The 2004 Pentrace Halloween Short Story Contest
by some ghoulish Pentracers


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Five Dollars
by Kurt Hammerbeck

He never gave a second thought why the pen was at the yard sale amidst the cast off debris of what must have been a dirt poor family. “How much?” he said awaiting a rather high number. “Five dollars” came the reply from a woman whose base voice summed up years of smoking with a greenish tint to match. “That’s dad’s pen no one never used it since.” Well Sumgai today he thought handing over a ten and awaiting change.

Driving North from Arkham he figured to stop somewhere around Derry but dinner would come first. Near dusk sitting in a Denny’s his eyes locked onto a store in the strip mall. Office Mac was open and doing a brisk business. A quick jog over and he had a bottle of Quink which crinkled in the bag on the passenger’s seat.

He pulled into the motel at 10pm after a short transaction with the desk keep he was ready to just lie down. But the pen called to him as if an inanimate object could. It wanted to be held and filled and used . He took the ink out of the bag and box setting it on the small round table next to the window. Fumbling in his pockets he brought out the prize. It was a black pen with no outward ornamentation except the clip which might look like a bill of a bird or arms of an squid. He polished it on his sleeve then held it up to the fluorescent light. As the light shone along the length he could almost see shadows deep within the pen that played and chattered in the dark depths.

“Let’s see what the nib looks like.” he said to no one in particular but felt better for saying it none the less. Grasping the cap it would not budge. He walked over to the sink and began to try and soak the pen with no better results. As he tried harder it seemed as if the pen squirmed by itself and he cursed as the clip bit deep into flesh between his thumb and forefinger. Bleeding he tried to staunch it with a hand town but only succeeded in making more of a mess.

After he had wrapped his hand he noticed that the pen was lying open at his feet . Its nib looked like nothing made by man it was a growth of gold somewhere between a fang and a claw pointing out from the pen’s body. He reached down to pick it up but continued over as the loss of blood and long drive conspired against his continued consciousness.

He awoke past midnight in the opposite corner of the room. Written and engraved into the walls were long strings of what could only be letters. ŒOgthrod Ai’F Geb’L.. EE’H Yog Soth’NGah’Ng Zh’rooh’ he read them aloud as a bell slowly rang far away. The sound of the door opening caused him to stop. “I see you opened Daddy’s pen.” she said with glee. “I’d do it myself but he’s always so hungry when first awakened.” That’s when he began to scream as tentacles began reaching through walls made membranous by incantations older than man.

“That used to be my Dad’s.” she said to the man as he held the pen.
“How much for it?”
“Five dollars.”

© 2004 Kurt Hammerbeck





SUMGAI
by Sean Simpson

He exhaled slowly, permitting rich smoke to billow languidly about him and his body to soften under the soothing wash of its effects. As he reached to set the pipe back in its ornate holder on the table beside him, he frowned briefly at the interruption to his euphoria from the gentle movement of escape from his breast pocket.

His irritation was just as quickly dispelled by the entrancing green and gold cracked-ice glimmers of celluloid capturing the dim, flickering light of a kerosene lamp, spinning and twisting in space before finally settling against the red and black of the threadbare wool rug below. Retrieving it, he turned it in his hands to watch the mesmerizing kaleidoscope colors gleaming and waning with each movement, and let his mind wander over the topic of his attentions. Fortuitous happenstance he should glance down to notice it amidst the cobble and mud earlier that day, perhaps misplaced by a gentleman exiting his carriage. It would hardly be wonder at that;--the pocket-clip retained only a tentative grip upon the fabric of his own pocket. The cap's tenacity was little to be admired more. Nonetheless, a fine pen was a rare luxury at this time, shortcomings or no.

As if inspired or bidden by his thoughts, the cap tumbled off at that moment to take its place again on the rug, but he ignored it this time to gaze instead at his lamp's bright reflections within the golden nib. In a moment of childish fancy he cut a swath with it above him as if to draw in thin air. His eyebrows furrowed, more surprised by his lack of reaction than by the direct results of his motion, for the red ink issued forth to waver and sway in empty space, delineating the very curve he'd traced. Curiously he tried again, and again new crimson lines flowed out to join the original.

In dreamy detachment he watched his arm, seemingly of its own accord, lend flesh to the figure, thickening the original curve to a body; then limbs danced forth from the pen's golden tip, followed by an ornately tendrilled head. He gazed in bemused satisfaction at the figure, bobbing and glistening but an arm's length above where he reclined, and gave a soft chuckle as he imagined his creation writhing and pawing majestically, when in a lightening move one taloned claw shot out to clutch his throat.

Terror welled in the pit of his stomach as realization sunk in, escaping in but a choked gurgle when the creature's face drew close to his own, its jaws snapping to reveal rows of sharp red fangs. In a vicious swipe it wrenched the pen from his grasp, and he felt the beast plunge it deep into his chest, the very fragment of gold which brought this creature to life now buried deep within his heart. And then he felt it sucking him inward, drawing him flesh and essence within the ink-chamber. His screams sounded distant to his ears, like they belonged to someone else in another world entirely, as he was drawn inexorably into the accursed instrument.

And then he felt himself being slowly bled out again--not whole, but drawn into new images, horrible creatures billowing forth from the pen, his own living essence transformed to eldritch terrors. His screams would no longer come; his existence as he knew it blackened to nothingness while the birth of unknown evil took the place of what was once him... ----

He wiped the sweat from his forehead onto a sleeve. His headache had returned as it always did, and judging from the kerosene level in the lamp some four hours had elapsed since his arrival. He quickly gathered his belongings to leave the cloying opium haze of the den for gas-lit mists of the open night air, unaware of the growing stain on his shirt pocket, a red stain with five irregular streaks whose shape, to a more imaginative eye, might resemble that of a taloned claw.

© 2004 Sean Simpson







Rainbow Megaliths
Wim L.M. Geeraets

The doorbell rang, finally. He had seen the van arrive. Christopher had been waiting in quiet anticipation for this delivery for several days now. Quiet the anticipation might have been, but nerve-wrecking nonetheless. And now, finally, the treasure to complete his latest collection of Limited Edition Pens had arrived.

Opening the front door, he beamed truly at the familiar face of the Global Postal Couriers delivery man. “Hi Tom, been expecting you!” “Another one of your pens?” the question came. “Yes, yes, a rather special one. Do you have time for some coffee? I’ll show it to you, if you like...” “No, not today, unfortunately, still a lot of packages to deliver. Thanks for the offer anyway! Just sign here please.” Tom pointed at the board, and waited for Christopher to get out his signature pen, a Mariner Nitagawa filled with Fisherman’s Black, as he well knew by now. Really neat as he had noticed. The ink didn’t run in the rain, it was waterproof, and that pen had an awesome nib, very impressive, with an overfeed, as Christopher had explained to him. Christopher signed for receipt of the package, and handed the board back to Tom. Saying goodbye, he went hastily indoors again, eager to unwrap the masterpiece.

He quickly walked over to his study corner, at the north end of the lounge, and put the package carefully on the leather covered writer’s desk. First he would get himself another cup of coffee, from the kitchen. He poured some into his favourite NibForum mug, added some milk, and walked slowly back to his desk, lost in thought, musing about this last piece he received. It was the final addition to his own Rainbow Megalith Series collection, the magnificent Red Stonehenge Pen, from Crowne Fine Pens naturally. How fortunate he had been, to get this example in his possession, finally.

The guys from the Fountain Pen Care Centre in New York had come up with it, number 1 of only 30 made, with an original piece of one of the megaliths that made up Stonehenge fashioned into a jewel on the flat top cap, and another piece fitted as an end jewel at the back end of the pen itself.

The Rainbow Megalith series comprised the Violet Avebury Stone Temple Pen, the Indigo Ring of Brodgar Pen, the Blue Callanish Circles Pen, the Green Great Lineations of Carnac Pen, the Yellow Carrowmore Circles Pen, the Orange Piccolo San Bernardo Stone Circle Pen and this one, the Red Stonehenge Pen. And a nice set he had collected: number 1 of 30 Stonehenge, number 2 of 30 Piccolo San Bernardo, number 3 of 30 Carrowmore Circles, and so on, until number 7 of 30 Avebury Stone Temple. This had a special significance to him, as these were in climbing order the seven colours of the rainbow as well, which fitted rather nicely with the name of the series.

He walked over to his Swiss pearwood pen storage cabinet, and opened the third drawer from the top, where the other members of the series were stored. He took them all out, on the tray they were stored in. He carried them back to his desk, and placed them in a circle, clockwise, cap down, from 1 to 7. It was easy to do this, as they were all top heavy, flat top pens with rather large, stone jewels, which were shaped like little cylinders. They really looked eerie, in the semi-shade of his desk corner. And they actually felt warm to the touch. He had never really noticed this before. Also, they seemed to spread a little light, a glow, barely noticeable. Funny, he was quite sure he had not seen this before, either. Well, he realised with a little shock it had not been there before, this effect. Ah, well, it did look rather neat, though.

Christopher had another set from Crowne Fine Pens that was complete and that he was proud of: the Most Venomous Snakes Of The World Limited Edition Series. He felt an urge to have another look at those as well, so he got up and brought them back to the desk too. These fountain pens were covered in real snake leather, from the most venomous and deadly snakes of the world, and they were done in a most exquisite way. They felt almost alive to the touch. It was quite an awesome series, twelve in all, that had taken him as many years to collect: the Inland Taipan or Fierce Snake (Oxyuranus microlepidotus), the Australian or Eastern Brown Snake (Pseudonaja textilis), the Malayan or Blue Krait (Bungarus candidus), the Coastal or Eastern Taipan (Oxyuranus scutellatus), the Tiger Snake (Notechis scutatus), the Beaked Sea Snake (Enhydrina schistosa), the Carpet or Saw Scaled Viper (Echis carinatus), the Eastern or Harlequin Coral Snake (Micrurus fulvius), the African Tree Snake or Boomslang (Dispholidus typus), the (Common) Death Adder (Acanthopis antarcticus), the Black Mamba (Dendroaspis polylepis) and the Green Mamba (Dendroaspis angusticeps).

There were only 49 of each for each edition in the series, so not too many people would have the series complete. They did look a bit eerie, though, because of the way the clips and the caps were done. The clips looked like a single fang, be it with rounded points, but worked in such a way that you had to look twice before you realised they weren’t actually fangs. The caps were done in the general shape of a snake’s head. Of course, this way they were only single fanged snakes, similar to fountain pens normally having a single nib, but the art work was out of this world. As the leather was real, he occasionally felt pangs of guilt, as these snakes had been killed for the sole purpose of creating these pens, and some of these were protected species. Also, in some parts of the world snakes were revered as bringers of luck, or harbingers of eternal life, and killing them was the ultimate sin. Of course, this was also true for the prehistoric cultures that built the megalithic monuments. And the pieces of stone or rock used to create the Megalith Series of pens, very likely were obtained illegally from the ancient sites too.

His housekeeper, Martha Lopez, didn’t particularly like him to let the Snake pens lie around, and the cat of the neighbours tended to start hissing sessions directed at these pens when he encountered them on his visits here. Rather funny, Christopher thought.

Oh yes, Martha. She had reminded him of the sweets and things she had put in the corridor cupboard, near the door, for the kids coming around tomorrow, Halloween. Of course, as usual, he had added a bundle of school fountain pens to hand out as well. However, Martha was visiting family today, and would only return day after tomorrow. So he would have to endure the procession of kids past his door tomorrow night himself. She normally did the honours. He thought it was fun, but it looked like all kids of the entire village ended up at his door during the evening, and it was getting a bit much for him. Couldn’t handle the little busybodies anymore like he used to.

“You’re getting old, Christopher,” he muttered to himself. Yes, and unlike his earlier years, he preferred to go to bed early, and rise early, while he used to do the opposite for many years. He was intent on having an early night anyway, as there was to be a full moon eclipse towards sunrise, and he had set up his telescope to have a perfect view tomorrow morning. Another one of his hobbies. Less costly than pens, he thought, and grinned slightly.

It had been good to have all these hobbies, after his wife had died more than 20 years ago, while visiting Europe. She was the reason he had gotten into collecting the Rainbow Megalith series. Somehow it gave him a path to the past, even if it was a slightly sinful one. She had been an eager student of all these ancient temples of humankind, and had actually died visiting one of them.

He would be on a business trip in Europe, and she would come along, and visit any prehistoric monuments in the nearby area during the day, while he went about his business. This way they still had a lot of time together, while he was on a business trip, in the evenings. Often they stayed on for several days after the official end of his business trips, to enjoy each other’s company in the foreign, exciting and sometimes exotic places his work carried him to.

He longed for those happy days, until he remembered that last trip together again. Switzerland, Geneva, it was. Quite close to the Italian and French borders, yes, very near the Little St. Bernard Pass, or Piccolo San Bernardo. Yes, the same one, from the pen. Obviously she went to visit the stone circle there, or rather, the remains of it. She left early, as she wanted to watch sunrise from between the stones. She never returned, not alive anyway. Police found her there, and it had never become clear whether she had been murdered, or fallen. Death by accident, the verdict was, but he had never been able to believe that. However, none of her belongings had been stolen or even removed, but her blood was found in different places on several of the stones. What a desolate place it was. You’d have to see it to feel the desolation and the eeriness. Knowing his wife had died there, and the feelings the place evoked quite naturally, had made him feel sick and uneasy.

A sudden shiver ran along his spine. Thinking about it, had triggered him into realizing that it had been exactly 21 years ago, Halloween, tomorrow! Another shiver crept up his spine, a chill. Suddenly, at that precise moment, a window blew open, and an icy pre-winter wind made him really shiver. He quickly ran over to the window and shut it. Hmm, Martha probably didn’t close it properly, he thought. With winter just around the corner these things are bound to happen.

With a final shiver he went back to the kitchen, and defrosted and heated up one of the meals Martha had prepared for him earlier this week, especially for this occasion. She had made him some very nice rabbit stew, the one he liked so much. With some potato mash and red cabbage, prepared with real apples. One of his favourites. Some chipolata pudding for dessert, and a nice cup of cappuccino for a perfect finish. He felt a lot better after all that.

Pouring a nice glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, he realized he hadn’t really taken a good look at his latest arrival. He went over to his desk again, and arranged the snake pens in a nice circle around the circle of Megalith pens. Somehow it felt right, although he didn’t comprehend why. He noticed the glow of the Megalith pens again. Each one seemed to radiate a faint light, in the colour of its name, all the colours of the rainbow. Strange that he had never noticed this before, but it was very apt, magical almost.

He took each of the Megalith pens in hand, one by one, and studied them in detail. They were done magnificently, in the great tradition of the best pen makers in the world, following old form rather than new, and each of them a different filler type as well. Bulb, sleeve, crescent, piston, lever, button and hatchet filler, all of these were represented. The people at Crowne Fine Pens had put some serious thinking into the design, that was quite clear. Not a single pen that wasn’t a self filler and needed extra tools for inking up.

Suddenly he noticed that the glow of the pens diminished when he took one from the circle. The realisation felt ominous. He put the pen back. They all seemed to start glowing again, a little more than before. He took another one away. The glowing became less. Back again, stronger glow. A cold sweat took hold of him. What was the meaning of this? He didn’t understand. How was this possible? These pens were fairly simple mechanical devices, nothing there that could really cause this. Wait a minute.... he noticed something similar with the snake pens. When the Megalith pens were aligned in a circle, the snake eyes seemed to light up a bit, as if alive. He lifted a pen from the circle, and the lights in the eyes extinguished. This was worrying, he had only had a single glass of wine, after all.

He got up, in a jerky movement, walked over to the living room part of the den, and got his digital camera from the oak drawer cabinet he used to store, or rather hide, all the digital gadgetry he owned. He found he was shaking. “Steady, steady, old boy,” he muttered under his breath. He managed to think of the mini-tripod as well.

Returning his steps towards the desk, he fastened the camera to the tripod. He didn’t want to use the flash, that would only spoil the effect, if there really was one. Back at the desk he set up the camera, focused manually, and set the timer. He took several photographs this way. The snake pens, with and without a complete Megaliths Series circle, and the Megaliths pens themselves, all in a circle, and one at a time removed from the circle.

It was creepy to see what was happening. Showers of cold shivers, one after the other rolled over his spine now. And checking the photographs only seemed to confirm his perceptions. There was a glow, and it did diminish when the circle wasn’t complete.

What about the snake pens? He took those away, one by one. They only seemed to be influenced by the completeness of the circle. Eyes seemed to light up just a bit with the circle complete, and go dim again when incomplete. Was it just imagination, or did the snakes start feeling warm as well?

He had to stop this, the run-away train of thoughts. He walked away to the living room again, and switched on the sound system. Some Corelli would calm him, he knew it would. He poured himself another glass of wine, and sat down into his preferred listening chair, a nice, comfy lounge chair, old fashioned, handcrafted from the finest, softest Italian leather. You could just lose yourself in it, no problem, especially when enjoying a good piece of well performed music. By the sixth concerto he had calmed down finally, and when it finished the wine in his glass had as well.

A good time to go to bed, he thought. Tomorrow it was going to be early anyway, with the moon eclipse to watch. Slowly he got up. Looking in the direction of his desk it seemed the glow of the pens had become less. He suddenly felt a gush of relief coming over him. Good, maybe it is just something passing, he reflected upon walking towards the bathroom, after he put the glass down, on the kitchen work top.

He felt even more relieved when he finally made it to his bed, and had pulled the duvet right to his chin. He would contact his good friend and fellow pen collector Leo Levine tomorrow, to see if he knew anything about glowing pens. If anybody knew, it would be him. No other person he could think of had such vast knowledge of fountain pens and their history.

Satisfied he had thought of a follow-up action, was very reassuring, and he started to doze off quite easily. However, sleep didn’t want to come. Christopher had one of these very long, seemingly endless nights, where all the events of the day past mixed in with other events of a further past, and just didn’t want to stop. You seem to sleep, but you wake up more tired than ever before. Just a restless doze in the end.

The events of twenty one years ago kept on passing through his mind. It had been an uncomfortable, nasty experience out of this world to him. The Piccolo San Bernardino or Little St. Bernard Pass lies at the exact border between France and Italy, near the Val d’Aosta. At 2188 metres or 7179 feet above sea level, it forms the watershed between the two countries, and a passage through the mountains since prehistoric times. The circle itself is one of the biggest mainland stone circles, and straddles the border between France and Italy. This was one of the problems at the time. Police from several countries were involved, and he didn’t speak either of the languages. The fact that her blood was not found on just one, but several of the stones never had stopped bothering him. As if she had become the sacrifice of some ancient rite. Nobody had ever been able to tell him anything about rites carried out at this place. He walked into walls of silence whenever he tried to gather information about such happenings here. And it was such a desolate place, quite depressing really, putting you on edge.

About half an hour before the alarm went off, he decided to get up. He had had enough of the restless turning and tossing. It was almost time for the eclipse anyway. Christopher got up, and put on his bathrobe and slippers. He walked down the stairs, and switched on the coffee machine he had filled up before he went to bed. The scent and noises of freshly brewing coffee started to fill the kitchen, along with the rather nice, rich warm smell from the bread machine, that had finished its task a while back already. Carefully, he removed the whole wheat dark brown, still warm bread from its container, carved a nice big slice, and buttered it. He poured a cup of coffee, and put it together with the bread on the tray he had bought at a pen show many years ago. Instead of the usual painted still life of food, it displayed pictures of some nice old pens, all wood grains and red ripples, on a dark stained, varnished background of old oak wood. Subtle, and beautiful it was, showing some signs of wear, however. He had to get a new one, at the next show or so, he reminded himself.

Tray in hand he walked over to the conservatory, which connected the lounge with the garden, and where he had positioned his telescope. He would be able to see the whole thing from here, so there was no need to set it up today in the unheated observatory at the back of the garden, where he did most of his star gazing.

It was still dark, so he had some time left. Finishing his coffee, he walked back through the lounge, towards the kitchen, for a refill. Suddenly, the same eerie feeling from yesterday seemed to jump on him, and shivers found their way along his spine again. The air had an electrifying quality to it, like a misty morning when you find yourself close to high tension wires. Goose bumps built up on his arms, spontaneously. Looking towards the study area, he realised the Megalith pens were glowing eerily again, but now it seemed as if there was an undefined glow between the pens as well, whitish light, like some lamp hidden in a cloud right inside the circle. Funny, he thought, white light is made up of the seven colours which designate the pens as well. And the pens were glowing quite clearly now, he noted with a little shock.

He couldn’t help himself, curiosity and fascination drew him to his desk, to see the light and pens more closely. “Look at those snake pens!” he uttered almost aloud. They seemed to have come alive. Was there something wrong with his eyesight? He picked up the Green Mamba from his desk, as it was closest to him. He almost dropped it, as goose bumps got a new lease on life, over his whole body this time. It felt warm to the touch! He could almost feel the thing writhe. Quickly he put it back on the green leather of the desk. And the eyes, the eyes....

Right at that moment the alarm went off, and music began to fill the house. The alarm was connected to the sound system, for a more pleasurable wake up call than the loud siren of a normal alarm clock. Grieg, The hall of the Mountain King from Peer Gynt was playing. When the shock wore off, he walked back, briskly, to the conservatory. The pens had to wait. He first had to observe the eclipse. He went over to the conservatory, quickly. He could see the moon quite clearly, as it was going down, and therefore rather large on the horizon. He opened up the outer doors of the conservatory, and a fresh, rather chilly breeze entered the room. The smell of fresh morning dew reached his nostrils. Fortunately, the air was clear. He focused the telescope on the moon, which really looked magnificent tonight, or rather, this morning. A few more minutes and it should start happening. Christopher fastened the camera, he hadn’t forgotten to grab from the cabinet on his way to the conservatory, to the photo-adapter on the scope, and set it to auto. Ready, let it happen now, he thought.

It started. All of a sudden a dark area was taking a bite from the moon-cheese. As he wanted to have a full set of photographs of everything happening, he had set the timer on the camera to take a picture every 10 seconds, and activated it now by using the remote control. Great, no worry there, it would all go automatically. Funny, never noticed before, he thought, looking through the eye piece. The light reflected from the moon had a rather bright, reddish or orange cast. Maybe because of the impending sunrise. Hmmm, could well be possible, he guessed.

He saw the black disk, the shadow of the Earth, darkening the moon steadily. The red light seemed to increase in intensity. Weird. It would be gone any minute now anyway. And he would have plenty of pictures, he had made sure the memory card was big enough and the batteries had been charged to the brim, enough for several hours of photographs.

His excitement was slowly receding, as he finally saw the moon reappearing. The glow of the reflected light was still red, but now a darker, deeper red. “Almost sunrise?,” he wondered. He looked back into the lounge, and to his astonishment he saw that the whitish blob of light between the Megalith pens had become quite a bit more intense than it was before, in his perception. Like a daylight sixty Watt bulb or so. Funny, how his brain kept functioning rationally, while a feeling of fear had all but overcome him now.

He noticed how the first rays of sunlight started to creep up the window on the east side of the lounge and study. Hesitatingly at first, it seemed, but now it broke through properly, as if it was getting proper hold of the day, like a mountain climber overcoming an edge. The beam of light slowly crept over the floor, towards the desk, where all the pens were still standing like he had set them, in a circle. He held his breath as he stood glued to the ground. Fear was really choking him now. He started to realize what might follow ... Wave after wave of shivers rolled over his spine.

There: the light had reached the side of the desk, it slowly crept up, towards the pens, it hit the pens...

A deafening sound struck his ears, a thunder clap, as an intense light beam rose up from the centre of the circle, straight up, like a lightning strike, straight through the ceiling, up, whereto? And now, what was that? The glowing aura between the pens, was extending itself! It was creeping towards the snake pens, enveloping them now, and... What was happening now? Those pens, they looked like coming to live, yes, oh no, they did!

Twelve snakes were slithering off the desk, what could he do now? Suddenly he noticed they were coming for him, good gracious. An adrenaline rush hit him virtually at the same time he realised what was happening, and this finally broke the spell.

Run, run, was all he could think off, and rushed into the garden, through the open doors of the conservatory. He wished he had dressed properly, rather than just the darn bathrobe and slippers. Oh no, he stepped on the hem of the robe, and stumbled, fell, oh, get up, get up. He managed to rise before the snakes got to him, and rushed on towards the rock garden, and his little observatory at the end. Maybe he could reach that before they reached him, and lock the door behind him.

Oh, the stones were slippery, careful, the dew, oh no. He went down a second time. Before he could get up one of the snakes got him, the black mamba. He tried to hit it, away, but too late, he felt its one fang penetrating his leg while he got up. No, no, he screamed, while he finally reached the observatory. The door knob, it didn’t turn! He forgot, he locked it last week, after bringing the telescope into the house, no, no, noooo ...

__________


The Newtown Observer
November 3

Death of local pen collector Mr. C. Humboldt, best known in our community as a slightly eccentric pen collector and retired business man, was found dead November, 1, in

the back of his garden, by his housekeeper, Mrs. M. Lopez. Autopsy indicated he suffered a heart attack, after his house had been struck by lightning.
A bolt had seemingly penetrated the living room. Mr. Humboldt was found surrounded by some fountain

pens, artefacts of his main hobby and interest. He joins his wife, who passed away 21 years before him to the day.
Mr. Humboldt was a respected member of the community, who contributed a great deal to education and the schools in the area, with


Alan Persimmons was reading the newspaper. Yes, he had done the autopsy. A massive coronary had killed the good man. The circumstances were a bit strange, though. Mr. Humboldt had been found the day before yesterday, by his housekeeper, Mrs. Lopez, in the back of his garden, at the door of the little observatory he had built there, dead. He looked like he had seen the devil or something. He was surrounded by a dozen pens, weird ones, like covered in snake skin. Also strange was the hole in the ceiling, in the house, right above the desk in the house. It looked like lightning had struck, straight through the roof, but it had stopped right at the desk. There were some burn marks, surrounded by a bunch of funny old fountain pens. He didn’t live far from Mr. Humboldt’s abode, and Alan had remembered hearing a single clap of thunder early in the morning of the thirty-first, around sunrise or so, as it had awakened him. It had been very loud indeed. However, the air had been clear, no thunderstorm had been raging at all. Not a single raindrop either. Rather unusual.

One weird thing that had really struck him, were the very recent puncture marks or something in Mr. Humboldt’s skin. He had found a dozen such single marks, looking like they were made with a fat needle of sorts. These punctures all seemed to have some colorant injected as well, maybe ink or so, as they appeared water soluble. Some weird sort of tattoo, maybe, he didn’t know.

But there was no sign of foul play. He had found the evidence of a massive heart attack. It would have caused fright, a lightning strike in the middle of one’s house, and maybe this had contributed to the heart attack. He did not think the pens or the punctures had anything to do with it. Strange, though, that he had taken these pens into the garden with him...


© 2004 Wim L.M. Geeraets
aka the Mad Dutchman



Disclaimer:
All persons, events and objects in this story are fictional and any resemblance to events, objects and persons living, dead or inanimate, is purely coincidental. No animals were harmed or mistreated in any way for the production of this fictitious prose.