OF THE HARROWING HALLWAY 

By Christopher Kenneth Hanson

Upon waking at Bedlimn Manor house, I lit a candle and had a smoke.  On rainy mornings I prefer to write in my pocket notebook for hours at a time.  This morning brought no exception.  The rain was pelting the windowpanes and I had looked up at one point and felt as though I had slipped into a type of profound dream. It was some moments later then, whereupon a curious knock rang across my door.  I shook my head in hopes of dispelling some eerie thoughts and then proceeded to unlock the door.

Mr. And Mrs. Bedlimn were wide eyed and brimming with affection.  They had told me prior about a set of paintings in the manor hallway which I had yet to explore. One particular painting in the set was beautifully odd as they had put it. They had suggested I admire them at my closest convenience and after a hearty breakfast. It was after a long talk with Mrs. Bedlimn concerning the manor garden and general estate that Mr. Bedlimn had taken it upon himself to walk with me up their winding stone staircase and into a room he had once used strictly for study.  Numerous books lined the shelves and he suggested I pick out a book of my choosing.  One book stood out and drew me in.  The title of the book was The Harrowing Hallway.  Mr. Bedlimn became engrossed in another book then.  I began to read and it was some hours later when Mr. Bedlimn had told me that he would be back momentarily and that there were, as he put it: pressing matters which required his attention. An hour had passed, and I had been completely ensnared by the book. 

It was then that I realized I was not in the room that Mr. Bedlimn and I had originally entered.  I felt as though I had been blindfolded then.  I took steps and found myself walking down what I thought to be a narrow corridor.  I began groping at the air and my arms were flailing around as I brushed against coarse stone walls.  I dropped the book on the ground at one point, deciding then to keep moving in what I thought to be a forward direction.  I had all but lost my composure, when the lights had turned to a curious mauve mist.  

Mr. and Mrs. Bedlimn were seemingly standing there in front of me.  As the lights steadily brightened I became obsessed with a set of paintings, and one in particular which frightens me to this day.  It was a life-size painting Of Mr. And Mrs. Bedlimn which I had observed.  In their hands, they proudly held up a copy of The Harrowing Hallway. I had then realized that I did not recall the author at all and cursed my poor memory.  But in that painting, the author’s name sat boldly underneath the title they raised. And there, I stood shivering while my stomach ached.  It was then that I gasped again in shock as I read and reread the author name. The name, which was clearly my own.

THE CARDBOARD BOX MAN

by Christopher Kenneth Hanson

    Northbound of the town radio station and a stones throw from an inoperative clinic, there was a location where townsfolk had never cared to wander.  Moreover, they had heard of a cursed burial ground which was situated nearby the general location and could scarcely think of who would want to travel that particular path or find themselves in that particular area at any point in time. It was late Februrary in the town of Courager when snowfall had packed over the telephone lines and most of the townsfolk had stayed indoors.  It should be noted, in Courager, when it snows, most streets cannot be traversed for some weeks.  It is also to be noted that the arrival of every season had brought certain mystery to this town of four hundred residents. One such mystery spotlighted an individual known explicitly as The Cardboard Box Man.  Folks had claimed he lived out there, somewhere where no one cared to look for the most part.  Out there, there is an abandoned barn.  The barn belonged to a marginal character at one point.  He was a drifter and had wandered away eventually.  That was about fifty years prior.  Townsfolk desired that the barn be torn down because of its shoddy makeshift construction and general misuse over the years.  The barn was not torn down then. The Cardboard Box Man saw to it that it wasn’t at that point in time. After a while, most of the townsfolk worried about other matters. And then the letters came.  Thousands of polaroids and letters were left scattered around the main streets at first spring.  And this had deeply affected even the most intrepid residents of Courager.  It was the suit that had terrified most of these folk.  A suit which was made out of tan board in a type of makeshift fashion. The suit consisted of a large sized cardboard box for his head.  The eye holes of the box were quarter-inch and pie shaped.  The suit had boxes for his hands and boxes for his feet too.  He spent most of the time in that barn. He spent most of his life there, alone.  When summer arrived, the authorities took it upon themselves to finally confront the man and tear the barn down for good.  They went, then, cautiously into the wilderness with their dogs and guns to remove the man.  A couple hundred yards from the burial ground, they had eventually found the barn. Inside and to their surprise, they had found  stacks of hardcover books draped upon piles of straw and wild feather.  Remaining also, was the cardboard box suit.  Ten small candles were placed in a circle around the suit.  The suit was laid out neatly, situated in the middle of the barn.  A so-known final letter and polaroid were also discovered.  The letter was scrawled in pink acrylic paint and it read: I am The Cardboard Box Man From The Cardboard Box Land.  The authorities had also discovered a curious polaroid which lay on top and on the head of the suit.  For no apparent reason, it was blank.

To Hunger For Certain Sanity Alone

By Christopher Kenneth Hanson

Elmae The Prime was an ever-necromancer and battle hungry again.  This time she would take no prisoners. This time, she would fight another skilled ever-necromancer named Heroclawws II for the ever-galaxy throne.  It would be one on one. No holds barred.  It would be a fight to the finish and it would challenge their joint sanity and put one of them in power ultimately.  And the other, would be mentally lost forever.

The way Elmae would go about conquering Heroclawws would be simple so she imagined.  She would wield a nightmarish spell she had perfected over decades of use.  Elmae would use deep chaos mind projection or DCMP.  To be clear, all deft ever-necromancers could wield DCMP.  But most of them could only cast minor DCMP. Elmae took it a bit further and so too did Heroclawws II.  

The battle was to be set up in a virtual room where Elmae and Heroclawws could battle via deft mind games.  The one who hungered for sanity at the end would lose.

“Why battle me witch, you know who will win this.” Heroclawws snorted as he donned his brown hood. 

    “Ah, let’s see you worm your way out of my tangential DCMP Heroclawws.” 

Heroclawws bowed his head then and raised his eyes to the sky.  As they glazed over, he began chanting and then sang out: “ Be this as it may, I too have a spell for you my dear witch.” 

The pair then began battle in the virtual room.  Elmae The Prime was provided first move and she whispered a three minute verse which invoked a horrific ghost that flew to Heroclawws and whispered sick meanderings into his ear.  The devious necromancer fell to his knees then and clawed the ground in attempts to escape from the room.  

 After ten minutes, Elmae put her hand up to the ghost and it vanished after cackling through what appeared as broken teeth and lung.  

“You see, Heroclawws and this is only a taste...now, do we continue?”  

Heroclawws dusted himself and rose slowly. “You have won me over witch…after that…I would not go on...I only wish to provide you with a gift now.”

 Heroclawws walked slowly over to Elmae and turned his right hand upwards.  A spinning blue orb was presented in his palm then. 

"See this world- O adroit witch, know that in time, it will hunger for your mind too.” and with that Heroclawws vanished and left Elmae holding the spinning blue orb in her palm.  

The ever-galaxy throne was hers at last. She had conquered Heroclawws.  Of course her skill at casting DCMP was not to be dismissed by even the profound Heroclawws, one of the top ever-necromancers in existence but no match for her nightmarish projections indeed.

And then without prior notice, it had happened.  Elmae The Prime was transported into another world. Now in the dark, Elmae had found herself in some sort of prison cell.  There was a clanking on the bars and Elmae moved towards a moss lined wall as strange noises pervaded her atmosphere.   Moments passed, and a stout figure with a brown hood had stood in front of the cell bars.  It was Heroclawws. 

“You see...you see and now we are even witch.” Heroclawws chuckled then.

“I demand you release me at once!” Elmae cawed fervently.

           “On one condition. I will let you go free...you must show me how to cast your version of DCMP.”

“If it means my release...I will show you...but you may not appreciate what will happen to you.”  

“That is of no importance...I desire your power...agreed?”

Elmae rolled her eyes and deeply sighed. “ I will show you then.”  

   And with that both necromancers returned to the virtual room where they were originally set for battle. Elmae the Prime proceeded to teach Heroclawws all she knew as pertained to her version of DCMP.  But she would not let the devious necromancer know all- for he would of course use his new found power to harm her of course.

Elmae decided to teach Heroclawws a spell that would backfire on him eventually.  It would drive him insane eventually.  He would not know what had hit him.  And Elmae would have let Heroclawws be if he had not attempted to ensnare her in his wily trap. And now, she would teach Heroclawws about profound insanity.

Days passed and then months, and before long Heroclawws was in the virtual room alone and Elmae The Prime would check in with him periodically and then less and less as time went on.  Heroclawws created a world within the virtual room eventually where he hungered for his own sanity hour upon hour- day by grisly day.  

He had become what he had most feared in life- an abused puppet of his own creation.  Heroclawws longed to escape from the world within the virtual room. After numerous failed incantations and prayers to mythic ghouls that had chosen him prior he had given up and built himself a chamber in his mind which he could barely recognize now. Heroclawws began to trip in his mind- he saw spirals and colors and visions of anthropomorphic plates with ghoulish thirsty teeth which haunted and taunted him moment by harrowing moment- and then he started

to forget who he was- and that was when Elmae the Prime whispered in his ear- Welcome to my world Heroclawws. And Welcome back again.

In his wildest nightmares, Heroclawws couldn't imagine a crazier scene where bears with green eyes had lit candelabras with their tongues- jestors with demonic flags haughtily pranced through his vision and all through the night strange artificial cartoon characters cackled at him through broken illusion.  This was Heroclawws' fate.  Elmae had won.  Elmae the prime now had the ever-galaxy throne in her grasp. No one could stop her and no one would.  

After wasting away for months in a insane trip Heroclawws longed for a way to bring things back the way they used to be- the way they should have been. through racing thoughts of deep pain and fear egging him to crawl into deeper corners of his own lost mind- He had sought to win a coveted throne and now only hungered to return to any semblance of dear sanity he could find.

OF DOCTOR HADRIAN ZELLORR

By Christopher Kenneth Hanson

The Quantum Wormhole Hovercraft was first created and experimentally utilized by Dr. Hadrian Zellorr  around 2038 C.E. as a novel way to travel time using the energy of a simulated hyper-wormhole and manipulating the form and function of his innovative hovercraft model.  As it turned out , Hadrian worked for IntelligentL Labs in Newark, NJ with me during this period but sadly disappeared about two years after the elevator was to be used for his so-known travels.  Hadrian and I were always close and best of friends.  Hell, we had been born side by side in the same hospital, went to the same schools and even worked side by side at IntelligentL Labs.  We were different in some ways though.  Hadrian was always the brains of our so-known operation.  He was always putting in 110% and working over time.  Some colleagues had suggested that we were twins. I didn't see the resemblance but was happy for the compliment.   On February 14, 2040 Hadrian and I went to study at the IntelligentL labs Art History library for amusement.  IntelligentL was good that way, we had access to a lot of coveted and interesting information that outsiders were not privy to.  It should be noted that when Hadrian and I went to the library on Valentine’s day, I was really heart broken and depressed.  I was quite suicidal after  a break up with a woman who I often claimed to be a true love.  But something changed in the library when I saw his painting. My mind scattered when we stumbled upon a painting by Francisco De Zurbaran entitled "Saint Serapion".  The first thing I noticed had indeed frightened me and sent an sickly chill through my frame.  I had the impression that this Serapion fellow looked exactly like me . This fellow had similar sensations and beliefs. In tandem, Serapion's life story went along similar paths as Hadrian's and my own. Consequently, Hadrian and I started to read more and then it happened with dire rapidity. I felt as though I had been acutely stabbed in a vital organ.  I was writhing with fury and vomited blood.  When I woke up that night I was recovering at a nearby hospital.  Hadrian was gone but had left a note which read: “Sean, I have gone to save Serapion, when I achieve success, your mental states should be cured. You should understand that this man Serapion has always played a role in your life as you now play a role in his life -like the mysterious cycles of living, form and function, we had discussed prior.  If I never return, please know that I love you. Your dear brother Hadrian."  It shall be noted, Hadrian had planned to travel back to circa 1240 via means of his invention in order to save the friar, Serapion of Algiers, from impending death. Hadrian believed I was a "cosmic twin" of this Serapion.  Hadrian did strongly decree before leaving that my "future existence depended upon Serapion living past 1240."  Now I have to admit that I had been depressed for a stretch of time, and ever since Hadrian left- I still feel conflicted. For the first time in my life my mind today is miraculously assuaged without the sustained use of heavy medication. But to my bitter dismay I have no clue as to whether I will see my dear friend and brother again.

THE PERSON AT DOCKSIDE

by Christopher Kenneth Hanson

Gaddy and I raced off from central Jersey on an unusual but bustling night In mid-August. He drove his father’s porsche.  It was a quick car and we might’ve been headed for certain doom had he not been a skilled driver. We were headed south.  Namely, Atlantic City. Gaddy was a gambler and wielded skills via romance which I still feel are unmatched in terms of lust.  In his trunk was a small fortune of liquor.  He was almost always drunk because as he put it:  he wanted to be high on life alone, and couldn’t.  At one point, he uncharacteristically swerved through the highway. I felt that he was growing weary then. There was a point on the highway where I thought we might’ve died.  I wanted to forget that moment but could not then.  It shook me to the point where I became deeply frightened of Gaddy and frightened to such an extent that I was, I would say, obsequious towards him from that point on more or less.  I began to call him grand sir among other highfalutin names and tried to entertain him with amusing stories which I had created on the spot, in order to quell his burgeoning rage.  By the time we got to the parking lot, he was ranting about needing a couple thousand bucks by night end.  It was already half past three in the morning and I was regretting the trip. He started to bark at me: Get some weed!  I didn’t typically smoke but he did and he knew I was clever at finding that type of thing. Eventually we had walked from the parking garage a couple of blocks to seaside.  Gaddy carried ten shooter bottles of rum with him and I was looking for this dealer I once knew. He lounged down under the dock, which once served as a type of walkway from the sea to the boardwalk, then he popped the tops off the bottles one by one and drank them.  I told him I’d be back in a few minutes. I ended up at a casino and stayed for about half an hour for a reason I can’t fully comprehend.  I know it’s a tired trope, but I had felt as though I was steadily going out of my mind. I thought about multiple dimensional planes for some reason.  I thought about the extent of the future of civilization and the way the natural light shifts wonderfully via flowing shade.  Nothing seemed sequential nor linear any longer.  Nothing in the present seemed to account for what would be or should have been.  That was even before all of the cacophony and noise though. That was before Gaddy and his liquor.  That was before I had met the person at dockside who helped me understand why I was thinking those thoughts.  Later, I would think of the person at dockside in terms of a deity in many ways.  I do not say this lightly. You see, she was the person at dockside. A person I had once known and fully revered.  She was the one who helped me understand why we were here at this point in time. Moreover, she had suggested why we were all stuck here in this so-known bleak cycle.  She had made it clear to me who she was prior. In tandem, she suggested a preliminary route I might take which would help me find a way back home.

Also Known As: The Balloon Man

by Christopher Kenneth Hanson

Behind a faux leather sofa,  popular magazines lay strewn across and from side to side.  A television set was on and situated across from the sofa as popcorn rippled across the screen.  Behind the sofa, a man sat drinking from a bottle of gold label rum.  He called himself: The Balloon Man.  After a time, the man rose from his position with bottle in hand and weaved carelessly around his apartment with arms outstretched like the wings of an airplane. He kneeled then and sat still by his window. His apartment featured a shapely window, along with five long stem pink roses situated on a metal table nearby.  He was proud of the roses.  He adjusted a compact light source to provide them with more light as he topped off the rum.  He then pulled out a mirror on wheels from out of his walk in closet and cracked open a tall can of ale.  Before he began to drink, he slipped on a makeshift nylon mask which covered his head and face.  He then went back behind the sofa and began to chug the ale.  As he drank with ferocity, he had choked and proceeded to put the can down. Composing himself then, he put his hands up to his nylon mask slowly rubbing the contours of his nose and jaw bone. He ran two fingers down to his chin and paused as though lost in thought.  Stuffed in his pockets were about thirty unused balloons of various sizes and shapes and the man then proceeded to inflate each balloon one by one, little by little.  With scissors he had cut string and attached the string to each balloon. And with a magic marker he had marked each of them with roman numerals.  He let them rise one after the other then as he sat there with a satisfied grin.  When the balloons hit the ceiling and slowly shifted to a more stable position, he had pulled out a book of spells.  Looking into the scuffed glass of his mirror and with the book, Harvis begun to slowly chant a set of archaic phrases. Lo and behold - balloon IV had come to life.  Slowly and surely, a sequence of five total from the thirty balloons had come to life. Though varying in sequence of number and size, they were all colored in pink.  And the man laughed and saw that his incantations had worked.  The man proceeded to sit down on the sofa.  The balloonies as he called his creations, were behind the sofa and number IV slowly peeked over the edge of the sofa from the corner, while playfully eyeing the man.  The other balloonies lay in wait and as though by design they had encircled the man.  The man’s eyes had wandered haphazardly around to each one of his creations.  You make us real. They whispered at first, and the man was happy. You make us real!  There were explosive colors and sounds all within a string of vivid moments, and all leading to laughter and amazement.  There were images of parties and fairs, of youth and elder folks dancing and smiling in  the balloon man’s imagination.  And then one by one, pop-pop- pop-pop-pop.  There was then a knocking which rang across the apartment door.  Mr. Ballones- please Mr. Ballones…what is going on in there?  Moments later, the door had eerily and steadily creaked open. The superintendent strode in to analyze the scene. Mr Ballones- Mr. Ballones!  

As the superintendent looked up with mouth agape, he witnessed the twenty-five balloons along the ceiling lightly bobbing to and fro. The superintendent noticed a vase of pink roses had been knocked to the ground and that a handful of balloons had been popped and lay broken on the floor. As he picked up one of the balloon strips, colorful nylon tears had fallen along the floor from above and continued to stream now. In deep shock, the superintendent left the apartment immediately thereafter and ran for assistance. 

When he came back with the proper authorities, something was different about the whole scene.  The room was exceptionally well lit.  The television screen had a jubilant show featuring festive balloons of magnificent sizes and shapes. The floor featured no tears of note nor balloons lining the beige ceiling. The mirror was now gone as well.  It was as though, the environment had swiftly evolved somehow.  And perhaps even more strange, Harvis V. Ballones, who was an ever-homebody and friendless more or less, was nowhere to be found.