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"After seeing a Flash movie entitled "The Hitchhiker" on the web, I followed the link to a creepy tower full of scary stories, fantastic characters, and dark rooms haunted by the sounds of chanting. Such an eerie atmosphere has always appealed to me as a writer, so when I saw that a story competition was underway, I wanted to capture that same mood. So I left the chanting sounds looping in the background on my computer, and proceeded to write this story, using the required words as sign posts to guide me. I hope you enjoy it."

- Runner up, Mark A Pitts

"He Hangs in Red"

by Mark A Pitts

Early do the warnings come,

Year to year they grow,

Iron rusts and flesh decays,

Time gets soft, you know.

Break the walls and wish you were blind…

It was going to be a routine inspection. Kurt and I had left the office at 10am to make sure that the morning rush-hour was over and the highway would be manageable. We made good time, but it was still late afternoon before we reached the old monastery. Nestled into the wooded hills south of the city, the Monastery of Saint Ache the Vigilant had a history spanning over 800 years. Originally built by a gentle brotherhood for the living and contemplation of their faith, the structure had since been put to many other uses. In the 18 th Century, the place had become a center for learning and philosophy. During the war, it had served as a make-shift hospital for the wounded and dying. Nowadays, the monastery was an historical attraction with hundreds of visitors per month. The monastery was ancient and beautifully designed, but it was also falling apart. It was doomed to crumble unless we could prevent it.

Early…

“We should’ve left early,” Kurt said as we exited the truck. I decided not to remind him that he was the one who had suggested we wait-out the morning commute. We had been friends a long time, and I could tell when he said one thing but meant another. This monastery gave him the creeps, and he wanted to do as much of the inspection in the light of day as possible. Unfortunately, the Sun was already nearing the western horizon, a pale yellow disc casting a muted light over the tree-crowned hills. The monastery itself was a dark grey color that seemed to swallow the light that fell upon its walls. Unlike Kurt, I thought it was an eerily beautiful sight.

As we gathered our equipment, Kurt tossed me a flashlight. This whole place was lighted of course, but better to be safe than sorry. As the wind picked up, we passed the front archway into the courtyard. The grounds were clean but barren, save for some clumps of weeds and a small bunch of blue forget-me-nots growing near the front entrance. The doors themselves were rust-covered and about three meters high. Arcing over them were words in a language unfamiliar to me. Approaching the great iron doors, a gust of wind caught the flowers and caused them to bow woefully towards us. For whatever reason, that was the first time I felt that this would not be a routine inspection after all.

Year…

“A year at least, Jake,” Kurt said as we entered the main hall, the doors creaking loudly as they swung inward. “I can tell you that right now. It’ll take at least that long just to secure the supports.” I turned on my flashlight as Kurt hunted for the light-switch. The windows high above threw shadows of (now orange) sunlight onto the stone floor, but they did little to brighten the room. My beam passed over tapestries of abstract patterns and glass cases holding the monastery’s treasures: old books, wooden goblets, and empty vials. As I stood there, regarding the exhibits, I suddenly realized that Kurt was no longer in the hall, and the lights were still off. Feeling a little anxious, I called out his name twice, but received no reply other than the hollow echo of my own voice. Walking towards the back of the hall, I could see that the door to the cellar was open. Thinking that Kurt had gone down to check the fuses, I headed towards the staircase. Once there, I began to hear strange sounds. One moment, it seemed like some kind of low-pitched chanting in a strange tongue. Then, a clanging noise and a sound that reminded me of turning gears.

Iron…

“Wheels of iron,” I said to myself, not knowing why I had said it. More curious than frightened, I carefully descended the creaking stairs. More sounds now emerged from the dark. I was not one to scare easily, but the first pangs of real fear were beginning to swell in my gut. The chanting continued, soft but droning. In one terrifying instant, I heard a distant, agonizing cry; one that pierces through your skull and rakes at your mind. Desperately, I called out Kurt’s name, and again there was no answer. I had to go back. The staircase seemed way too deep for one that was just supposed to go to the cellar. Turning around, I swung my flashlight beam back up the stairs. The light fell upon the robes of a monk, the hooded man standing tall and perfectly still. I opened my mouth, but I couldn’t shout. Without thinking, I moved my light toward his face. The light illuminated the back of the monk’s hood. He had no head.

That snapped me out of my stupor. I cried out in terror and ran down the stairs in a panic. I didn’t even realize it when my feet touched the earthen floor and my nose was assaulted by the smell of dank and decay. The sounds of grinding metal and pain-filled screams were loud now, surrounding me, closing in. A pair of arms caught me and I tried to fight them off.

Time…

“Whoa! Time-out, Jake, it’s me!” Kurt exclaimed as he tried to calm me down. After a few minutes, my breathing had slowed, and in an angry voice I asked Kurt why he was down in the cellar and why he hadn’t answered my calls earlier. Kurt replied that he had gone down to check the electrical system, and he had never heard me call. Looking around, I could see that we were standing in a small, dry room with a fuse box on the far wall. I asked Kurt if he had noticed anything strange, and with a worried expression, he explained that he couldn’t find anything wrong with the wiring. The lights just wouldn’t turn on. Also, he had felt that someone was watching him as he checked the fuse box. Needless to say, it didn’t take us long to decide that we could finish the inspection tomorrow.

Making our way back up the (small) staircase, we had just reached the top when our flashlights died. My breathing became heavy, and I noticed that the front doors were now shut. Blood-red light oozed in from the windows above, and in the near-darkness I could just make out a group of shaded figures. Horrified, I tried to move away from the dark shapes, but Kurt stood rigid. I called out to him. He didn’t move. As the figures got closer, I could see that their clothes were tattered. At last, one of them staggered into the light of the dying sun, and a hideously mutilated face turned in my direction. Its swollen eyes were stapled shut.

Break…

“Night breaks into Night,” said a quivering voice that chilled my soul. The walking corpse did not open its mouth, but I knew that it was the one who had spoken. I couldn’t wait for Kurt any longer. I turned and ran as fast as I could. A door took me up a spiraling set of stairs. As I ran, I could feel the corpses following me, beckoning me to turn back. I was about to collapse from exhaustion when I stumbled out onto the top of a high wall that ringed the monastery. With my lungs on fire and my face streaked with tears, I looked around in terrified awe.

The heavens were completely red. The once thick forest of green that encircled the monastery was now a blasted wasteland, with only a few clumps of charred trees. As my eyes took in this impossible sight, I noticed the shape of a gallows silhouetted against the crimson sky. A man had been hung, and the body was swaying quietly in the wind. Against what will I had left, I was drawn towards the hanging man. Nearing the body, I was not surprised to see Kurt’s head within that crooked noose. And as I looked at his dead face, the eyes turned to me and I could see…. Oh God, I could see!

...

I don’t know how I escaped the monastery, but the next thing I remember was waking up in the driver’s seat of the truck in the bright light of morning. Kurt was nowhere to be found, and I never saw my friend again. Even now, I hesitate to think back on that day at the Saint Ache Monastery. However, sometimes late at night, I will hear those horrible sounds again. Hell pays me a visit, and I begin to write.

Break, dread wheels, and turn no more,

Time holds what you seek,

Iron is hot and flesh is cold,

Year to year, they speak.

Early this eve, he hangs in red…

-Jacob Hassel