Jim E. Beer
Bio
I was raised outside of Ancaster, Ont. I write about what I know and what I've survived. I hope you enjoy what you read. Leave a comment and feel free to tip. There is an option to do so at the end of each story if you feel so inclined. Jim
Stories (21/0)
A lunatic moon
Chapter 4 Inside the house Jean Duhamel was furious. He took an old hubcap from his kitchen table that he used as an ashtray and hurled it at the wall. It met with such force that the hubcap almost bent in two. A storm of cigarette butts sprayed against the grimy window. He was angry that the cops had been here nosing around, sure, but he was even angrier that the kid had been spying on him. Jean knew exactly who it was, the kid who'd approached his house asking questions about the boy he'd killed at the last turning. His friend he had said. That was why he'd been meddlesome. Acting impertinent. Cocksure and arrogant. He'd been hiding at the edge of the field this time, just before the police had arrived. The brat had been crouched in the weeds so sure of himself that Jean could not see him. Something about the boy worried him, a rare feeling which just infuriated him that much more. He'd never been accustomed to worry or fear, not since that day in the French woods long ago. Something about this boy nagged at him though. He didn't think he'd stayed long, he hadn't sensed him during the cop's questioning. Afterwards, when the police car had left his driveway, Jean had looked for him too, combing the field with his mind and eyes, sensing every cricket, mouse, slug and butterfly along the sweep, but no boy. No boy. Jean, or Ugly and Old had that effect on people. They didn't like to linger long in his presence and his fury temporarily forgotten, he smiled at the thought. It was something he had mastered over the years. Drawing on people's basic survival instincts, exploited their natural fear of him in other ways to ensure that every visit, every conversation and interaction would be brief. Unless, of course, he wanted it to be otherwise. He rarely bathed and never laundered his clothes and therefore smelled bad, really bad. He practiced no dental hygiene, didn't need to. So not only did his breath carry the odor of death and decay, his teeth looked bad. During regular days and nights of each calendar month, his teeth gleamed nicotine yellow, black at the roots. During his turnings, those teeth extended into long, sharp serrated blades and appeared silvery in the light of the full moons. His clothing had the appearance of filthy rags and with dirty cap pulled down to help hide his eyes he very easily passed for a poor old man. People immediately felt pity for him. The majority of people don't stray far from their virtuous feelings and rarely have the courage to approach and engage. They really don't want to know. They have their own lives. Jobs, kids, bills, husbands and wives. They had their own elederly to care for. The frail and weak. Sick, diseased and dying. They all did. They all died too. So why bother with another pathetic old man? Those who had the courage and seemingly rare ability for genuine compassion and empathy would offer help at first. Assistance and aid, neighbourly, brotherly love... A few seconds in his immediate vicinity though and oh how quickly everything would change. His body odour alone was so offputting, the intensity of his aura, of desperation and danger. People could feel it deep down in the primitive part of their brain. Every animal has survival instincts and human beings are no different. They knew right away that something was wrong with Jean Duhamel. They didn't know what. They couldn't even begin to imagine what was wrong with him, but something was. Something so dark and sinister...and ancient. Something that killed, that had a need to kill, but itself could NOT be a killed. A vicious horror that had existed for so long it had reached mythical proportions at some point in history, was forgotten and then vaguely remembered, like a fever dream. A nightmare that made little sense. Remebered and forgotten over and over, so many times that it existed only in fairytales, fables and myths. Legend and lore, so seemingly fictitious that it was no longer believed to even be possible. Something their modern brain could not readily identify, but the primitive brain could in an instant. His countenance could turn threatening at the flick of a switch. He could go from looking like a harmless, feeble, little old guy, to a seething monster of deafening proportions...all in their mind's eye...and all at the drop of a hat. No, people chose not to stay with Jean for very long. They certainly didn't want to engage him, unless absolutely neccessary and then only for the shortest time possible. This was fine with Jean. Exactly how he'd always wanted it. He wanted to be forgotten. Certainly not remembered and hopefully, seldom noticed.
By Jim E. Beer19 days ago in Horror
A lunatic moon
Chapter 3 Danny sat at the dining room table eating cereal and reading the comics from the newspaper. The paper itself didn't hold much interest for him,but as was his ritual, he scanned the comic strips just to see if any of them were in fact funny. They usually weren't. He drank the remainder of milk from the bowl and went about pushing the sections of newspaper back together, that's when something caught his eye. In the 'Local' section was a headline that read "Gruesome murder at country home". He read the article, which was brief, suggesting the reporter didn't have much information to work with.
By Jim E. Beer19 days ago in Horror
A lunatic moon
Chapter 2 Julie Gifford pulled into her driveway after her Thursday night shift at Robin's Donuts. She was tired and hungry and just wanted to veg on the couch and watch a movie. the garage door was closed so she parked her little Toyota Tercel at the top of the driveway. Her folks were out of town for a whole week and she had the house to herself. Good deal too, because she had a thing of Jiffy Pop, a big bottle of Pepsi and she was going to watch The Blue Lagoon by herself. Noone to interrupt or ask annoying questions, like her mom was in the habit of doing for almost every movie they watched together. She grabbed her purse off the passenger seat and climbed out of the car. The full moon was bright and that was good too, since the house was dark and there were no streetlights out here in the country. Not that she was afraid of the dark or anything, but just being out here by herself she'd gotten a little bit spooked being in the big house alone. Her nearest neighbours were about a half mile down the road and they were old and went to bed around nine o clock every night. Not much help if there was a midnight prowler or something like that. At least her dad understood how she felt, when he and her mom went out of town, so he'd bought her a dog. Not a big dog, like he'd wanted to get. He had wanted to get a German Sheperd to keep her safe, but she'd fallen in love with a miniature Collie she'd seen in a calendar.They ended up getting her a miniature Collie she called 'Baby'. He'd rolled his eyes when she picked the puppy out of a litter that had been advertised by a breeder in the classifieds. An hour and a half away too, but that's what she wanted and what she wanted, she pretty much got. Except for her car that is. Her parents had promised her a car for her sixteenth birthday, so she asked for a Fiero. A red one. And her father had laughed, he'd laughed! Her mother had asked, "What's a Fiero?"
By Jim E. Beer19 days ago in Horror
A lunatic moon
A Lunatic Moon Prologue - Chapter one Saturday, September 28th, 1985... Walking home from town, drunk, late at night, was as common place for Mike VanSickle, as was hitch hiking into town to party with his friends in the first place. Usually he'd walk the distance along the main road and stick his thumb out to any car coming along. Unfortunately, at 3am. on a Saturday night, cars were few and far between. More often than not, he'd have to walk the seven miles on the dark unlit country road, until he reached foot sore and exhausted, at his parent's driveway. Tonight was different though, because the late summer humidity had condensed into a thick, impenetrable fog. Mike knew from experience that trying to thumb down a car in this kind of fog was practically impossible. The cars would blind him with their high beams and the drivers wouldn't even see him walking backwards along the shoulder with his thumb out until the last second. He'd almost been run down a few times and knew for a fact that he'd also scared the shit out of more than one late night driver, as he materialized out of the gloom, in their headlights at the foot of a hill. So tonight he'd decided to take the railroad tracks into town.
By Jim E. Beer20 days ago in Horror
Through the woods
Saturday, September 28th, 1985... Walking home from town, drunk, late at night, was as common place for Mike VanSickle, as was hitch hiking into town to party with his friends in the first place. Usually he'd walk the distance along the main road and stick his thumb out to any car coming along. Unfortunately, at 3am. on a Saturday night, cars were few and far between. More often than not, he'd have to walk the seven miles on the dark unlit country road, until he reached foot sore and exhausted, at his parent's driveway. Tonight was different though, because the late summer humidity had condensed into a thick, impenetrable fog. Mike knew from experience that trying to thumb down a car in this kind of fog was practically impossible. The cars would blind him with their high beams and the drivers wouldn't even see him walking backwards along the shoulder with his thumb out until the last second. He'd almost been run down a few times and knew for a fact that he'd also scared the shit out of more than one late night driver, as he materialized out of the gloom, in their headlights at the foot of a hill. So tonight he'd decided to take the railroad tracks into town.
By Jim E. Beer3 months ago in Horror
Untitled
Prologue Saturday, September 28th, 1985... Walking home from town, drunk, late at night, was as common place for Mike Vansickle, as was hitch hiking into town to party with his friends in the first place. Usually he'd walk the distance along the main road and stick his thumb out to any car coming along. Unfortunately, at 3am. on a Saturday night, cars were few and far between. More often than not, he'd have to walk the seven miles on the dark unlit country road, until he reached foot sore and exhausted, at his parent's driveway. Tonight was different though, because the late summer humidity had condensed into a thick, impenetrable fog. Mike knew from experience that trying to thumb down a car in this kind of fog was practically impossible. The cars would blind him with their high beams and the drivers wouldn't even see him walking backwards along the shoulder with his thumb out until the last second. He'd almost been run down a few times and knew for a fact that he'd also scared the shit out of more than one late night driver, as he materialized out of the gloom, in their headlights at the foot of a hill. So tonight he'd decided to take the railroad tracks into town.
By Jim E. Beer3 months ago in Horror
Excerpt
I need to say firstly, that this is just an excerpt from something else I've been fooling around with. By no means is it a complete story. Secondly, it has very little to do with Jim's woods. Especially because this is fiction, where the stories of 'Jim's woods' are autobiographical in nature. I wanted to see what it looks like out here/there and also to see what kind of reaction I get, if any. Thanks for taking a look. James E.B.
By Jim E. Beer4 months ago in Horror
Frisbee off the roof!
Port Arthur, Thunder Bay, Ontario. Late October, 1987. 2nd Month, First Semester/First Year Forestry Technology. When I studied Forestry Technology, at Lakehead University, in Thunder Bay, I made a few friends. Mosty of our class was friendly with one another, there were only a handful of classmates that were quiet and kept to themselves.
By Jim E. Beerabout a year ago in Confessions
Nam
Nam Summer of 1982, Jerseyville, Ontario. Prosser's Pond. My brother Jason and I, being the same age and all, had also been best friends from as far back as when we were only four years old. This meant too, that throughout school we shared the same friends and certainly the ones in Jerseyville, where we were ALL friends...for the most part. The core of Jerseyville friends was a solid one and there's nothing I STILL wouldn't do for ANY of my friends from the village... 'cept maybe one person. We did plenty of things, all of us together, but Jason and I also did things together as brothers. We fished together, hiked together, adventured together... We did a LOT of fishing together. Ever since we'd moved to Jerseyville from Burris street in Hamilton, we'd been steadily finding new places to try our luck. Our favorite 'go to', would have been 'Prosser's Pond'...'Prosser's Pond' was a Bass hole Deluxe. Full of Sunfish, Large mouth Bass and a handful of other fishy friends...the odd killer Catfish, a few Perch. The Bass in the pond were so greedy by midsummer, that Jason and I could pop a Dandelion head on our hook, flick it out 10ft and land a Largemouth almost every time...digging up a container of worms from the garden just made it silly. We had a riot, fishing at Prosser's, for many years. Prosser himself, was one John Prosser Robinson. A very old farmer who owned some fields in Jerseyville and brought produce down to Hamilton market. He grew lots of green beans, cucumbers, peas I think...He hired only girls from Jerseyville to work his fields . Just teenagers, "Stupid girls." He'd call them. Right to their face. I just remember some of these girls from the area, washing bushel after bushel full of green beans every summer evening, at the head of the tractor path back to the pond. They'd have metal tubs full of water, that they pumped from the hand well situated beside the low lying barn. Hand washing the sandy soil from the beans. That hand pump would pour with cold well water if you pumped it hard enough and long enough to flush the rust from it's pipes. One person would pump it, while the other leaned on the spout, drinking fresh, cold water directly from the flow.
By Jim E. Beerabout a year ago in Confessions
