is GHOD, I will come back to haunt them!"

-The End-

(I have made some minor grammatical changes to the original MS. -Wayne Brown)

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" IN THE BEGINNING...(NO: 2)"

by Wayne Brown...June 1997

(Originally submitted to the

"PLAYBOY: SHORT STORY CONTEST")

He had believed in it all. The great American dream. A beautiful wife, two doting kids, a dog named "Spot", and the house in the suburbs with a two-car garage and a white picket fence. The security of a stable job with retirement and relaxation, a comfort in his elder years.

In the beginning, he believed in the integrity of his elected officials, the American Way, Democracy and Mom's apple pie. They were the cornerstones of his foundation.

In the beginning, he held faith with his minister and the Good Book. He knew he had a reservation in that Grand Hotel in the sky, and Saint Peter would check him in...No luggage necessary. He also knew that when the time came, his family would join him in eternal bliss.

He had believed, Damnnit! He knew these things were true! He had been taught and conditioned from the moment he could first understand. His parents, his teachers, his elders. Everyone assured him. If he was honest, punctual and clean. If he was compassionate, dilligent, and worked hard. All would come to him in time. Hell, if you were born in a log cabin, you could still grow up to be President! That is, if you wanted to.

He had been a reasonably good student, but high grades didn't come without an effort. He had the most trouble with American History. Sometimes it didn't make a "hell-uv-a-lot" of sense. Particularly, the stories about the indians. At any rate, he persevered and finally got his diploma.

Bible studies occasionally puzzled him, too. Particularly the story of Job. That poor bastard really suffered! Genesis was also a tad confusing. What with his Biology teachers telling him about "Evil-ution" and such. Oh well, as Pastor Baker would always say, "God works in mysterious ways, a-yuh!"

While a child, he had fallen for the tales about Santa Claus, and the Easter Bunny, and even though he realised later, they were just stories, he still felt a twinge of excitement whenever those holidays would come 'round. As he matured, he sometimes wondered if perhaps some of the other stories he had heard weren't just a wee fantastic.

Yeah, he believed...once...a long time ago. In the beginning...

He fell in love when he turned seventeen. She was a pretty thing with long blonde hair and big...well, you know. She seemed to share his dreams and frquently haunted them. They were head-over-heels until the night of the prom. They went to a party after the dance and some of the guys had brought some beer. Everyone got a bit tipsy, and Paula ...Well, she decided she liked one of the local tough's a little better than him. He left the party in tears. He cried all night, unable to get that scene out of his head. Paula and Ringo in the john together.

"Oh, God! Why?"

He was drafted in 1969 and though he felt a bit cheated, he acceded to his new role. Afterall, it was his duty, and he just knew he'd return a hero. He saw heavy action in Southeast Asia, and began to question his purpose there. He managed to suffer through those two years, trusting to the wisdom of the powers that be.

Spring of 1972 found him back in the states. Employment was elusive, but not so a bottle of Gin. He tried his hand at many trades, but there was little demand for a tail-gunner on a warship 'copter.

He finally attained a relatively steady position as a prep cook at a local steakhouse. He fell in love again. This time with a coke-snorting waitress, ten years his senior. She had two children of questionable paternity and lived in a late-model, two bedroom mobile home. He moved in with her and they fostered each other's misery in mutual pathos. Perhaps things would change, perhaps SHE would change. At any rate, it was a start.

He worked hard and persevered. She did change, and so did he. The kids changed. He began to assemble the trappings of life in those United States. He got a Driver's License, two Credit Cards, and registered to vote. Republican, by the way. It seemed that happiness and security were finally cresting on the horizon. Then...

...The restaurant closed. Nixon resigned. Lennon was assasinated... then Boesky, Milken, the Iran-Contra affair, Jim Jones, Jim Baker, and Jimmy Swaggart. MIA, CIA, DEA, FDA, EPA, and OJ.

The roller coaster ride had come to an end. He no longer had the price of a ticket, and frankly Scarlett, he didn't give a damn.

He lay beneath the asphalt parking lot (a hollowed section heated by the "exhausted" fans of two restaurants and a bar), and pondered his fate. He studied his compatriots, all like him in various stages of mummification. He nibbled at the spoils found in the trash cans. He lit a cigarette. Actually half a one. He couldn't afford anything but the butts. His clothes were tattered. His shoes, might as well have been sandals. His beard was dressed with stale gravy, wine and snot.

She had left him (Actually she had kicked him out.). She had abandoned him just as everyone else had. He'd been teased, and then pleased. Fleeting promises of comfort, love and success...and then nothing. Doomed to a nameless, timeless existence.

He was hungry. He was always hungry now. He assailed the dumpster nearest the crawl space that he called home. Discarded lettuce and carrots, a half-gnawed turkey leg, a crust of French bread, and the Coup de Grace...an eighteen inch Chef's knife with a slightly broken tip.

He thumbed the edge. A perfectly good knife excepting the tip. A street light glinted off the stainless steel. A glimpse of hope...of fate. He laughed madly as he rabidly wiped the blade, honing it on his ragged leather coat. A trophy from better days.

His faith endured. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. He believed, just as he had in the beginning...

-The End-

(I have made some minor grammatical changes to the original MS. -Wayne Brown)

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NEXT ISSUE:

- Something special next month! My submission to STEPHEN KING'S challenge in "ON WRITING"! -"FUN WITH DICK AND JANE" and "THE PACKAGE"- A look at a Mother's gift to her beloved son! -

"BE SEEING YOU!!!"

"THE ARCHIVES"

"Volume No. 1...Issue 1 September 1999"

THE TAX COLLECTOR & THAT'LL BE $3.50, MAC!

"Volume No. 1...Issue 2 November 1999"

THE CRYSTAL BALLERINA & CHRIST DIED FOR HIS SINS

"Volume No. 1...Issue 3 March 2000"

BROTHERLY LOVE & LA MORTE'

"Volume No. 1...Issue 4 June 2000"

THE BLACK TRUNK & IT'S IN THE CARDS

"Volume No. 1...Issue 5 July 2000"

MOTHER NATURE'S SON & TERRESTRIAL EXILE