Silent Screams

Silent screams, echoes of fright,
Empty voices fill the night.
All around I hear the cries,
Of tormented souls with sightless eyes.
Lost and forlorn, ne'er more to be free,
These spirits of the damned call out to me.

The stories and poems in the volume, “Dreams of Darkness, Dreams of Night,” are presented in the approximate order in which they were written. The poems go back some 20 to 30 years, with the last ones being penned just a few months before the manuscript was prepared, while the first story was probably originally written some 25 years ago. This story, “To Dance with the Dead”, has seen some revisions over the years, but the basic idea remains the same. The final story in this book, “All That We See or Seem”, sat half completed and dormant in my computer for almost four years, but was finally finished just a few days before the manuscript was sent to the publisher.

All of the stories--save one--have aspects of 'horror' as their themes; some more so than others, but all of them contain a fragment of the torment, pain and tears which have been wrenched from my psyche during the past few decades. I hope that by reading this book you manage to derive some small amount of pleasure from my suffering.

Story Excerpts--

“To Dance with the Dead”

'I experienced hideous nightmares for months after that incident, reliving in my dreams the entire episode, except in my dreams the corpses of my parents became animated. They rose out of their coffins with spasmodic, jerking movements and lurched to the floor, then began to chase me through endless darkened corridors. My father's face was misshapen and broken, with portions of his skull showing whitely through skin that had turned a sickly, leprous green.

'I ran screaming through the corridors of my dreams, my short legs pumping madly, but seemingly moving me not at all. The bodies of my parents stayed close behind me, the rotting flesh dripping from their decomposing corpses in putrefying blobs with every step they took. I could smell the overpowering stench of their bodies becoming stronger as they closed the gap between us and just as I felt a claw-like, bony hand grip my shoulder...'

“Death Chant”

'Angela weakly nodded her head, her eyelids now so heavy she could barely keep them open. From a distance, she could hear the old man chanting again, his voice rising and falling in concert with the beating of her heart. No longer aware of anything save the rhythmic sound of the chant and the intense urge to help this kind, gentle man, she looked deeper and deeper into the yawning opening. A sense of vertigo swept over her as she leaned toward the now huge hole and she felt something like cold hands reaching out of the swirling darkness, taking hold of her wrists, drawing her gently down...deeper...ever deeper...'

“Between the Moon and Mars”

'After a pause, Carter asked quietly, “But, no one knows about this, outside the company. Do they?”

“They didn't up until two nights ago,“ Hudson told him. ”But now that the cat's out of the bag, so to speak, we aren't going to be able to keep this under wraps for very long.“ He turned back to the window. “Someone is going to be upset that he or she can't have this miracle for themselves and they will sound the alarm. They will tell other people that there are a few special humans who have something that the rest of us can not have. People will become jealous at first, then they will become angry and then they will attempt to seek out these special people and try to take from them that which they themselves do not have.” He sighed, again. “It is, after all, only human nature to hate and then to destroy that which we do not understand, that which we want, but can not have.”

“The Very Idea”

'He looked up and caught her eyes with his own. “Have you ever noticed how most really good writers are always flawed in some way? Serious problems with drugs or alcohol, for instance? Deviant sexual requirements or eccentric behavior that is explained away simply because they are gifted artists?” She nodded and gave him a wan smile. “They were keeping a secret that made many of them go mad, commit suicide or at the very least seek shelter from that knowledge in a bottle, in drugs or in some other perversion. Why do you suppose that is, Miss Wentworth?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I...I have no idea,” she said.

“Ahh, but that's the answer right there,” he told her excitedly, pointing a shriveled finger in her direction. “The very idea is the answer!”

“Band of Gold”

'Matt stopped to take another drink and Chris said, “And all of this information came to you from the ring?”

“I don't know where else it could have come from,” he admitted. “I never heard of these people until I put the ring on and there was too much detail in the memories for this to just be my imagination.”

“Well, I don't mean to sound insensitive or anything, but are you sure these people really existed?”

Matt smiled. “Yeah, I'm sure. I checked with the cemetery where they're both buried and sure enough, there they were; Ted and Shirley Sterling, resting quietly in adjoining plots.”

“Jeez, dude, you know where they're buried?”

“Yeah, I do. It turns out that's a rather important aspect of this whole story.”

“How come?“ Chris asked, almost afraid to know the answer.'

“All That We See or Seem”

'The house, as always, beckoned to him.

For years he had been drawn to this house--in his dreams, in his nightmares. Although the all too familiar dream might start out with him in different, unknown locations, he always knew that he would be helplessly drawn in a certain direction, to eventually find himself standing on the cracked sidewalk before the old, abandoned house, wanting to enter, yet terrified to do so.

In the perpetual gloom of his mind, the house appeared grey, dormant and totally lifeless. Even so, the darkened windows, while unevenly boarded over, still seemed somehow silently watchful. This ancient, malevolent domicile gave the impression of being some aged, hulking beast, waiting patiently through the years for unsuspecting prey and he feared that if he entered the house it would somehow devour him, completely.'

“Darkness Falls”
Darkness is falling and I'm too tired to fight,
I can hear them calling--spirits lost in the night.
I have done what I can , but now I know,
I'm all my myself, so it's time to go.
The damage is done, there's too much to mend,
So, it is finally time to just say...
The End

There you have a slight taste of what awaits you within the pages of “Dreams of Darkness, Dreams of Night.” I hope you enjoy this 'dark ride' as much as I have enjoyed(?) bringing it to you. Never forget, however, that darkness is not absolute--it is merely the absence of light. I wrote much of this book, over the years, in a darkness of my own making, because I had forgotten how to turn on the light. I think I know where it is, now, and how to turn it on. Let us hope I do not lose my way, again, and become trapped within that void once more.

Terry D. Scheerer