When Dead Clocks Chime: Volume 1

By C.J. Phillips

When Dead Clocks Chime is the literary debut by C. J. Phillips as author and storyteller. From vengeance to charm, to the paragon of nightmares, C. J. Phillips brings to the printed page haunting tales of heinous jealousy, yuletide romance, and unthinkable horrors. Each paranormal tale takes place within the rich green Americana landscapes of Middle Tennessee, the Missouri Bootheel, and the Memphis river bluffs off the mighty Mississippi River. Three stories by C. J. Phillips, carefully crafted for this first volume of When Dead Clocks Chime, presents an actual ghostly encounter of vehement hate and rage. Fear, torment, and mind scarring aggression between the undead and unborn wreaks havoc in the life of a woman who could never finish her story. "Reckless Scorn" is based on actual events. Love knows no boundaries. Blended amid the holiday trappings of yuletide cheer, this eerie evergreen tale of a promise well kept, just in time, will touch the tender spirit. Each yearning beat of a passionate heart will echo throughout time eternal. Death regards time as an absolute. The unseen realm will manifest a Christmas miracle in "The Silver Watch." Ancient scriptures declare the devil roams about like a lion seeking whom he may devour (1 Peter 5:8), and sin so easily ensnares the unsuspecting soul (Hebrews 12:1). Dreams are made to be accomplished and then snatched away, all because of deceiving fantasies in exchange for a signature etched upon the diabolic walls of a nineteenth century brothel. Blood thirst is unquenchable in "Hiller House."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781644242971

C.J. Phillips

C.J. Phillips and cohorts have scoured much of the western world to bring you this book of the world’s funniest bathroom gibberish. Attempts were made to keep the contents of all "The World's Funniest Bathroom Graffiti" volumes as disgustingly respectable as possible (good luck!). Unlike other graffiti books which present any kind of graffiti, this book concentrates on wall-writing that’s funny."The World's Funniest Bathroom Graffiti" is comprised of several volumes and likely is the funniest collection of bathroom graffiti ever published.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Eloquent Warnings

In the late, vibrant year of 1960, a new morning was awakening for mid-twentieth-century America. The Eisenhower era was giving way to the Kennedies and their utopia vision of Camelot for all.

Standing tall, not far from the middle lands of Springhill, Tennessee, crested with civil war battlefields and monuments of treasured confederate gallantries, towers the Columbia Military Academy. Through the decades, many brave young boys graduated from the academy’s hallowed halls of honor to serve, protect, and defend. Amid the rising hippie, groovy overtones of this particular age, my father, a captain, was a teacher for this fine institution of courage and refined discipline. Accompanied by my mother, my parents-to-be took residence in a refurbished attic of the academy’s administration building, which was converted into a mini-apartment. Perfect for a newlywed couple and their expected child due any time around the New Year. As the Military Academy went about the business of scholastics, drill, and soldiering parades, Mother was enjoying the nuance of being the lady of the house. Father was off doing whatever Captains do best. Often Father was about academy affairs for long days sometimes going well into the evenings. As the fall began to give way to winter’s greeting and the approaching holiday season, the first of many supernatural events suddenly, without warning, occurred in the tiny attic apartment with only my mother to give witness as to what she beheld.

As a late October evening gave way to night, illuminated by a harvest moon in the full glow of organic orange, the hellish ordeal to come eased its way into Mother’s secluded surroundings. Mother was about her household routines when she rounded the corner from the laundry room. Stopping dead fast in her tracks in a jolt of shock, Mother dropped her basket of pressed military shirts. The first of the encounters began. Next to the window overlooking the parade grounds stood a young man in formal attire familiar with the style and eloquence of the mid to late nineteenth century. The man gazed suspiciously off into the distance, his hands clasped behind his back. Mother didn’t know what to make of what she was seeing, or not seeing. The young man by the window was transparent yet solid enough to give recognizable form. Mother stared, squinting with a discerning eye, at the fading in-and-out image. Finally, after what had to be the longest minute she could remember, Mother boldly asked, What are you looking for?

Startled, the ghostly image appeared annoyed by my mother’s ability to see him. The young man slowly turned his head to Mother’s attention. The ghost, seeming perplexed, just stared at my mother.

After a brief pause, the spirit answered, She’s coming. The young man from ages past shook his head and returned to scoping the landscape. Sighing with exasperation the spirit repeated, She’s coming.

Mother, wide-eyed with disbelief, was almost amused, thinking, This has to be some sort of practical joke being played out by some of the senior cadets.

Resigned to impending gloom, the young man looked down to the floor and slowly vanished in a mist of a swirling dust. Mother was no longer amused. Slowly bending down to retrieve her laundry basket, Mother pondered, What had she just seen and heard? What kind of message is ‘She’s coming?’

Shaking her head in astonishment, not believing the vision herself, Mother kept this event to herself. Mother did not want to seem childish or perhaps seen as unfit for a military academy wife. Several nights passed without any further appearances by the young Southern aristocrat. Mother reluctantly chalked it all up to a dream. However, as soon as my mother had dismissed the first visitation as a result of too much milk and pizza before bed, a second encounter would soon manifest within the micro confines of the makeshift apartment.

As usual, my father was about his academy tasks. The short days of late fall turned much of the campus dark early, with only the lights from the dormitories flickering a gentle shimmer from across the way. Mother, who was now great with child, took time to rest in her chair, put her feet up, and began to watch television. While the popular sitcoms of the day entertained my mother while soaking her aching feet in Epsom salts, the light to my father’s office suddenly, with a couple of flickers, turned on.

It couldn’t be my father because the living room was next to the front door. Struggling against the weight of late pregnancy, Mother rose to her feet to turn down the volume on the television console. Mother tilted her ear to the air, straining to listen. The rustling sound of papers could be heard down the hall. Thinking she might have missed my father coming in early, Mother called out.

Are you home?

No response. The continued shifting noise of paper from the office grew louder. Making her way down the hall, her hands bracing against the walls to keep her balance, Mother was in full recall of the young man by the window. Nonetheless, Mother was even more taken back as she beheld a new and different visitation.

Hunched over a desk where Father used to grade papers stood an old lady wearing a shawl and in the same period style of dress. As transparent as the previous ghostly image, an old schoolmarm with glasses over the tip of her nose was frantically scrummaging through the papers on the desk. Flabbergasted, watching this fidgeting woman rustle through my father’s records was a little too much to allow; my mother’s psyche was now running wild, thinking, What the hell.

Again with a boldness of knowing nobody’s going to believe this, Mother asked, What are you doing?

Caught by surprise, the old lady straightened up and studied my mother from head to toe. This spirit, too, heralded a warning. You should not be here.

Indignant and with a firm measure of spite, my mother asked again. What are you doing here?

The old lady’s eyes were fixed upon the scattered papers. Perturbed, the elderly apparition looked sharply back at my mother causing her to take a step or two back defensively. The key, I need the key!

The image began pacing back and forth, tugging at her shawl. Fighting back tears, the old lady’s voice cracked in sorrow. You should not be here. She’s coming.

Like the apparition before, the schoolmarm evaporated into thin air, leaving behind a small breeze, pushing the papers even further across the desk, some of them feathering onto the floor.

Easing down to retrieve the fallen documents, Mother noticed an odd indentation on the inside back leg of the desk. The knob on the leg was definitely not in sequence with the rest of the carved design adorning the desk. Grasping the side of the desk, Mother reached for the back leg. Feeling the outline of the out-of-place shape, it bared the impression of being a button. Curiosity ordained the moment. How could it not, having just conversed with another paranormal specter?

Mother’s fingers firmly pressed against the button. A tiny spring door opened from the side of the desk. A single brass skeleton key was revealed leaning against the back inside corner of the secret compartment.

Surely this must be the key the old lady was searching for, Mother thought. With a slow but steady reach, Mother grasped the key and removed the brass clue from its hiding place.

Mother held the antique key before her dilating pupils. She heard from a distance something no one should ever hear at an all-boys’ military academy—a woman’s scream. Faint, distant, but still a woman’s scream. Not the shocking cries of a woman in distress, but the banshee screech of a woman enraged. With a frightful grip of the key, pressing its curved designs into her skin, the only thought Mother could bring to mind was, She’s coming.

Chapter 2

It Knew Her Name

Still clutching the heavy brass key, Mother slowly backed away from the desk which held the key hidden and locked away.

Locked away from what and why, Mother kept asking herself.

Mother felt weak trying to rationalize these paranormal events running rampant through her mind. Wobbly but steadily forward, the journey back down the hallway seemed like a taunting dream. Each step was heavy-laden like trying to run from whatever pursues you in a nightmare. Upon sitting, trying to reassure herself she was not losing her mind, Mother glanced downward upon the skeleton key. Unable to make sense of anything she had witnessed, the tension was escalated by a greeting looking for a fight.

Gaye!

Hearing her name as audible as the television playing in front of her, Mother clasped with white knuckles the arms of her doily-covered chair. Not sure from which direction the whisper came, Mother’s eyes darted back and forth, scanning the room for any clue or explanation. Mother wanted desperately to shrug it off as all this spooky stuff being some sort of elaborate joke, a clever initiation prank for the new hires to the academy.

Mother was tearfully engaging in the thought, maybe she wasn’t well. Anguished, hinging on the possibility of having slipped into a complete mental impairment, Mother squeezed her lips together, fighting against a rising emotional breakdown. An abrupt body-jerking shock was brought on by the family cat, Red, leaping into Mother’s lap. Bursting into nervous laughter, Mother regained her composure. Grateful for a friend to keep her company through the evening hours until my father returned was never more welcomed. The cat growled in protest, hissing at whatever was lurking down the hallway. Mother had always maintained that Red was a godsend.

Still reluctant to share the ordeals of the previous nights with my father, Mother continued in her resolve to keep the ghostly visitations to herself. Wanting to examine all other possibilities, Mother checked her medications. Was there anything prescribed which would cause some sort of hallucination while pregnant? There were none. Mother researched her diet, thinking perhaps some foods while pregnant may cause the imagination to run amiss—nothing. As a last resort, the academy maintenance man was called to examine the apartment for any