dreamed.
“I’m dying, hopeless, but not alone,” he rasped. He snuggled closer, embracing Macabre’s skeletal body.
How did Macabre get to the entrance? I see four of him. He sank into darkness.
Zingaro awoke to the hum of a propulsion engine and saw Macabre curled up on a bench next to his. Macabre’s thoughts entered his mind. You saved me. We return you to your kind.
He reached over and patted the warty body. “ Thanks, pal. I wonder what Command will say about my ‘first contact’?”
Mike Boggia’s passion since childhood has been writing. He had a gothic novel, The Dungeon, written under the pen name Mary Lee Falcon, published in 1967, sold a short story to Mike Shane Mystery Magazine in 1973, and in 2013 had a short story in Mystic Tales from the Misty Swamp.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
18.
The Sound of Time
S.M. Kraftchak
Herbert knew those footsteps, he’d heard them before. Ba-lump, ba-lump, ba-lump, as steady as the tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock of the cuckoo’s clock; first to the corner where ancient floorboards creak under leather boots that click and crack on gravel as they turn back to the middle of the room; ba-lump, ba-lump, ba-lump where steps shoosh sand and dirt between time-worn boards and then continue, ba-lump, ba-lump, wa-lum, wa-lum, wa-lum as his footsteps soften on the rug that hovers over the squishy dank darkness of the cellar where Herbert watches his precious gears turn, their teeth coming together, snick, snick, snick. They had done their job.
Squinting at the sand raining down in dirty veils, Herbert growls—low like a lion purring—deep in his throat at Adam. What now? What did he care about time? He hadn’t spent a lifetime without the one he loved. Time was nothing to him but currency spent on banging his tankard down and roaring for another drink. To Herbert it meant days, standing by her headstone … Elspeth L. George, beloved Daughter, died 1866 … and nights fiddling in this dim basement. His clock had worked; now he had the time he needed.
After an hour of tick-tock, ba-lump footsteps; stomp and the man’s roar, “Fine, I’m leaving.”
“Finally,” Herbert said, looking at his clock in the dim light.
Herbert’s breath was ragged: puff-wheeze, puff-wheeze, puff-wheeze, but as steady as the scrip-plop, scrip-plop, scrip-plop of his feet and the tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock of a cuckoo’s clock. He could make it. He had to. The wheels on the horse-drawn trolley rumbled as it gained speed on the next hill back. It would be here shortly. There she was.
“Adam, wait!” Elspeth whimpers as she pauses on the sidewalk, then steps into the street.
Puff-wheeze, puff-wheeze, puff-wheeze; he had to go faster; the whinnying and clattering ca-lump, ca-lump, ca-lump of a spooked horse and thundering wheels is growing louder. He couldn’t let it happen again.
“Adam Wells, wait—” She stopped to tug at her boot heel caught in the tracks.
“Elspeth, I’m—puff-wheeze—coming!”
“Papa?”
Herbert reaches her as the trolley crests the hill. Ka-chang, ka-chang, ka-chang, the trolley bell warns; metal screeches on metal and the terrified horse squeals and thunders toward them.
“Move! Move! Move!” the conductor croaks, and waves.
Herbert thuds to his knees and pops the laces open on Elspeth’s boot.
“Go-wheeze, go-wheeze, go-wheeze.” Herbert shoves Elspeth as the runaway trolley bears down on them.
“Elspeth?” a man’s voice cries out. “Elspeth, get out of there!” Adam roars and rushes back to the street as screaming and screeching metal meld in dissonance, smothering the sickening thud-thud, whuff.
“Papa? Papa? What were you thinking?” Elspeth says, with tears falling from her eyes onto her father’s bloody shirt as she cradles him in her arms.
Herbert opens his eyes. Whuff-gurgle, whuff-gurgle, whuff and smiles. “I did it. I saved you. If he had left sooner, maybe—”
“But Mr. George, I
“I’m dying, hopeless, but not alone,” he rasped. He snuggled closer, embracing Macabre’s skeletal body.
How did Macabre get to the entrance? I see four of him. He sank into darkness.
Zingaro awoke to the hum of a propulsion engine and saw Macabre curled up on a bench next to his. Macabre’s thoughts entered his mind. You saved me. We return you to your kind.
He reached over and patted the warty body. “ Thanks, pal. I wonder what Command will say about my ‘first contact’?”
Mike Boggia’s passion since childhood has been writing. He had a gothic novel, The Dungeon, written under the pen name Mary Lee Falcon, published in 1967, sold a short story to Mike Shane Mystery Magazine in 1973, and in 2013 had a short story in Mystic Tales from the Misty Swamp.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
18.
The Sound of Time
S.M. Kraftchak
Herbert knew those footsteps, he’d heard them before. Ba-lump, ba-lump, ba-lump, as steady as the tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock of the cuckoo’s clock; first to the corner where ancient floorboards creak under leather boots that click and crack on gravel as they turn back to the middle of the room; ba-lump, ba-lump, ba-lump where steps shoosh sand and dirt between time-worn boards and then continue, ba-lump, ba-lump, wa-lum, wa-lum, wa-lum as his footsteps soften on the rug that hovers over the squishy dank darkness of the cellar where Herbert watches his precious gears turn, their teeth coming together, snick, snick, snick. They had done their job.
Squinting at the sand raining down in dirty veils, Herbert growls—low like a lion purring—deep in his throat at Adam. What now? What did he care about time? He hadn’t spent a lifetime without the one he loved. Time was nothing to him but currency spent on banging his tankard down and roaring for another drink. To Herbert it meant days, standing by her headstone … Elspeth L. George, beloved Daughter, died 1866 … and nights fiddling in this dim basement. His clock had worked; now he had the time he needed.
After an hour of tick-tock, ba-lump footsteps; stomp and the man’s roar, “Fine, I’m leaving.”
“Finally,” Herbert said, looking at his clock in the dim light.
Herbert’s breath was ragged: puff-wheeze, puff-wheeze, puff-wheeze, but as steady as the scrip-plop, scrip-plop, scrip-plop of his feet and the tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock of a cuckoo’s clock. He could make it. He had to. The wheels on the horse-drawn trolley rumbled as it gained speed on the next hill back. It would be here shortly. There she was.
“Adam, wait!” Elspeth whimpers as she pauses on the sidewalk, then steps into the street.
Puff-wheeze, puff-wheeze, puff-wheeze; he had to go faster; the whinnying and clattering ca-lump, ca-lump, ca-lump of a spooked horse and thundering wheels is growing louder. He couldn’t let it happen again.
“Adam Wells, wait—” She stopped to tug at her boot heel caught in the tracks.
“Elspeth, I’m—puff-wheeze—coming!”
“Papa?”
Herbert reaches her as the trolley crests the hill. Ka-chang, ka-chang, ka-chang, the trolley bell warns; metal screeches on metal and the terrified horse squeals and thunders toward them.
“Move! Move! Move!” the conductor croaks, and waves.
Herbert thuds to his knees and pops the laces open on Elspeth’s boot.
“Go-wheeze, go-wheeze, go-wheeze.” Herbert shoves Elspeth as the runaway trolley bears down on them.
“Elspeth?” a man’s voice cries out. “Elspeth, get out of there!” Adam roars and rushes back to the street as screaming and screeching metal meld in dissonance, smothering the sickening thud-thud, whuff.
“Papa? Papa? What were you thinking?” Elspeth says, with tears falling from her eyes onto her father’s bloody shirt as she cradles him in her arms.
Herbert opens his eyes. Whuff-gurgle, whuff-gurgle, whuff and smiles. “I did it. I saved you. If he had left sooner, maybe—”
“But Mr. George, I
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