"The Stables part one" by Paul J. Doyle

        Night fell on Newport, Rhode Island. The May fog slowly rolled off Naragansett Bay in tatters, further obscuring Brenton Point State Park, a deepening void far away from the resort’s bright lights. The surf relentlessly crashed against the weatherbeaten rocks, frothing and receding. The lighthouse across the water strobed its steady beam silently, a lone sentinel against the encroaching gloom. Framed by the starry horizon gauzed with mist, the U.S. Navy cruiser slowly navigated toward the downsized Newport base, its surveillance equipment picking up classified intelligence, but completely oblivious to the resurgent supernatural activity unfolding at the neglected, vandalized horse stable outbuilding of a lesser known mansion.

                                      *   

        “So this is your idea of a blind date, Kris?”

        “It sure is, Jeff! Nice and dark, too; the darkness is a soothing enveloping cloak that comforts me, certainly more than this rust bucket.”

        “You and your poetry.” Jeff shut the door of the 1985 Yugo; when it refused, he slammed it, more deteriorating metal crumbling away. But it held. “Not many of these little cars left on the roadways, you know . . . there’s not even a Yugoslavia anymore! It’s a relic. Maybe it could be called a Macedonio, or a Croatio, or a Slovenio, or, or . . .”

        “You really don’t get out very much at all, do you?”, Kris snorted with repressed amusement. “There’s only two or three Yugos left because they’re pieces of crap not worthy of restoration, okay? Like the AMC Gremlin. Like the Ford Pinto. End of story.”

        “Wait till I tell all my pals in the youth group about this!”

        “For the fourth time, Jeff, I don’t want to hear about your rootin’ tootin’ holy roller church! You are blind, aren’t you?”

        “I think my eyes have seen the light!”, Jeff chortled. “Even in the darkness you are beautiful, Kris. Think about it—the park closed hours ago at sunset, there’s only the two of us, and the lazy cops who should be patrolling down here are probably at the doughnut store again . . .”

        “UGH! You should be glad it’s pitch dark because I can’t see your crater-face. I wouldn’t want all those zits to pop and reproduce on MY face! Frankly I’m surprised you decided to go along on my terms, being the heathen pagan tree worshipper you think I am.”

        “Well . . . aren’t you?”

        “I’d sooner worship Treebeard from ‘Lord of the Rings’, silly. But of course the lyrics of that travesty called ‘Christian rock’ prevent you seeing other points of view,” she chuckled. “My, those microwaved burritos you cooked for me earlier were so GOOOOOOOOOOD!!”

        “Oh, hee hee! You know . . . tithing . . . I’m kinda broke.”

        “No, Jeff, you’re just a cheapskate, because even a pagan savage like me knows that tithing is generally a fixed percentage of your income. So I’ve decided to beat you at your own game, Jeff. There’s no admission charge here, so by coming here after hours I’m treating you to some REALLY cheap thrills!”

        “Oh, I can’t wait! This is going to be so much fun!” He reached for Kris’s hand, but she had already vaulted over the security barrier. “What if they tow the car? Then what do we do?”

        “Jeff, that Yugo will disintegrate the moment they hoist it up, and it’ll damage their tow vehicle, so they probably won’t bother. So why don’t we hurry along now, and why don’t you keep your voice down? You don’t know how annoying nerds with whiny voices sound.”

        “What about the flashlights?”

        “There are no flashlights, silly! This isn’t the Boy Scouts. Come on!”

        “But what if I trip and fall and break my face, Kris? Did you ever think of that when you planned this silly excursion?”

        “Maybe your face will look better. You’re scared, aren’t you?”

        “What’s there to be scared of, Kris?”

        “Wouldn’t you like to know,” she giggled. “Will the boy become a man tonight, or what?” She dashed off into the unlit darkness, laughing.

        “Hello! I am nineteen! Arrrghhh . . .”

                                          **

        “Ow, ow, ow, ow . . .” Squatting down behind a bush, Kris repressed laughter as she spied Jeff limping toward her. He’d been especially vocal about stubbing his toe vaulting over the security barrier—the youth group would kick him out for his choice of words. Better still, maybe they’d tell him they’d pray for his troubled soul.

        Kris crawled on her belly commando fashion, moving behind Jeff whose injury obviously wasn’t as serious as his hopping suggested. “BOO!”

        “Aiiighhhhh!” Jeff fell down.

        “Remind me to get you a pogo stick for the Solstice.”

        “You tree huggers took the Christ out of Christmas . . . what did you do that for, Kris?”

        “Cheap thrill number one. There’s more to come. So, Jeff, what’s your take on the legends about this place? I’m the out-of-towner here, although I know better than to eat at certain Newport tourist traps.”

        “From what I know, there really isn’t any legend, Kris. The mansion used to be privately owned, just like all the ones on Bellevue Avenue used to be. While the Newport Historical Society purchased the famous ones like The Breakers and The Marble House and all the rest, this mansion just isn’t impressive enough for touring . . . now it’s just public bathrooms and such for daytime visitors to Brenton Point State Park. All those kids on field trips, and the families having a picnic there have to go somewhere. I think they have to bring pooper scoopers for the Frisbee dogs . . .”

        “You are a little nervous, aren’t you?” She helped Jeff to his feet. “Don’t worry, I’ve been here at night before and though I’m not really sure of it, I could have sworn I saw a faint greenish glow coming from inside that outbuilding up the many treed path and around the corner . . .”

        “The Stables, yeah. And then there’s that watchtower used by US Army soldiers during World War One . . .”

        “Okay, Jeff, now we’re getting somewhere . . . that tower, the one with the dangerous unrailed stone steps sticking out the side, now outmoded with a modern wooden staircase . . .”

        “You’re egging me on, huh?”

        “Oh, most definitely! I’ve heard those stories about how those soldiers still pace around, looking out to see if there’s any U-boats surfaced, planning an attack, like the Armistice never happened . . .”

        “Stop it, Kris!”

        “On most nights it’s quiet, and that’s when the vandals and junkies come out, roaming around inside the Stables.”

        “And those gang bangers spray paint the inner walls . . .”

        “Yes, Jeff! The territorial pissings! Spray paint laid on thickly enough to insulate the place through a cold snap. Mustn’t forget about them. There are some nights, though, when by some strange twist of fate, the cops don’t patrol this area like they’re supposed to, the drunken goof balls stay home, the junkies shoot up somewhere else—”

        “And also the witches who slaughter goats and drink their blood.”

        Kris audibly cleared her throat. “No, that’s not true. You’ve bought into way too much narrow-minded propaganda . . . well, screw that! You really are blind, Jeff, and I know you just want me for your pleasure. I’m going to be nice. I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear what you just said, for your benefit. To keep certain dreams alive, you know?”

        “You are pretty hot—”

        “Keep dreaming those dreams, Jeff,” said Kris, just barely noticing the fat little furry skunk trotting by on its cute stumpy feet. When it passed by within inches of Jeff, he emitted a primal scream that startled the skunk into a double-time bound into the bushes. The shriek echoed off the silent, tree-shrouded outbuildings that beckoned them.

        The distant lighthouse beam faintly strobed them. The muffled air horns of a distant lobster boat punctuated the gloom.

        “This isn’t funny anymore, Kris. Let’s get out of here.”

        “Oh, you! Come on, silly man . . .”

        “I’m serious!”

        “You won’t be able to sleep tonight, anyway. Why sit around eating more microwaved burritos pondering the might-have-beens? Sense the adventure! Relish the fact there’s a new moon out, the stars are brighter than usual, and the the fog’s rolling in. Kinda Goth! Makes for a blind date to remember! And you know what, Jeff? There really is a beautiful view at the top of the tower, ghost soldiers or not . . .”

        “What’s your take on them, those soldiers?”, asked Jeff, who had stopped hyperventilating.

        “There are many forms of spirits and haunts in the material world, Jeff—not a word about your church now!—and some of them act like they’ve been programmed in a tape loop. There’s a select few who not only hang around, but are also sentient. The intelligence level of these smarter ones varies, but most of them are deluded in one way or another. Then there are the angels, who definitely do know what’s going on and have their own personal agendas. There aren’t too many spirits who act like Patrick Swayze searching for Demi Moore, so we can’t expect sentimental crap with the spirits although that movie made me bawl my eyes out . . .”

        “Look who’s babbling now! You’re scared, too, Kris. Admit it!”

        “Fine, fine . . . I’m scared, Jeff. I’m human. I’m going with the flow.”

        “Just as long as it doesn’t flow down your leg.”

        Kris chuckled. “You are a dweeb but you have your moments! If we do see something atop the Tower, we may be able to come in close, while giving some respectful distance . . . if they’re just mindless haunts caught in a paranormal tape loop then we shouldn’t bother them. Just like that skunk a few moments ago . . . it hardly noticed us until you freaked out, which is understandable.”

        “Maybe I should take a nervous pee before we go any further.”

        “But why, Jeff? Wetting yourself in a situation like this shouldn’t be embarrassing . . . it should be like a badge of honor.”

        “Pffft.” Jeff did his business anyway, just out of view.

                                           ***                    

        They stood in the clearing not ten meters away from the entrance of The Stables, the two-story eyesore that had been neglected for many decades. With not a trace left of its windows and trash and rubble plainly visible everywhere during the daytime, The Stables embarrassed the seasonal tourists far more than the Newport City Council, who turned a blind eye to its obvious safety hazards.

        “Should we?”, Kris asked Jeff.

        “Uh . . . I think I’m supposed to say that . . .”

        A grating, clattering sound startled both of them, followed by a faint light that might have been a cigarette butt, except it didn’t flicker.

        “It’s just a skunk, it’s just a skunk,” chanted Jeff tonelessly.

        “There’s bird nests up in the eaves. Where there’s bird nests there’s generally predators, like cats,” reasoned Kris, her heart pulsating and skipping a beat.

        “HELLO? ANYBODY IN THERE?”, shouted Jeff.

        “Shut up!”, hissed Kris. “Most spirits dislike loud noises!”

        The faint light floated, motionless.

        “Maybe it’s an electrical phenomenon, like ball lightning.”

        “I don’t know, Jeff. There’s no storm, and ball lightning’s supposed to pop with a bang. That thing’s just sitting there, like a sentinel. Who’s waiting on whom, I wonder,” said Kris, lighting a cigarette of her own. She took an enormous drag and blew out a huge smoke cloud.

        “Now that’s just plain rude!”, Jeff scolded, wafting frantically.

        “Sorry. I didn’t mean to lie to you about my being a non-smoker. I used to smoke a lot, and then I mostly quit. I only smoke when I really, really don’t know what else to do.”

        “I thought you knew your stuff.”

        “I do! And I wasn’t kidding when I said I’ve been here alone before. The last time I came there was some noise, but from a cat fight. I came in the summer, so crickets were chirping and everything else.”

        “Kris, it’s way, way, too silent up there for any kind of pets. Besides, wild animals don’t like smokers —O MY GOD!!!!”

        A cat, just like any other fat orange tabby except it glowed and had formless eyes, trotted out of the dark forbidding trees less than five meters away. It touched an old bird bath with its nose, then rubbed against it. Its tail twitched and its faint purring sounded muffled. Then it trotted off into the Stables like it owned it. The glowing translucent cat disappeared around the corner, not making a sound among all the rubble.

        Jeff and Kris stood there, too stunned to make up their mind about what to do next. “We aren’t leaving yet, Jeff.”

        “I don’t think they’ll let us, Kris . . .”

                 —to be continued in “The STABLES, Part Two”—