Ooter's Place: A Sampler Read online

Ooter's Place:

  A Sampler

  Karl El-Koura

  Copyright 2011 Karl El-Koura

  To my parents.

  Introduction

  This free ebook is a sampler of the author's collection Ooter's Place and Other Stories of Fear, Faith, and Love. This book contains the full introduction and the three stories that start each of the three sections, along with their forewords. The full book contains 13 stories in total.

  The stories in this collection span my entire professional writing career so far, from the first story of mine to be paid for and published (“They Came From Ooter’s Place” in 1998) to one of the most recent (“Blink” in 2010). As the title of the book may have led you to believe, these works also span a wide range of genres: you’ll find stories of science fiction, fantasy, horror, detective fiction, military fiction, and even two pieces of superhero fiction. There are really short stories (the shortest is only 250 words) and longer stories (the longest is 7500 words). My hope is that the variety of this collection will be a virtue, containing something for everyone to enjoy.

  Four stories appear under each of the three headings (Fear, Faith, and Love). These categories are rather arbitrary; most of the stories are really about love, or the lack of love. Love is at the center of the universe, and can hardly be avoided in life or fiction. As a bonus exclusive to this collection, the last story is about fear, faith, and love. All of the stories are accompanied by a foreword (an afterword in the case of the bonus story).

  The Stories of Fear are not meant to fill your dreams with nightmare visions; that is not the kind of horror I like to read, and it isn’t the kind I write (although I recognize that there’s a place and an audience for it). The real horror in these stories, I think, comes from what they imply—about who we are as human beings, what we’re capable of, and how often we allow our weaknesses (such as laziness, pettiness, or just plain meanness) to usher varying degrees of horror into our lives and the lives of others.

  Why write stories of fear at all? That was the question put to me by someone whose opinion I value a great deal. After reading one of my more gruesome stories (which isn’t collected in this book), she said, “Why do you have to write such dark stories?” And though I hadn’t given it any thought before then, I said, “Because sometimes you need to go into the darkness to turn on a light.” After thinking about it a great deal more, I find I can’t come up with a better answer than that.

  The Stories of Faith are, for the most part, not directly about religion. They’re about the role faith can play in our lives and the power that comes out of our beliefs—with good consequences and consequences not-so-good, depending on the belief. Not all of these stories presuppose a supernatural realm or God’s existence, although many do; in fact, it is one of my favorite things about the horror genre that one can speak seriously about a spiritual reality at all, and consequently, some of these stories fall within that genre.

  In certain circles, “faith” is considered something of a dirty word. Granted it may have been good or necessary for our ancestors, who empowered themselves with stories about how rain fell from the sky and what they could do when hit by a drought, but surely we who live in the post-Enlightenment world have outgrown the need for faith? The truth is very much the opposite; just as love is at the center of the universe, faith is at the center of human thinking. There is very little that we believe (nothing, to speak honestly) that isn’t based on faith (faith that our senses are reporting reality accurately to us, faith that people are telling us the truth, faith that . . . well, when you get down to it, faith that there’s an us and a reality and other people to speak of at all).

  The Stories of Love are about—you guessed it—love. But why is a story of a young boy and his best friend collected under this heading? The question arises, I think, because we’ve reached a point in our society where “romantic love” is no longer a subset of “love,” it’s mostly what people mean when they say the word. If a movie is billed as a love story, for example, it better not be about a mother’s love for her children, or a boy’s love for his dog—a proper love story is “boy and girl meet; boy and girl part; boy and girl end up together after all.” We’re a society that is increasingly bad at holding romantic relationships together, and yet we’ve elevated romantic love to such heights that its shadow all but obscures any other form. The old and tired joke that “love ain’t nothing but sex misspelled,” for example, implicitly assumes that romantic love is the only kind of love. There are, of course, stories of romantic love in this collection. But as I indicated earlier, there are stories of other kinds of love too.

  Looking through this book, at writing that spans over a decade of my professional career, I’m rather proud of these stories. Thank you for buying it; I hope you find something in here that you like.

  Karl El-Koura

  June 2011

  Ottawa, Ontario (Canada)

  Part I

  Stories of Fear

  How You Die

  FOREWORD

  The combination of children’s love-of-play and their incredible imaginations is a potent one. Children can have a sophisticated tea party with nothing more than a few stuffed animals and some old cups and saucers, or go on an elaborate medieval adventure without leaving their living rooms, complete with castles made of couch cushions and chair-riding knights with broomsticks for lances. Of course their games can be a bit darker and nastier, especially when siblings are involved. Then the older child might entertain themself by goading the younger one into doing something perhaps a bit unsafe, or try to spook the younger one with scary stories. Most of the time these games are harmless; sometimes, though, they’re not.

  Do you know about Bloody Mary?” Albert said, the moistness in his eyes glistening in the candlelight.

  “Yes,” Donald said. The storm that had cut out their power was still raging outside, the heavy rain pelting the roof like an assault of bullets from the sky. No power meant no TV, no Xbox, no internet. Albert had spent the last hour since the power went out trying to scare his younger brother. And it worked. Donald was terrified. But he wouldn’t let on to Albert. Donald just hoped Mom and Dad would come home soon; he didn’t know how much longer he could hold out against Albert’s stories.

  “If you go into the bathroom,” Albert said, “and turn off the lights and close the door, and look into the mirror and say, ‘Bloody Mary! Bloody Mary! Bloody Mary!’, then you’ll see it: Bloody Mary’s face, cut and bleeding like an angry cat went to work on her with its claws.”

  “Big deal.” Donald knew he didn’t sound very convincing. “I know all this.”

  “You do, do you?” Albert said. “Did you also know that you should never look Bloody Mary in the eyes? Do you know why?”

  “Why?” Donald’s grip on the couch cushion tightened.

  “Because if you do, she’ll know who you are. And the next time you fall asleep, she’ll find you.”

  “What will she do?” Donald’s voice was barely a whisper.

  “You won’t think she did anything at all,” Albert said. “Not at first. But then, when you get up, you’ll see that there’s blood all over your pillow. And when you go into the bathroom to brush your teeth, when you look into the mirror, you’ll see Bloody Mary’s face all cut and bleeding. Except it’s not Bloody Mary’s face, it’s your face now.”

  “No,” Donald said. “That’s not true.”

  “Try it.” Albert lifted his arm to point at the bathroom behind the living room.

  “No.” Donald took a deep breath. “It’s stupid. At Marty’s birthday party, he and Kyle went into the bathroom and said Bloody Mary and when they came out they said they saw her, but everyone knew they were faking.
And even if they did see something, it was just their minds playing tricks on them.”

  “Try it,” Albert repeated, still pointing.

  “No,” Donald said. “Just stop it, okay? I’m not scared.”

  Before Donald could react, Albert was on top of him. “I’m going to push you in the bathroom,” he whispered in Donald’s ear. “I’m going to call Bloody Mary. Just promise me one thing, okay?” Donald tried to squirm out of his older brother’s grip, but Albert was too strong. “Just promise me you won’t look her in the eyes.”

  “Stop it,” Donald said.

  Albert pushed him off the couch and dragged him through the darkness, toward the bathroom.

  “Promise,” Albert said, letting go of his brother. “Promise you won’t look in her eyes. I’d hate for Bloody Mary to ruin that pretty face of yours.”

  Donald screamed. He’d felt something sharp just below his right eye: nails against his face, something clawing for him.

  Albert laughed.

  “You’re such a stupid idiot,” Donald said. “You could’ve blinded me.”

  “It wasn’t me,” Albert said in that annoying, superior voice of his. “It was Bloody Mary.”

  Outside, thunder roared. It was as if the weather were laughing at Donald, too.

  “I’m not scared,” Donald said.

  “Then why’d you scream like a little girl?” Albert said.

  “I didn’t!”

  “You’re right,” Albert said. “Even a little girl wouldn’t have screamed that loud.”

  Donald’s hands balled into a fist. But what could he do? Albert was older, taller, bigger, stronger. If Donald ran up to his bedroom and grabbed his bat from last summer’s baseball camp, then he could give Albert a real scare. But if he did that, Albert would tell Mom and Dad when they came home, and Donald wouldn’t get dessert for a week. He hoped they’d come home soon.

  Feeling around in the dark, Donald made his way back to the living room. Albert was already there. The flickering candle flame made shadows dance on his face.

  “I’m hungry,” Donald said.

  They took the candle to the kitchen and Albert made Donald a sandwich: turkey breast, with two slices of tomato, a little mustard on top, and mayonnaise on both pieces of bread, the way Donald liked it. For all his faults, Albert made great sandwiches.

  “You know,” Albert said, while Donald ate, “there’s another story I know, and it also involves a mirror.”

  They were sitting at the kitchen table, the candle between them. The rain hit the kitchen window with such insistence that Donald imagined there was someone out there, tapping on the window to be let in.

  When will Mom and Dad come home?

  “I don’t think I’ll tell you that story,” Albert said. “I think you’d be so scared you’d die just from hearing it.”

  Donald took another bite of his sandwich and shook his head. “I’m not scared.”

  Albert leaned closer. “Well, this story has nothing to do with Bloody Mary. In this story, you’re calling Satan himself.”

  “You’re not supposed to say that word,” Donald said. Albert always said bad words when Mom and Dad weren’t home, but in their presence he was always so polite. An angel.

  “In this story,” Albert said, “you go into the bathroom, close the door, look into the mirror and say, ‘Satan, Satan, how do I die?’ You say it three times—’Satan, Satan, how do I die?’—and then, in the mirror, you’ll see exactly how you’ll die.”

  Albert stared into Donald’s eyes, trying to scare him.

  I’m not scared, Donald told himself. It’s just another of his stupid stories.

  “Now, you’re not going to die just from being scared, are you?” Albert said.

  “No,” Donald said. “Because I’m not scared.”

  “Wow. I’m impressed, Donald, because I have to tell you, the first time I heard that, I just about crapped my pants.”

  “You’re not supposed to say that word.”

  Albert ignored him. “I’d even bet you wouldn’t be afraid to go into the bathroom right now and give it a try. You really wouldn’t be afraid, would you?”

  Donald took the last bite of his sandwich, then shook his head.

  “‘No’ you wouldn’t be afraid or ‘no’ you won’t do it?”

  “I’m not scared.”

  “You’re not?”

  Donald shook his head.

  Albert whistled. “I’m impressed. I really am. But of course, I can’t just take your word for it. You’ll have to show me.”

  “I don’t have to show you anything,” Donald said.

  Albert leaned back. Even in the candlelight, the look of disappointment on his face was unmistakable. “Oh,” he said. “You really are scared, then.”

  “No I’m not!”

  “Prove it,” Albert said.

  As soon as Donald stepped into the bathroom, Albert pulled the door shut.

  “Okay,” Albert said. “Now you have to say it loud enough that I can hear you.”

  “Satan, Satan, how do I die?” Donald said, loudly enough for Albert to hear. “Satan, Satan, how do I die?” He hesitated.

  “One more,” Albert said.

  “Satan, Satan, how do I die?”

  Nothing happened. Donald let out his breath; until that moment, he hadn’t realized he’d been holding it.

  He turned to open the door. Hopefully Albert wouldn’t be a jerk and hold it closed. He stopped.

  He’d heard a voice. A whisper. He heard it again. Albert? No. It was coming from the mirror, too faint to hear clearly.

  Donald leaned closer. Closer.

  “This is how you die,” the voice whispered, audible up close.

  And there—in the mirror—there it was.

  Albert. He was holding a knife, a long one. With blood on it. The image in the mirror changed, like a camera zooming back. Donald was on the floor, bleeding. Albert had cut his face and neck, making him look like Bloody Mary, and he’d stabbed him in the chest. There was so much blood that Donald thought he might vomit.

  Albert opened the door and the image in the mirror disappeared.

  “What’s wrong?” Albert said. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Donald didn’t reply.

  “Did you see something?”

  Donald nodded.

  “No way!” Albert handed the candle to Donald. “I want to try.”

  When Albert closed the bathroom door, Donald ran up the stairs to his bedroom, tears pouring out of his eyes like blood pouring out of his chest in the mirror’s image. He couldn’t get it out of his mind: him on the floor, bleeding to death from all the cuts his brother gave him.

  By the light of the candle he placed on the small bookshelf near his bed, he emptied his closet looking for the bat. It was hard to see, the candlelight dim at best, and tears blurred his vision. Finally, he found it and pulled it out. He liked holding the bat. It was heavy, made of steel.

  He walked back downstairs, slowly, carefully. He placed the candle on the banister’s flat head, and gripped the bat with both hands.

  The bathroom door stood open.

  He called his brother’s name.

  “Whatcha got there?” Albert said from behind.

  Donald turned.

  “Is that a bat?” Albert said. In the candlelight, something metallic glinted in his hands. A knife.

  “Stay away from me,” Donald said, struggling to hold back tears. He raised the bat.

  “I saw it in the mirror,” Albert said. “You beat me to death with that bat. You bashed my face in and broke my ribs. I was coughing up blood.”

  “Don’t come any closer,” Donald said, tears streaming down his face. “Okay?”

  “You think you can take me?” Albert took a step forward. “You really think you can take me?”

  “Not another step, Albert!” Where’s Mom and Dad? he wondered. He couldn’t take it anymore.

  “You’re dead, Donald,” Albert said.
>
  Outside, thunder roared.

  Albert lunged.

  And Donald swung.

  Part II

  Stories of Faith

  The Man Who Mistook Himself for a Superhero

  FOREWORD

  Driven mad by reading too many books of adventure and chivalry, one of my favorite characters in all of literature becomes convinced he’s a knight errant, the superhero of his day, and decides to call himself Don Quixote. Whatever else the story started out as—I think Cervantes changed his mind in the decade that intervened between his writing the first half and its superior sequel—by the end of the book, we realize that Don Quixote is a man who wants to make a difference. At his worst, he wants to be important, famous, admired; but at his best, he simply wants to matter and for his life to have meaning—perhaps even to help other people along the way.

  While writing the first part of the story, Cervantes may have viewed Don Quixote as nothing more than a silly, crazy old man who’s gone soft in the head (and whose antics will soon make him soft with bruises in the rest of his body, too). By the time he wrote the second part, though, I think he fell in love with his character. Don Quixote emerges as a noble spirit, and of all the tragic events that occur to him, none is more tragic than his return to sanity.

  As a fellow writer once pointed out to me (to my surprise), this theme—believing you matter and that your life can make a real difference, while everyone else (and sometimes those who care most about you) try to disabuse you of what they see as your embarrassing or dangerous notions of grandeur or importance—emerges often in my work. The following story, however, is one of my few conscious attempts to explore the idea. I added a twist to Cervantes’s story: here, the main character perceives danger where it exists in reality and not just in his head; he makes situations better, not worse; and his power and prowess are real. Given all of that, I wondered, would his fate be different from Don Quixote’s?

  The man in the green-and-yellow costume opened his eyes slowly, first one and then the other. He wasn’t dead. He looked down at his chest, then felt around with his fingers as if he didn’t believe his eyes. There was no blood, no gunshot wound. And yet he’d been shot; the young ruffian who had pulled the trigger was still standing there, beneath the broken streetlight. He was still holding the gun that had spit out a bullet just moments ago.

  Was he crazy?

  The look on the kid’s face told him he wasn’t.