"A Cup of Tea?"
"There is a mysterious world which has been forgotten. A fascinating world, where time has stopped. Where mankind has withdrawn and nature slowly gains ground. It's a place where loneliness and desolation exist in silence."
"What a lovely morning. Yes indeed, quite lovely. I should know the mornings by now, they're all so lovely. Ah, that's better. Quite comfortable this chair. Or maybe some improvement. Yes, perhaps a new pillow on the chair. I think brown would satisfy it. Oh, there you are Milly, I thought you might have forgotten my tea."
"No sir, didn't forget."
"Not too much sugar I hope. You do remember last time, just a little bit too much."
"Not too much sugar sir."
"Good, yes quite good. I'll take it here on the table. Yes, right here, and my newspaper? Oh my, forgot again didn't you? What am I to do with you Milly. Always forgetting."
"I didn't forget your paper sir. It's there on the table next to your tea."
"So it is. My, my, I must have these old glasses fixed. Don't you agree Milly? Please say yes."
"Yes sir, have your glasses fixed."
"I knew it. You're right Milly. You always seem to be right on most things, yes quite right. I think that will be all Milly. Don't wander off now, we can't have that, can we?"
"No sir."
"Goodbye Milly. I will call if I need anything else."
"Yes sir, goodbye."

A car pulls up the old dirt driveway and stops near the front door. A middle age woman wearing a trench cost steps out of the driver's seat. She wraps the collar of her trench cost around her neck and approaches the front porch. She knocks on the old splintered door.
The door opens, cracking over the rusted hinges. A man peers out through the slit in the opening. "Yes?"
"Mr. Harrington?"
"Yes, that right. What do you want?"
"We spoke on the telephone yesterday about the house. Miss Roberts."
"Oh yes. Please come in Miss Roberts," stepping back widening the opening in the door.
"You're the caretaker. I believe you mentioned that." unbuttoning her trench coat.
"Yes, that's right," pivoting around towards the main room. "Watch your step. I wouldn't want you to step on one of those rats running around," smiling. "The enclosed porch is out here," nodding towards a door.
"You mentioned that an elderly man lived here at one time."
"Mr. Hartington. He passed on about forty years ago."
"Your father?"
"What?
"You both have the same name."
"Oh, sorry. I wasn't thinking for a moment. Yes, definitely related."
"No other owners?"
"None whatsoever."
"Quite a long time to be a caretaker."
"Well, I really don't mind Miss Roberts. I've become quite attached to the old place, opening the door to the enclosed patio room. "Here we are. One of my favourite places," stepping into the room. Miss Roberts follows.
"So, what do you think," staring at her.
"Very interesting. I think it would do quite nice for our magazine article. Shall we work out the details?" Sliding into one of the old chairs.
"Not much to really talk about," pulling up another chair."
"What about your price?"
"Perhaps we should have some tea while we discuss the matter. Yes, I think that would be nice. Yes, quite nice. Not to hot as I always say, too hot always spoils the flavour, wouldn't you agree? Well of course you would. I think all ladies would agree on that one. Here's Milly now. Just in time. Come on in Milly. Two cups of tea if you would. We have a guest and surely not to disappoint, wouldn't you agree Milly?"
"Yes sir, two cups of tea."
"Not to disappoint Milly, as I said."
"Yes sir," not to disappoint," leaving the room.
"Well now, what shall we talk about Miss Roberts?"
Milly? Staring at Mr. Harrington. Is she your granddaughter?"
"Oh good heavens no. She's my sister. Quite a young lady, yes quite a girl when she gets things right. Known her all my life. Yes sir, we were born upstairs way back when as they say. That's right, in the same room. But we're not going anywhere, after all, this is our home."
"But you're so much older."
"Oh not really. We just like to play games Miss Roberts. Ya know, let's be older, let's younger. Let's be, oh I don't know, lots of different things. Wanna play? After all, you're not going anywhere either. Nice to have company again. And Milly really makes wonderful tea, did I tell you that? Yes, quite wonderful once she puts her mind to it. Don't you agree? Surely you must agree?"
Miss Roberts slides out of her chair and
walks towards one of windows. She stares out at the old trees and grass which surround the room, then turns towards Mr. Harrington. "What is this place?"
"Well now, that all depends. Milly always says it's a graveyard. But I try to teach her that a much more sensible word would be cemetery. Wouldn't you agree Miss Roberts?"
"So you're saying we're all dead?"
"Well of course. What do think cemeteries are for?"

References:
▪ Story by Abbie Stewart
▪ Photo: Abandoned mansion in Belgium. Photo by Laurentzi Martinez Morilla on 500px.
© 2018 ABBIE STEWART ALL RIGHTS RESERVED ON WRITTEN MATERIAL

The Twilight Zone, Episode 7. "The Emergency Call."
Footsteps are heard sneaking up an old wooden staircase. Two people moving as one. Topping the stairs, they creep down the hall to the closed door that protects her. We can hear them behind it whispering and bickering insanely at each other.
The squeak of a door knob slowly turns. Then the faint click of the latch. The door inches open, throwing a razor-thin shaft of light into the darkness where it illuminates a ten-year-old girl who sits up in bed. Dead tired. Sensing the two dark faces peering in at her.

"We can see you..."

Then the door closes, leaving her once more in total darkness.
They start bickering again as they shuffle away, their footsteps descending the stairs, fading into the uneasy silence of the old house.

The ten year old girl picks up her cell phone and dials police emergency.
"What is your emergency?," a woman asked at the other end.
"My mommy and daddy are trying to kill me. Please hurry!"
"What is your name and address?"
Anna Myers, 1410 East Houghton. Please hurry," crying now. "Please!"
"Alright Anna, we're sending some one out there right now."
Anna turns over under her covers shaking. 
Six minutes later a police car pulls into the driveway. Two officers, Sargeant Sam Harris and officer Reed approach the door. "Police," pounding on the door.
The deadbolt latch turns with the door cracking open a few inches. "Yes?"
"Mrs. Myers?"
"Yes, that's right."
"We had an emergency call from this address; Anna Myers," both stepping into the hallway. "She said her life was in danger."
"Oh, I'm so sorry officers. I don't know how many times we've told her to stop making those silly phone calls. I guess we'll just have to take her phone away now."
"We'd like to talk to Anna."
"She's probably asleep."
"Just show us her room."
"Certainly, this way," leading the officers up the stairs. 

Slowing cracking the door to Anna's room, Mrs. Myers said in a whisper, "There she is, sound asleep."
Turning on their flashlights both officers approached Anna's bed.
Sargeant Harris immediately calls on his radio; "This is 7659, we have a child who is not breathing. Request an ambulance at 1410 East Houghton and immediate backup. We're starting CPR."
"Still no pulse."
"Keep trying."
"I am, I am. Come on Anna, breathe!"
Five minutes later a rescue team arrived and rushed into the room. The two officers backed off and stepped out into the hallway with Mrs. Myers.
"You want to tell us what happened?"
"Well, as I just said, she was sleeping. My husband and I put her to bed about an hour ago."
"Where is your husband now Mrs. Myers?"
"In our bedroom at the end of the hall. He hasn't been well lately."
"We're going to have to hold you Mrs. Myers for further questioning."
"Well I guess that would be alright. I do have quite a bit laundry and ironing to do. But I suppose that could wait."
Officer Reed returns from her husband's bedroom.
"He's dead Sam."
"Mrs. Myers, your under arrest," closing the handcuffs around her wrists.
"These two officers will take you downstairs."
"But my laundry and ironing?"
"I'm sure it will wait."

"Sargeant Harris," one of the Paramedics approaching. "The little girl is gonna be okay."
"Thank God. Did she say anything?"
"That's just it, she deaf and blind."
"You mean she can't talk either?
"That's right."
"Did you find her cell phone?"
"It was on the floor.The Forensics officer just dusted the phone for fingerprints."
"And?"
"There weren't any."
"Then who made the emergency call?"
"We don't know. But it wasn't her."

"There are some things that cover an unknown phenomenon - reasons dredged out of the shadows to explain away that which cannot be explained. Call it a reality that could be a dream. Or parallel planes in another dimension. Whatever it is, you just found it in the Twilight Zone."

References:
● Story by Abbie Stewart
● Photo > Staircase, abandonded Charleville Castle, Ireland.
● The use of "The Twilight Zone" name courtesy of the television series by Rod Serling - © Rod Serling.
© 2018 ABBIE STEWART ALL RIGHTS RESERVED ON WRITTEN MATERIAL

"Going Home."
"Long ago a star graced this land with a poet's light of twinkling mysteries, and a magic sunset of golden rays to awaken life. It's still there you know, this poet's light and mysterious magic. It only takes a child to unlock it's mysteries."

Eight year old Carrie Hansen held her grandfather's hand as they walked towards an old barn, gazing at the golden sunset seeping through the old, decaying wood.
"Is this where you use to play when you were my age grandpa?"
"Kinda run down now," staring through the barn. "It was almost new back then," looking down at Carrie; "Yes sweetheart, it was right next to our house."
"What happened to your home?"
"They tore it down a long time ago."
"Maybe it's still there...you know, with your family...and even all your friends."
"That's nice sweetheart...but they're all gone now."
"Come on grandpa, let's see what's in the old barn," pulling his hand.
"Oh, I don't know if I really want..."
"Come on, we'll have fun," running on ahead of him, then looking back.
"Okay miss boss, I'm coming," putting up a smile. "Wait up," finally joining her.

"Wow, this is a great place;" Carrie looking around. "I could stay here forever."
"Maybe we should get going sweetie. It's getting late."
"We can't go. We have to wait."
"Wait for what?"
"The magic to come."
"What do you mean sweetie?"
"We gotta get you home."
"Home?"
"Yea. That's what you said."
"I don't remember saying anything like that."
"You did grandpa," walking towards him. "You told me when you were lying down."
"When was that?" Looking confused.
Pausing, then peering out into the golden light, then back looking into his eyes, she told him; "Always remember grandpa, a person can do anything, but only if they truly wish for it with all of their heart...and I heard your wish and felt your heart. I knew that's what you wanted," turning towards the sunset. "It's almost here," squeezing his hand.

He looked deep into the sunset, feeling the warmth as it's rays blossomed across the meadows, hovering just above the old barn. He kneeled down next to Carrie; "How did you know sweetheart? How did you know I wanted to go back?"
"I heard you whisper just before you died. So I came down to make your wish come true."
'Then...you're not really my..."
"I've always watched over you," cutting in. "Your family is waiting...I can see them just over the horizon," giving him a kiss on the cheek. "I love you," and then he was gone.

Carrie looked out into the moving waves of golden light, dancing across the horizon. She smiled with a tear, then whispered, "I'll always be watching over you...always."

- Story by Abbie Stewart
- Photo: Abandoned barn in Nebraska.

© 2018 ABBIE STEWART ALL RIGHTS RESERVED ON WRITTEN MATERIAL

"A Place to Watch the Seasons Go By."
"This is where she used to sit," the old man catching his breath at the top of the stairs.
"Are you okay Mr. Hartington?" Lisa Hargrove following behind him.
"Just the asthma...gettin' old ya know," sitting down in the chair glancing up towards the window. "She always liked to watch the seasons go by," pausing, turning his head towards Lisa. "Sad times back then when they locked her in this Reformatory."
"I never knew until I got your letter. My mom..."
"Ya, I know. Your mom just wanted to protect you," striking a match to his pipe. "But I wanted you to know the truth. That's why I sent you the letter."
"So what happened?" Lisa resting against the old desk.
"I always knew she was here." Leaning back in the chair humming an old nursery rhyme;
"Baby dear, good night, good night,
Doggie lies in slumbers deep;
Hush-a-bye, my treasure bright,
Pussy, too, is fast asleep.
Don't you wake them! If you do,
Pups will bark, and Puss will mew.
Go to sleep, and never fear,
Mother will call when morning's near."

Sliding out of the chair he approached Lisa, leaning against the old table beside her. "They took her away from your grandfather then put your mom in an orphanage. I think she was about twenty years old as I recall. They didn't give reasons for taking people away back then. Shortly after that your mom got adopted. Years later she married your dad and never talked about your grandma again. But she knew...," reaching for a handkerchief in his pocket coughing then turning his head towards her. "She always wanted to see you...meet her granddaughter, but it wasn't allowed."
"Why did she hum that nursery rhyme?"

Turning around glancing out the window, he took his handkerchief and wiped some of the dust off the glass. "She just watched the seasons go by...year after year," a tear falling down his cheek. "Had to be quiet...don't you wake them...just go to sleep," looking back at Lisa. "They did some terrible things to her... being the janitor here for fifty one years. I knew what they were doing. Then one day...a Spring day as I remember, she died. They found her lying on the floor under the window. Right above her was a flower she had drawn on the window through the grease and dust that covered the glass," reaching in his pocket for an envelope. "Here," handing the envelope to Lisa. "She wanted you to have this...been carrying it around for ten years."

Lisa tore the side of the envelope sliding out a wrinkled piece of paper. Her eyes fell upon her grandmother's words; "My dearest granddaughter. It broke my heart that I never had the opportunity to meet you. Every day I wondered where you were, what you were doing, and if you were happy. There were so many things I wanted to tell you, share with you..If only I could have held you in my arms. But if your reading this letter, I know your grandfather is alive. He will explain everything to you. God bless you my precious child. I will always love you.
Your Grandmother."
Lisa looked up at the old man with tears falling down her cheeks; "Grandpa?"
"Yes sweetheart, it's me."
"Omg," throwing her arms around him. "Don't let me go...don't ever let go."
"Never again sweetheart...I promise you that," holding her close.

▪ Story by Abbie Stewart
▪ Photo by CM Goodenbury. An old abandoned Reformatory.
© 2018 ABBIE STEWART ALL RIGHTS RESERVED ON WRITTEN MATERIAL

"Cresent Moon over an Abandoned House, South Dakota US."
▪ Photo by Aaron Groen

"The Twilight Zone," Episode 6. "Just a Girl on the Road."
"This highway leads to the shadowy maze of reality. You're on a route that leads to the land of the bizarre, the unexplainable...somewhere in another dimension where escape is not an option. Next stop The Twilight Zone.

It was pitch black. The long stretch of black asphalt faded into the storm as the pounding rain was absorbed into gusts of thunder and wind. A dim, faint light appeared in the distance, approaching, growing larger. It was a car nearing the fork in the highway slowly coming to a stop. An image of a girl wearing a heavy raincoat neared the car, closing in until she stopped, blinded by the headlights.

A front window rolled down. Cupping his hands around his face he squinted his eyes. "Need a ride?" No response. Again, "Hey," raising his voice, "do you need a ride?" No response. "If you don't want a ride, then get the hell out of the way," rolling his window up.
She instantly appears at his window, lowering her face with her piercing eyes staring through the glass. She holds up a small sign; 'I need a ride.'
Cracking the window he told her to get in.
She closes the door behind her, peeling off her soaked raincoat.
"I'm Jason, where you headed?"
She doesn't answer, just stares out the front window, shivering cold.
"Here," grabbing a blanket from the back seat. "This should warm you up," watching her wrap the blanket around herself. He glances down at her Levis which are spotted in blood. "You're bleeding. Are you okay?"
"This guy tried to rape me," still staring through the front window.
"So what happened?"
"I told you. A guy tried to rape me," glancing over at him.
"Who was he?"
"I don't know, just some old guy."
"Did you call the cops?:
"Hell no...I just shot him," pulling out a 38 special from her coat. "Think you can be a good boy and just shut up?" Pointing the gun at his head.
"I was just making conversation. Why don't you put the gun away?"
"Just drive."

At 2am the low fuel light starts blinking. "We need some gas," glancing over at her.
"Then find a station."
"At 2am?"
"If you don't like it, then get out and walk."
"But it's my car."
"So what."
"Alright, I'll find a station."

A few miles down the road a light reflects through the rain.
"Looks like a station," turning off the highway onto a muddy lane curving around in front of two gas pumps. "Says closed."
"I'll be right back," closing the door behind her as she walks over to a small house behind the gas pumps. She knocks. A few minutes later footsteps could be heard approaching the door. The lock turns as the door cracks open with the shadow of an old man leaning out.
"What do you want? We're closed."
"The keys to the pump on your belt."
"Get the hell off my property," starting to close the door.
"I gotta a hundred bucks."
"What?"
"You heard me."
"Alright, give me the money first."
"Come out and get it."
"Hand it through the door."
"Sure," pulling out her 38 firing one bullet to his head. "Stupid old fart," leaning down grabbing his keys. 

Returning to the car she waves him forward to the second pump. Unlocking the gas valve, she puts the nozzle in the gas pipe. Eighteen gallons later she closes the gas tank and tosses the open hose on the ground. "Let's go," closing the car door firing a shot into the gas pump. "Move!" Pushing her foot down on the gas pedal as the explosion blows across the station, flaring up the night sky.
"What the hell was that?"
"A thank you note for the gas...only about ten miles now," lighting up a cigarette."
"Ten miles to what?" He asks.
"You'll just have to wait and see," cracking the window open.
"I never did get your name."
"Just a girl on the road," looking up from her window. "Big storm coming...pull over will ya?"
"Here?" Slowing down as he looks around. "There's nothing here."
"See ya around," stepping out of the car fading into the darkness towards an old church and graveyard.

He slowed down the car as the rain began to flood over his windshield. The raging wind with bolts of lightning spread across the sky. He stopped the car nearing the fork in the highway. An image of a girl wearing a heavy raincoat neared the car, closing in until she stopped, blinded by the headlights. 

A front window rolled down. Cupping his hands around his face he squinted his eyes. "Need a ride?"

"Only dreams can take us places far beyond the unknown - dreams that defy reality by repeating themselves over and over again down that road less traveled... into the Twilight Zone."

● Story by Abbie Stewart
● Photo: Abandoned Chapel, Czech Republic by Vladimir Dolezel.
● The use of "The Twilight Zone" name courtesy of the television series by Rod Serling - © Rod Serling.
© 2018 ABBIE STEWART ALL RIGHTS RESERVED ON WRITTEN MATERIAL

"The Glory Hole Hotel, Oatman, Arizona Ghost Town." Once abandoned, the old hotel was restored into a Museum and Antique Shop.
The Story.
Old man Johnny Barlow sat in his rocker on the porch of the Oatman Hotel. He struck a match lighting his pipe, then looked up at me. "Yes sir, Oatman was quite a town in it's day. I was only a boy when they discovered that $10 million dollar gold ore in 1915. That's when all them miners, families, and just plain folk flooded the town. Some 10,000 as I recall," leaning over tapping his pipe against an old wooden beam. "Before that, 'ol prospector Johnny Moss discovered gold in the area in 1863, though it didn't officially become a town until 1906."

"Where did the name 'Oatman' come from?" Resting myself against a pole on the porch watching him lean forward in his rocker.

"That's kinda a sad story young lady. Sure you wanna know?"

"I nodded my head."

"Well, the Oatman family...that being the Mr. and Mrs. and their two daughters Olive Ann Oatman and her sister Mary Ann...all traveling together in that covered wagon across the Oregon trail...then wantin' to take that southern cutoff to California. It was just over them hills yonder that they were attacked by the Apache Indians in 1851. Only the two daughters survived. They were sold to the Mohave Indian band of Chief Espaniol, for two horses, beans, and three blankets. He took care of them and included them in his household as domestic slaves. They died later, sometime later, don't recall when."

"So the town was named after the Oatman family?"

"Well kinda. It was really picked up as an honor to Olive Oatman cause of all the things that happened to her when she was captured by them Indians."

"What happened to the town after that," I asked.

"When United Eastern Mining closed in 1942, the people just left...only about 60 people now in town...kinda like a Ghost town with those tumble weeds blowing across the dirt...and nights with just them crickets scratching their legs together. It was after that the tourists kept the town alive. I suppose that's why your here," lowering his pipe giving me a grin."

"I thanked him for taking the time to tell me his story."

Looking up he said, "Ain't got much else to do," rocking back in his chair. "You take care now young lady."

▪ Story by Abbie Stewart. The facts in the story are true.
▪ The name "glory hole" originally meant "a hole in a mineshaft where an ore-body is mined upwards until it breaks through the surface into the open air."

© 2018 ABBIE STEWART ALL RIGHTS RESERVED ON WRITTEN MATERIAL

"The Return Home"
"The more sand that has escaped from the hourglass of our life, the clearer we should see through it."
- Jean-Paul Sartre
The birds were not singing anymore. The long ledge by Alma Cuthbert's window was always filled with small canaries singing their songs. Today was different. Miss Cuthbert was gone. Disappeared. For Seventy three years, three months and sixteen days she had lived in that house. Her birth certificate, frail and torn, could still be seen crumbled beneath papers and magazines in her bedside table drawer. Her worn nightgown still spread silently across the old quilts that doubled up in layers over her bed. And the old Singer sowing machine sat in the same corner it had rested for over fifty years. "Where was she?" The town whispered. After several months the house was locked up by the city real estate office.

A young girl stepped up on the porch of the old house, turned and looked out over the vast fields of green grass. "This time we'll get it right," leaning against the old porch pole. "She knew it was coming."
"What was coming?"
"You're my brother John. I'm surprised you didn't feel it too," glancing down at him leaning against a 1948 Plymouth.
"I don't remember feeling anything."
"She knew someone's time was coming."
"I don't understand sis. What do you mean?"
Stepping down the old, broken steps she motioned with her hand; "Come here, I'll show you," turning towards the back of the house. "Over there by the large Maple tree...come on."
"I'm coming," moving up next to her. "I don't see anything...just grass and weeds."
Kneeling down, she picked up a small rock and tapped the tree bark. A key fell from the branches above landing in front of her. "See...I knew," standing up holding the key."
"How'd you do that? Asked John.
"We can go home John. You're safe now," turning back towards the house.
"Wait sis. What are you talking about?" Running up beside her, then momentarily distracted as he glanced towards the front yard; "Where's the car?"
"There is no car."
"What?"
"Come in the house," opening the front door with the key. "Don't be afraid...it's just our home," taking his hand, then closing the door behind them. A bright light flashed, then all was quiet.

Turning the doorknob to the Sheriff's office, Joe Brody, the town realtor, walked over to the Sheriff's desk. "I found this note pinned to the staircase of the old Cuthbert place when I was showing a couple the house today," Laying the note on his desk.
"You mean someone was actually interested in buying that old place?" Picking up the paper. "Damn, where are my glasses," pulling out a desk drawer. Alright," reading over the words, then looking up at Joe. "What is this? Some kind of joke?"

"I don't think so" picking up the note and reading it out loud;
"I came back for my brother because I didn't want him to die in that horse buggy accident out at Davidson Mill again. This time I saved him. I wish I had before. We're home now...starting over."
Signed Alma Cuthbert
July 14, 1901

"Come on Joe, it's 1952. Just a bunch of kids playing around," lighting up a cigarette.
"I found a key too," bringing it up from his pocket. It's one of the originals from the 1880's."
"And you believe all this?"
"There's more. I matched the handwriting and signature on this note to Miss Cuthbert's property deed and her will. They're the same...they match."
"That's impossible."
"Then explain this," dropping a newspaper over his desk. "The obituary at the bottom right."
"A 1901 newspaper? Where'd you get this?"
"County archives. Just read it Sheriff."
"July 16th 1901. Jonathan Cuthbert, age eighteen, died yesterday from his injuries when his buggy hit a water marsh by Davidson Mill and fell over the side and into the river."
"So he died then," lifting his head.
"Ya, the first time. She came back a day before the accident to get him so it wouldn't happen again. Like she said Sheriff," picking up her note: "This time I saved him. I wish I had before... We're home now...starting over."
"She was just 21 years old in 1901." How could she come back in 1901, then leave a note in 1952?
"Beats me Sheriff. But the canaries are back singing on her window ledge."

References
- Story by Abbie Stewart
- Photo: Abandoned Glen Echo Plantation, Southern Georgia - built in 1773.
© 2018 ABBIE STEWART ALL RIGHTS RESERVED ON WRITTEN MATERIAL

"Starry Night over an Abandoned Church, South Dakota."
▪ Photo by Aaron Groen