John D. Hartman
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Man is the strangest of all created creatures. His actions are often dictated by reflex, more often by needs and desires, sometimes by well thought out plans and quite often by on the spot decisions. Man often may seem the most irrational of all creatures and his deeds can make one wonder if he is, as touted, the highest form of life. A man''s thoughts are always more strange than his actions for thoughts have no physical or spiritual limits, no set rules that must be followed, no constraints that have to be obeyed, and no fear of being discovered. Within this small anthology of short stories, you will visit a hallowed church ravaged by war, a haunted house waiting for just the right person to arrive, sinister cats, and the unrestrained forces of nature. There is no set theme that flows through the writings. There are the scary little horror stories that may give you a chill, stories about everyday life, and tales of what may be. The only common factor is that they are the result of imagination, that rebel of society and social norms. It is imagination that frees the slaves of conformity. It is imagination that allows all men to become super heroes, rock stars, inventors and explorers. It is also imagination that allows men to visit the dark side of life without fear of embarrassment or persecution. It is imagination that helps a child to grow and develop and it is imagination that allows men of vision to forge ahead and make our society what it is today. So walk up the stairs of the belfry and discover what you will as you peer out through the steeple window.
John Hartman lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. After a long career in the railroad industry, he now has found time to return to his first love: writing. During his college years, he had worked as a magazine writer as well as working for the railroad. After a while, he had set writing aside so as to give his full attention to the more stable and profitable career. Now he is able to devote himself to both his writing and to cataloguing his extensive film memorabilia collection. After placing a collection of short stories into print, The Belfry and Other Stories, and die horror novel Fruelic''''s Lair, he is now working on a new book tentatively entitled Flight of the Fire Child and editing additional short stories that he hopes to publish within the coming year.
I wait here patiently at the gravesite thinking back to my first look at the rugged old church. It now seems such a lifetime ago although it has been merely three days, three long, anxious days. At the time the fog had been more opaque than I recalled ever seeing it, even on the moors of my homeland. It had slithered along the ground with the cunning stealth of a predator, patiently stalking its victim, moving this way and that, often curling behind itself as if to check that no one was near enough to observe its actions. It failed in its attempt to flow smoothly as one normally perceives fog. It lumbered, keeping low to the ground, and it grabbed at pebbles and stones as if pulling itself along. Silently it encircled the ancient edifice and the vapor ingested the earth within a thick ivory mist so that the church appeared to teeter upon the deteriorating edge of some sheer precipice. I had wondered if the eroded ground could hold the massive weight erected upon it or if the church would crumble and topple into a yawning abyss. But of course the ground was still there and the church stood firmly upon it as it had done for generations.
The spoiling effects of weather and time had combined with the careless hands of men to debase those high gothic walls. Their thick cut blocks were ulcerated by years of inclement weather and the crumbling mortar between the stones was grasped by talons of thick ivy that clawed and stretched grotesquely as if aching to climb and touch the splintered arched roof.
There could be little doubt that beauty was once captured within the artistry of the brightly stained windows but it was now unrecognizable as pieces of broken colored glass littered the area and sharp foreboding shards dangled loosely, slightly embedded within their soft lead seams. The large bronze cross was poised high upon the tower but the often-proclaimed banner to selfless sacrifice was now scarred and blackened. Gone from it was its religious symbolism and what remained was merely a crusted chunk of metal as if commemorating the battles that were fought near and upon this hallowed plot of earth.
It was here, at the crossroads between the warring realms, that so many young and good lives had been tragically ended. By all accounts it had been an unjustifiable war, a war of the less than civilized ego, one of greed and the constantly inane human lust for power. It was a war that took the life of my dear brother, Marcus. Yes, I recall these last days…
