A Nightmare In Collegeville, Pennsylvania circa mid 1980's
While shuffling off to Buffalo (another name I use to call the bedroom here at 2 Highland Manor Drive), an impulsive whim found me rifling thru notebooks of very early writings from yours truly.
Back some decades (perhaps an amount of time approximately equal to the half life of element named Matthew Scott Harris), typed document unexpected spilled forth from a heavy duty three ring notebook binder.
Upon rummaging among typed efforts of literary amateurism, these myopic eyes stopped short when espying a stapled composition about four pages long. The material in question refers to the title of this piece de la resistance.
There appeared to be a beginning, middle and end, which degree of completion would absolve me to ponder a theme for self subscribed daily assignment, which discipline forced refinement of a verbose harried style, and not always swiftly tailored.
Hence the brief preface now allows, enables and provides this wordsmith to segue-way into the core firmly identifying lodestone of material (making alterations to hone clarity, favorability, and integrity) before releasing completed fictional story into cyberspace.
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A primal fear coursed through my body, and haunted every fiber of my slight (slip of a young man) corporeal essence every time I passed the burned out hulk of what used to be the discount lighting and fixture store located at 3714 Germantown Pike, Fairview Village, Pennsylvania.
An emotion of fright gripped my psyche most prominently when I drove past the dilapidated, hollowed out scorched structure after the bewitching hour of duck. This palpable quotidian uneasiness best characterized as an eerily foreboding, ghostly sensation. Phantasmagoric phenomena purportedly populated these premises prior to the pyromaniacal torched act of Mongolian Vandalism.
Twas at twilight nocturnal sweeps of the clock, that the heavily damaged wing of the building stirred like some dormant, huge monster.
The charred ruins of unsold merchandise, collapsed rubble heap, crumpled corrugated roof material, and twisted (sister like) beams of steel appeared to lumber silently and stealthily along the ground analogous to sinister beast in search of prey.
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Braggadocio got the better part of this ordinarily overly cautious young man (asper fools rush in where angels fear to tread apothegm).
Abe Zion (my best friend since kindergarten) double dared ourselves to test our comfort zones, and apply exposure therapy under apropos weather conditions.
Thus, when came a ferocious, dark and stormy night (nsync with thee refrain "It was a dark and stormy night" is an often-mocked and parodied phrase written by English novelist Edward Bulwer-Lytton in the opening sentence of his 1830 novel Paul Clifford. The phrase is considered to represent "the archetypal example of a florid, melodramatic style of fiction writing", also known as purple prose.
Actually, we struck up this mutual pact on a recent pitch perfect, gloriously sunny spring day to prove paranormal phenomena a confabulation, where nature played trick or treat with vulnerably susceptible rudimentary precinct of individual human mind.
We agreed on this deal (after watching an episode of Let's Make A Deal on television based on similar context). While brimming with testosterone roaring swagger, both of us sought to accomplish a twofold objective.
We wanted to put to rest this unfounded rumor, that evil spirits inhabited theabandoned , abysmal site, to test fledgling manhood by carrying out this adventure of daring-do.
When the rush hour traffic diminished on this most tempestuous, torturous, tumultuous evening, and no on-coming vehicles could be seen approaching from within our severely restrained minimal visual range, and the last traces of fearful silhouettes from passing headlights dissolved, we parked the car (a 1970 Volks Beetle -that would be worth a mint today) within a secluded area of brush.
Each of us dressed appropriately in sturdy rainwear then walked the short distance to the forbidding, dismal, decrepit shell of a burnt offering with portable phones, and other paraphernalia in hand.
Naturally, we conveniently ignored the NO TRESPASSING sign. Just a little bit of the heebie jeebies gave goosebumps as four light as a feather legs gingerly stepped over yellow plastic construction stripping cordoning and marking off perimeter of danger regard this condemned property.
Upon approaching what used to be the doorway to the store, we found the entrance blocked. Long (and fostered) animal nests, cobwebs, and thick vegetation impeded further progress.
This dense brush needed to be cleared. Both of us unclasped the scythes and created (NIKE) swishing motions in an effort to minimize upsetting the resident flora and fauna ecosystem, who rightfully owned provenance to this territory.
Once a passage got cleared wide enough for slender framed teenage boys to slink through, the mission resumed. As told, donned cladding bolstered top of the line waterproof gear. Also lugged thru this morass comprised backpacks filled with ample food and drink. Entrance made into the inky black ominous void, whereby every sensory nerve cocked, primed in case an ill fate triggered necessity to escape.
When suitably acclimated to the pitch black environment did attention turn toward the raging tempest (that would no way fit inside a teacup), and ferocious roar outside indicative of horrible creatures, (where the wild things lurked) evident via cacophony of sounds.
Amidst this earsplitting maelstrom, a faint yet sharp noise (similar when people toast and clink wine glasses together) punctuated infinitesimal brief silences between the bagging and rattling din.
Subsequently, a phantom (possibly of the Opera) flitted close to our non-visible presence like some ephemeral spirit aware of intruders.
The hairs along my spine stood on end in tandem with chattering of my teeth, which found me to cling nervously (for dear life) the coat tails of Abe. He laughed softly, and said “come on scaredy cat”, concomitantly taunting me with mild unflattering names. Braveheart endearment tossed to him, whence the erratic waving flashlight, his signal for us to proceed.
Abe and I walked slowly and carefully with beams of light (flickering with fluctuating diminution of battery life) pointed to the ground, whence one direction indicated the vanished specter.
With each footstep closer to our objective (the bowel of what could easily be presumed bombed building), a hitherto undetectable source of phosphorescent shimmering now glowed dimly some length down the corridor.
As we headed deeper into the hallway (in an attempt to lay eyes on that after glow luminous emanation) to discover visa vis the mystery of this nebulous halo, my head accidentally knocked against dangling overhead merchandise, and right foot unwittingly kicked broken cluttered electrical contrivances scattered across the floor. The reverberation of the moving objects got me spooked. As a result, I let out a shriek of surprise.
When I next heard a maniacal cackle, I momentarily believed Abe to be playing a boyish cruel, practical joke sans emulating my voice in a sinister exaggerated tone. “Abe”, I said in a stern tenor. “Stop with that childish nonsense”!
Before he could defend his innocence, a blood curdling squawk filled the dank air as a whole horde of hobgoblins maddeningly swooshed about our faces.
We quickly (albeit instinctively, since painful black bore down upon blinking eyelids) dove for cover in a narrow, yet long abysmal recess within the wall. The pinched width of this alcove forced us to negotiate a careful maneuver, especially as the obstacle course incorporated serpentine curves.
Before planning a strategic approach, we each outfitted our baby soft hands with durable rubber gloves to protect the tender flesh against damp dark surfaces.
Inch be ooze filled inch (unbeknownst why, but the refrain from inch winch spider...occurred) as we edged forward through the void of absolute zero visibility, whereby a natural poorly wrought tunnel bled caustic, drastic, elastic flux akin to a soldering iron fashioning precise jewelry. Par for the course, and typical of most generic spooky tales hid sundry vermin lodged in crevices.
Said various and sundry critters scampered and slithered across thickly clothed arms and legs.
Eventually, the closed area expanded into a wider corridor, and eased growing claustrophobic tendencies.
Abe and I breathed a premature collective sigh of relief at this prospect, and exhibited less restraint by conversing in a more audible level of conversation versus a forced coda of whispering moments ago.
This creeping complacence did not last but a couple minutes. Once again peculiar creaks captured our acute hearing. In addition noticeable vibrations shook below our feet.
These tremor like movements (I associated, kindled, and linkedin, with earthquakes) increased in duration and intensity. Soon thereafter even more powerful shakes made standing and/or walking impossible. The entire (once complex) edifice shook violently, and forced us to take a knee way before Colin Kapernick.
A seismic shock wracked the foundation to its mooring, and thru us violently to the ground.
The timbers creaked and groaned as if under an unrelenting strain, and wrenched loose from their respective mortise and tenon joists.
Floor boards popped loose from heavy duty industrial nails below, while shingles flew (akin to carrion diving after fresh road kill) haphazardly overhead. A patchwork of moonlight filtered down from a clear sky, and revealed a anatomically distorted skeletal frame.
One need expend imagination to envision the demolished structure waving like some hideous beastial ghoul or buoy. An ethereal quality imbued the remnant relic with a haunting spectre, a person could expect to encounter at a Halloween party.
The powerful force of each crumbling, grumbling, and lumbering surge (Knight clanging in rusty armor) from this pseudo living thing (satan incarnate) swept aside any immediate hope of escape.
While thinking to myself about the foolishness of this decision (an exploit to boast) to test the verity of a super-natural situation, a covey of apparitions considered myself and Abe ground zero (in this macabre version of zero sum game), and immediately rendered each of us unable to utter a word.
Try as I did, nary a recognizable plea exited this mouth.
Unlike anything I ever saw in this brief life of mine (suddenly cherished as more valuable than fine spun gold), these transparent, milky fiendish beings epitomized a demonic streak.
No doubt our earlier uninvited subterfuge (interpreted by these horrible hosts as a most sinister transgression) riled the figurative (or...maybe real tail feathers) these phantasmagoric banshees sought revenge.
Rather than meekly resign ourselves to whatever malevolent fate awaited us, we fought tooth and nail for our survival. This amounted to defensive access to an out of reach fenestration, when not parrying nor ducking from bodily harm.
A mighty strength grew up inside us as if by magic. Despite the topsy turvy momentum of the structure, we managed to stand upright like the bipedal hominids we knew and loved. I suddenly reacquired my speech and yelled out “for Christ sake Abe run for your life”!
I instantaneously followed suit.
Neither of us succeed in outsmarting our nemesis. Every cubby hole and hatchway found us face to face with a leering malicious grin much more frightful than that of the Cheshire Cat.
While locked in this extreme crisis, a flash in the pan of intuition dawned on my conscious, and I hoped this impetuous idea would bring us a welcome reprieve.
While being approached from all sides (and minutes to spare), I tore thru our hodge podge of trappings and found what might save us, and surreptitiously tucked this object inside a shirt pocket.
Meanwhile, the movement of the building (formerly along a horizontal plain) dramatically shifted to a near capsized, frenzied, italicized vertical shutter.
I surmised these aery, chary, Ebay money making (if captured without harming) species functioned as the heart and soul, and therefore explained these menacing, nauseating, offsetting zig-zags. In short order mailer daemon dwelled in this building, and infused entire enclosed space of evil sprites.
I did not want myself and best buddy forever to be the latest victims crushed, shaken and baked to the point of obliteration.
As the glow from the imps grow brighter, I reached into the side of my shirt, and retrieved thee coveted book of matches, an ancient souvenir from glory, heady, indie days when me mum and pa caroused, frolicked, and galavanted like spring chickens while attending a concert starring Matchbox20.
Such a scenario could not be envisioned at their advanced age viz approaching the half century milestone.
Back to thee preliminary dextrous motion to nonchalantly grasp one aged, crumpled, and stripped of a portion where the spark ignites. Despite feeling rather pessimistic, these lithe fingers of mine grasped one sorry looking limp biscuit old reinforced papery matchstick between right thumb and forefinger, thereby evoking a miniature hut. I struck a flame only to watch said sad attempt to burn bright merely fizzle, and self extinguish.
Numerous subsequent attempts also yielded similar results. Now, with just one more measly strike remaining, I beseeched the benevolent atheistic force for divine intervention.
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