13 Chilling Tales

AuthorHouse

Contents

Chapter One What you see isn't always what you get.............................3Chapter Two Night of the Howler................................................12Chapter Three Be careful what you wish for.....................................24Chapter Four Don't believe everything you see..................................33Chapter Five More than a game..................................................42Chapter Six It's not whether you win or lose ... or is it?.....................56Chapter Seven Favorite Things..................................................65Chapter Eight Justice is Served................................................77Chapter Nine A Matter of Time..................................................87Chapter Ten Believe Everything You Read........................................97Chapter Eleven Welcome To the Redfield Hotel...................................111Chapter Twelve Live and Let Live...............................................123Chapter Thirteen We Only Kill What We Eat......................................132Bonus A Real nonfiction Ghost Story?...........................................145

Chapter One

Kevin walked through the flea market looking about intensely, as if he were a cat stalking his prey. What he was searching for, he didn't quite know, but he knew there was something there waiting for him to come and find it. Once a month an open market was held, where vendors from all over the county could display and sell everything from antique furniture to swizzle sticks. As he passed each table, he scanned the contents. He saw things that brought back memories, as old toys and even jelly jars initiated immediate images of days gone by. But nostalgia was not all that he was searching for; Kevin felt the anticipation of discovering an unknown treasure that he knew was there, but couldn't yet identify.

Within his mind, he imagined something very old, rare, and in nice condition, to display on his desk. He wanted something that made the statement that he appreciated antiques. A subtle conversation piece that would inform the world that he was deeper than just a "suit" stationed at a desk. It might be an old clock, or a pen set, or possibly an antique paper weight, but whatever it was, it would make a statement that he had more interests than what was on the surface.

He watched in amazement as hoards of people moved swiftly from table to table, booth to booth, grabbing up magazines, plates, radios, bottles, and everything else, as if there was a shortage of old, used objects on this five acre parking lot, which was filled to capacity with hundreds of tables. He felt as if he was the only one who wasn't sure why he was there, as he brushed against people carrying armloads of their perceived treasures.

Then, he spotted it—something that caught his eye and sparked his curiosity. It was a small wooden box, maybe four inches square, about the size in which you would store a few articles of jewelry. It was intricate, with hand carved inlays across the top. There was no question that it was very old. He moved in toward the table and picked it up, pretending to have only a passing interest. Immediately, he noticed that it was locked. "Do you have a key to this old box?" he asked the man sitting behind the table. Almost disinterested, the man replied, "Nah, what you see is what you get." The man then reached over and examined it, as if he, himself, was seeing it for the first time. "Hmmmmm," he mumbled.

As the old guy handled the box, Kevin scrutinized him. Appearing older than his years, the man's face held the tracks of a hard life, with the sunken eyes of an alcoholic. With only about half his teeth, the other half were so rotted that they looked to be almost painful. His clothes looked lived in for a week, and made him appear as an old, homeless bum. 'What a crappy life, just surviving by selling this stuff,' Kevin thought. The old man handed Kevin the box and either smiled or grimaced, as Kevin could not tell the difference.

"As is, it would make a classy paper weight, wouldn't it?" the old man responded.

"How much?" Kevin probed.

"Well, with no key, how about six bucks?"

"Where did you get it?" Kevin asked.

The old man smiled. "Hell, I can't remember where I got every item. Could have been a house sale, or auction, or garage sale—who knows?" Looking behind the old man, Kevin observed a whole camper trailer, filled with junk.

Kevin thought about it for a minute and replied, "How about five?" The old man behind the table picked it up and shook it, confirming it was empty. He quickly responded, "Sold."

He handed the old man a $5 bill, and observed that his hands were filthy and scarred. The old man smiled as he put the money in his cash box. Kevin felt a bit sorry for him, and looked the table over to possibly find another item to purchase, as he felt the old guy really needed more money. Although his camper was filled with junk, his table was almost bare, and Kevin saw nothing else of interest. So he thanked the man and moved on.

He cradled the box, and realized he now resembled all the other people hugging their treasures. As he walked, he studied the box, and decided it appeared as if it were imported. 'Perhaps English,' he thought. There was no doubt that displayed on his desk, it would be noticed as antique, and become a conversation piece. He was thirty-eight years old and single. Although he dated, there was no serious relationship in his life. He spent his days sitting at a desk as a loan officer. His professional life was completely spent in an office building, isolated at his desk, staring at a vast sea of cubicles.

Maybe this little box would help him maintain an identity in his sterile world of suits and paper pushers. At 5'10", he was not short and was not tall, and was slightly overweight at 180. He seemed the stereotype of every banker or broker, with a receding hairline, carrying an attaché case, and hustling to and from the office. At times, he wondered if his education had been worth the dividend. In his office he evaluated loan applications and stamped them either approved or not. With only a few distant friends and no immediate family, his life was spent almost entirely on his career. So taking work home was almost a must, as, except for television, it gave him something to do.

His life was lonely, and in this day and age of superficial evaluations, Kevin was at a disadvantage. He was a good man with no vices, but plain as white rice. He was the one sitting at the bar that no one noticed. He was not quick with words, so he had no great opening lines for meeting women. Much of his time was spent alone. He felt he was doomed to be a solitary man.

He lived in an upscale apartment, where neighbors rarely even said 'hello,' as they passed each other in the halls. Most were professionals, absorbed in their work. Their strongest relationship was with their cell phones, as they would travel the hall conversing to what appeared to be nothing, oblivious to those around them.

Once home, he sat on the couch, studying the box. He wondered to whom it had belonged to. Could they have been rich? Could it have been a king? He shook it and it seemed empty, as there was no sound from inside. But,...