Ravenous Ghosts
Authors: Kealan Patrick Burke
Ravenous Ghosts
Kealan Patrick Burke
Amazon
Edition
Copyright 2010 by Kealan Patrick Burke
All stories copyright ©2003/2004 by Kealan Patrick Burke
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In Memory of Jack Cady (1932 – 2004)
TABLE OF CONTENTS
The Barb
ed Lady Wants For Nothing
Th
e Man Who Breaks The Bad News
Jack Cady
'
Nightmare' is a much-overused word in the Horror genre: thus, when true nightmares emerge one fumbles for an adequate combination of words to allow 'nightmare' its full meaning. One such combination is surely
Ravenous Ghosts
. These stories by Kealan Patrick Burke are, most certainly, short and jolting nightmares. I don't ever want to dream this kind of stuff, nor would anyone else mildly sane, I think; including Burke.
And, since no one, including Burke, actually wants to dream such stuff, the thoughtful reader has to ask where it
's coming from. Obviously it's coming from an imagination, and a context. The imagination is Burke's, the context is the horror genre, and at that point one falters. That's not enough explanation, because the stories rise above the genre in the most unusual fashion. They actually have to do with actions, and consequences.
How different this is from what usually happens in the horror genre. I am sick, from the back-of-my-eyes to six-inches-under-my-toes of stories about stuff that
'just happens'. I am, for example, deadly tired of unexplained monsters appearing in shopping centers, where no one has really done anything to deserve confronting a monster. I am bored with vampires searching for the sacred bloodline of the Virgin Mary, simply because they are meanies. I am, quite frankly, 'up-to-here' with most of the genre, since it attains to nothing greater than warmed-up Hollywood. Or, to put it in concrete terms, the genre is rife with cheap shots. Or, to put it in even more concrete terms, the message is not that Evil exists, but that b.s. exists.
Since no nightmare is ever a cheap shot, but rather a message from the subconscious, these stories command interest (from both writer and reader). They deal with consequences. They even deal with conscience.
I especially liked
From Hamlin To Harperville
where the Pied Piper of Hamlin seeks redemption and makes a grim choice. He has, you see, been out-and-about in the world, and has learned about children. He knows that he once, metaphorically, visited a wrong address, and, no matter what the cost, is not about to go back.
Or, perhaps, I like
Haven
best, because it takes on a knowledge of the existence of Evil. Evil steps out of history, as if unburdened by history, and a fearful past becomes the present as well as the probable future. Evil, in
Haven
is not a casual look at darkening horror; it is horror.
In
The Barbed Lady Wants For Nothing
an awful and immediate future appears in the pages of a comic book. It would not have appeared had the reader not been engaged in robbery. In
Editor's Choice
a man pays a dreadful price for the sin of pride, i.e. listening only to his ego; thus failing to learn anything. In
Not While I'm Around
a woman loses her husband, loses hope, and loses a way of life because of denial.
Stories such as these come not only from imagination and context, but from the subconscious of a writer whose interests are not content with an easy road. They are in the tradition of true horror, the kind where, if you search for the unforgivable sin as in
Ethan Brand
, or commit murder as in
The Black Cat
, retribution follows.
There is, as in Poe if not Hawthorne, an Old World touch to these stories. They come from a modern and educated mind with origins in a mythic background. Burke was born and raised in Ireland. The context of these stories is not so much American or Irish, as expressive of Occidental history and experience. There is nothing Eastern, here; no balancing of good and evil. Instead, there
's an awareness of the Dark: of that which lies in the subconscious of the western mind. Poe understood horror in that context. So, obviously, does Burke.
I have Bentley Little to thank for this one. After reading his short story collection, entitled appropriately enough "The Collection", I found myself itching to write a story that didn't encumber itself with the burden of having to explain everything. It ties in with an idea that is pervasive in a lot of my work: Not everything happens for a reason.
Grant looked at the clock on the dashboard and sighed.
Almost midnight.
He had hoped to be home by now but the conference had gone on a lot longer than scheduled. Worse still, he'd driven two hundred miles to learn nothing new except it was a bad idea to drive two hundred miles for a conference. His boss had been all smiles and friendly shoulder thumps, raising his eyebrows as the cream of the commercial advertising crop entered the room, carrying sleek briefcases and disarming smiles. While his boss had exuded enthusiasm, Grant had found the representatives from AmeriCom smug and condescending. By the torpid applause that greeted their demonstrations, he figured he was not alone in this opinion.
As the hood of the car devoured the blacktop, he rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger and yawned loudly. Like a bad dream, home seemed dimensions away and getting no closer.
He thumbed on the radio and listened to confused static before the bright neon light of a gas station sailed over the horizon through the darkness, beckoning to him with its promise of company like a brightly lit island to a shipwrecked sailor. He took the turn-off and pulled up to the first pump on the way in. Through the security glass set at the far right end of the low squat building opposite the pumps sat the attendant, busy reading a magazine and nodding his head to some distant tune.
Grant filled the car, stretched his aching muscles, and made his way over to the window. He had to tap on the glass to get the attendant
's attention, but when finally the guy looked up, Grant was struck with a peculiar sense of déjà vu.
"
Hey, sorry about that," the attendant said cheerfully and fixed him with dark, glittering eyes. "The gossip columns in these things are awesome. Makes me feel a whole lot better about any strange habits I might have, y'know?" His laughter sounded like cogs grinding together.
Grant couldn
't shake the feeling of familiarity, not with the situation itself, but of the boy's face. Where had he seen him before?
"
Do I know you?" he asked, studying his face more closely as the guy leaned forward to retrieve Grant's money card from beneath the protective window.
The attendant frowned and smiled at him as he conducted the t
ransaction. "I don't think so. Are you from around here?"
"
No. Ohio."
"
I have cousins in Ohio. Columbus. The Greenwoods?"
Grant nodded.
"That's probably it. Small world isn't it?"
The attendant nodded and slid the card back to him.
"And getting smaller."
Grant considered asking him what he meant by that but decided he was too exhausted to hear the explanation. He thanked the attendant and went back to his car.
As he drove away, he looked in the rearview mirror and saw the guy finger wave at him before the road pulled the station out of view.
The odd feeling of recognition persisted, nagging at his brain like a piece of meat snagged in his teeth.
He was certain he had met the guy before. But where? And when?
You
're tired
, his mind told him and he had to concede that this was probably the case. He turned up the radio and blinked invisible grains of sand from tired eyes.
Static hissed like an enraged basilisk and he stabbed the off button, squirming in his seat and wishing he were home. Frances had said she
'd wait up for him but that had been before the conference had run two hours over schedule, thanks in no small part to those AmeriCom jerks, who had instead of apologizing for the delay, blabbered on and on about 'crowded skies and private jets'.
He resolved to call Frances from the next payphone he met, even if it meant waking her. She wouldn
't mind and he needed to hear her voice if for no other reason than to help him shrug off the uneasy feeling sticking to his skin since leaving the gas station.
The image of the attendant waving at him came rushing back and he floored the accelerator, suddenly anxious to put as much distance between himself and the gas station as possible.
The clock read 12:23. At this speed he would make it home in less than an hour unless something stopped him.
And that something manifested itself as a sudden wail behind him. Startled, he looked in the rearview mirror and groaned. Splashes of red and blue lit up the car
's interior as a police cruiser inched closer to his fender.
"
Damn it," he moaned, and pulled over.
The clock told him ten minutes had passed before the state trooper tapped on his window.
"Morning, sir."
"
Good morning, officer."
The trooper looked uncharacteristically friendly despite his imposing height. A miniature network of laugh lines radiated out from beneath his dark glasses and his mouth looked like he seldom wore it angrily.
Dark glasses at night?
"
License and registration please, sir."
Grant handed it over.
"Was I speeding?"
"
'Fraid so. This is a fifty mile an hour zone right here."
"
How fast was I going?"
"
Sixty-five."
"
Oh...sorry."
"
Just a moment please," the trooper said calmly and walked back to his car. Grant muttered a curse and watched the trooper returning to the cruiser in the mirror on the driver door.
If he was lucky he
'd get a ticket, but who knew how tough the cops were out in the sticks. He'd heard stories but now was not the time to give them credence. He was unsettled enough already. Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and whispering a prayer, he watched the trooper consulting with his partner.
And his eyes widened.
The guy from the gas station.
At least he
looked
like the same guy. Through the windshield of the cop car, Grant couldn't be sure. The man's face was lit only by the green light from the computer display in the cruiser's dashboard. His doubt was overruled by another jolt of déjà vu, this time almost physically painful as it prickled its way across his scalp and down the back of his neck.
After what seemed like hours, the trooper standing outside the car nodded once and walked casually back to Grant
's vehicle.
"
I'm going to have to write you a ticket, Mr. Wendell."
Grant licked his lips.
"I understand. Can I ask you a question?"
