Funday Fiction #1-The Red Man

Funday Fiction are days where I will be posting up random stories that I have written over the years on here for you, the readers, to get a little taste of what my writing style is like. I just like to have people read my stories for fun and entertainment. I like to know what people thought about my stories, what they like and didn't like. Things that can be improved and all that jazz.
So,without further ado. Here is my first story I'm posting up called, The Red Man.

Have you ever heard of him?

He has many names.

The Red Man, the Man in Red, the Blood Man, the Man in Blood…

 They say once you dream of the blood at night and see the red in day, you’re marked

 Once you think of the Red Man, the Man in Red, the Blood Man, the Man in Blood, you’re plagued

  But once you hear the Mourning Whispers, you’re the Red Man’s next victim

  But once you see the Red Man, The Man in Red, The Blood Man, the Man in Blood, your life has already ended.

It occurred to me that I instantly knew I wanted to be like my father, because when I was nine, I saw my first ghost.

            My father and I were raking leaves in the cemetery where he’d worked for years as the caretaker. It was late autumn, just in time to bring out the sweaters and heavy coats for Winter, but on that particular evening, there was a noticeable bite to the air as the sun dipped beyond the horizon. A mild breeze carried the scent of murky, wet earth, and as the wind picked up, fallen leaves twirled in the air. A flock of birds took flight from the treetops and glided like a dark storm cloud across the pale blue sky.

            I put a hand over my eyes to watch them. When my gaze dropped, a freezing chill engulfed me. I saw him in the distance. He stood underneath the dying, dropping branches of the oak tree, lurking in the shadows. The gold light slipped through the tress, casting a glow on the space around him. I wondered for a moment if he was a mere figment of my imagination. The gold light started to fade, he became more defined, and his features were slightly visible. He was old, even more old than Papa, with light colorless hair, brushing the collar of his dark suit coat. He had light colorless eyes that seem to burn with an inner flame.

            Papa was bent to his work as the rake moved steadily over the leaves, he said under his breath, “Don’t look at him.”

            I turn in surprise and blink.  “You see him, too?”

            “Yes, I see him. Get back to work, please.”         

            “But who is-“

            “I said don’t look at him!”

His raised tone stunned me. I could count on one hand the number of times he’d ever raised his voice at me. Now that he done so, without provocation, made me instantly tear up.

            “Theo…”

            There was regret in his voice and what later to come to realize, was pity in his eyes.

            “I’m sorry, Theo. I didn’t  mean to make you upset, but its important that you do as I say. You mustn’t look at him,” he said in a softer tone. “any of them.”

            “Is he a-“

            “Yes.”

Cold heaviness bites the atmosphere, and I saw my white breath puff into the air before evaporating. Something was lurking close and the coldness touched my back, and it was all I could do to keep my gaze trained on the ground and not at what stood behind me.

            “Papa,” I whispered. I always called him this. He always seemed very old to me, even though he was not yet fifty. For as long as I can remember, his face had been heavily lined and weathered, like dried cracked mud, and his shoulders drooped from years of bending over graves.

            I loved him with every fiber of my nine-year old being. He and Momma were my whole world. Or had been until that moment.

            I saw something shift in Papa’s face and then his eyes slowly closed briefly. He laid aside our rakes and placed his hand on the top of my head.

            “Let’s rest for a moment,” he said with a sigh.

            We sat on the ground, our backs to the ghost as we watched the setting sun. The remaining light was still warm on my face, even though I couldn’t stop shivering.

            “Who is he?” I finally whisper, unable to bear the silence any longer.

            “I don’t know.”

            “Why can’t I look at him?”

            “You don’t want him to know that you can see him?”

            “Why not?” I picked up a twig and poked it through a dead leaf, spinning it like a pinwheel between my fingers. “Why not, Papa?”

            “It’s because what they want more out of anything else is to be apart of our living world again. They’re like parasites; drawn to our energy, feeding off our warmth and life. The dead is dangerous, Theo. If they know you can see them, they’ll cling to you like blood-thirsty leeches. They'll haunt you forever.”

            I didn’t know if I completely understand what he told me, but the idea of being haunted  both terrified and thrilled me.

            “Not everyone can see them,” he continued “for those of us who can, there are certain precautions we must take in order to protect ourselves and those around is. Don’t look at them, don’t speak and don’t let them sense your frear. Even when they touch you.”

            A chill climbed over me. “They touch you?”

            “Sometimes they do. Some more than others, yes.”

            “And you can feel it?”

            He drew in a breath. “Yes. You can feel it, and it’s painful. Don’t ever let them touch you, understand?”

            I threw the stick away and pulled up my knees, wrapping my arms tightly around them. Somehow, even in my young age, I was calm on the outside. But my insides were filling with dread.

            Silence once again found its way between us, except the bristling of dying leaves around us. Papa’s voice finally broke the silence, startling me to have his attention. “You should always keep your distance from those who are Haunted and Possessed.”

            “Possessed?” I perk. “Like…demons? They actually exist?”

            “Yes. They really exist. But its important for you to know that if they seek you out, turn away from them for they constitute a terrible threat and cannot be trusted. But its getting late. We should probably head home before your Mother starts to worry.”

            “Can Momma see them?”

            “Yes. But you cannot tell her that you can.”

            “Why not?”

            “We want you to have a normal childhood as possible. It’s too dangerous, especially if you’re with us. But this has to be our secret, just between you and me. When you’re older, you’ll understand. For now, just do your best to follow the rules I told you and everything will be fine. Can you do that?”

            “Yes, Papa.” But even as I promised, it was all I could do to keep glancing over my shoulder.

            The breeze picked up and the chill deepened inside me. Somehow, without turning, the old ghost had drifted closer. Papa knew it, too. I could feel the tension as he murmured, “Just remembered what I told you.”

            “I will, Papa.”

            The ghost’s frigid breath feathered down my back of my neck and the pungent odor of murky swamp water and decay filled my senses. I closed a hand over my nose and mouth and started to tremble. I couldn’t help myself.

            “Cold?” my father asked in his normal breath. He wasn’t concealing his noses like I was. He was probably use to the stinky smell. “Well, it’s getting to be that time of the year. Summer can’t last forever.”

            Papa pulled me to my feet with him. The ghost skittered away even further, then slowly floated back.

            “We should be getting home. Your mother is cooking a mess of lasagna tonight.” He picked up the rakes and hoisted them over his shoulder.

            “And corn potato chowder?” I ask, though my choice was hardly louder than a whisper.

            “I expect so. Come on, I want to show you the work of the gravestones in the cold cemetery. I know how you love the angels.”

            He took my hand and squeezed my fingers in reassurance. The ghost followed, unable to get any closer than a foot. By the time we reached the old section, Papa had already pulled the key from his pocket. But something else caught my attention. It appeared to be a simple knife with a glowing blue crystal jewel embedded in the butt of the black handle followed by four crafted finger groves. The blade was sheathed in a black leather case that hung loosely against his hip. I could feel slow, vibrating pulses coming from the knife.

            I reach out to touch it and the glowing blue crystal, but Papa’s hands restricted me from doing so.

            “Don’t touch it,” he says, a hint of warning in his tone.

            “Why not? What is it?” It was obviously a knife, but from the slow, vibrating pulses and glowing blue gem, it was something else, too.

            “You see how it’s glowing?  Whenever there is a good ghost, the crystal will turn blue, and if there’s a bad ghost, it turns red. And, it’s protecting us.”

             I tilt my head and squint. “How?”

            “That ghost isn’t getting any closer to us because the knife is making them stay away.”

            I stare at the knife as Papa turn the lock and the heavy iron gate creakily swung open.

            We stepped through the cemetery and suddenly I wasn’t afraid anymore. My newfound courage emboldens me. I pretended to trip and when I bent to tie my shoe laces, I glanced back. The old ghost hovered a few feet away. It was obvious he was unable to advance any closer, and I couldn’t help but give a childish smirk.

            When I straightened, I glanced up at Papa.

            “I want to be ghost-hunter, Papa. Just like you. Will you teach me?”

            Papa looked down at me, kindness returned in his brown eyes, laughing as he ruffled my hair. “We’ll see."

As the childhood memory faded away, I found it hard to concentrate while driving because the woman in the passenger seat kept staring at me. I immediately knew what I got myself into as soon as I picked her up. The phrase of “Beware the hitchhiker!” flashed through my mind as I did so. The thing is about this little situation was that she wasn’t a hitchhiker. Well, not an ordinary one, anyway.

            The dripping, pale colorless hair was the dead giveaway, and so were the tendrils of black veins pulsing slowly across her blue-white skin. Shiny black eyes of tar. And the way the occasional shiver and twitches would occur in her neck, hands and feet. She looked as if she was having a seizure.

            The woman is mostly seen wondering the Metal Mill Bridge, surrounded by shallow river water, a never-ending highway, and a whole lot of trees. Unsuspecting drivers probably pick her up out of pity, worry, and curiosity, thinking she is lost and in need help.

            “My child is in severe danger, you must help me!” she said with desperation in her voice, like she was going to fail on helping her endangered child if we didn’t get there soon. The soft drip, drip gets to me, and I glance over to see that there was a small puddle of water expanding beneath of her bare, pale feet. Not only was that but the seat she was sitting in was getting soaked. And this isn’t even my car!

            “I will help you, “I say as calm as possible.

            “You must hurry, please!” she says, her voice heightening an octave.

It was then when I felt it. I always felt it; the soft hum and dull, throbbing vibrating sensation against my right leg. Taking a swift glance down, the outline was a slow pulsing bright blue of my spiked Bowie knife. It was telling me that the woman beside me was a harmless one, but knowing from experience, that can change at any moment if she decides to attack.

“I will help you as much as I can,” I tell her, glancing at the water-dripping woman who resumed staring at me. Once again, the silence became eerie. A slow curve was taken around the corner of the dark, somewhat haunting highway. I let my foot slowly ease off the gas. The Metal Mill Bridge was just five miles ahead.  “Just taking safety precautions,” I said aloud, as if I had to force the words out. “Driving at night is dangerous, who know what might run across the road or...jump off it...”

            I realized that I shouldn’t have said that. At any moment now, she would try to exit the car and disappear. Reappear and attack. Ghosts were pretty sneaky like that. Before that happens, I had to find a way to kill the poor woman. But she was already dead. I went past the speed limit of thirty, killing the speedometer over fifty—too fast for her to consider of jumping out and disappearing, but with whatever ghosts do, you can never be too sure.

Working fast, I reached down to take my blade out from under the leg of my jeans, the blade pulsing welcomingly in my hand, and that’s when I see the familiar outline of the Metal Mill Bridge. Right on cue, the woman shrieks and lunges for the steering wheel, jerking it to the right. I jerk it back straight and fumble to slam my foot on the break. The sound of rubber burning against asphalt stings my ears, and out of the corner of my eye I see that the woman’s face was changing, and at the same time, so was the pulse and heat of my blade.

Dripping, colorless hair wet hair began to rain black water. Her oil eyes, skull and face were embedded with sharp, jagged rocks and pebbles. Filling up with a darker substance, running thick, slow and black from the openings of her mouth, nose, eyes, and ears like black sludge. The black veins expanded, growing thicker, darker, and pulsing erratically.....