Horror Book by Thom Carnell

Author:Thom Carnell [Carnell, Thom]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: horror, short stories, dark fiction
Publisher: Crossroad Press
Published: 2021-10-21T00:00:00+00:00

The Dagger of Golgotha

This story came about as a result of me doing what I do: staring out of the window and thinking about the world (something I’ve been doing a lot as of late). I wasn’t raised in what anyone would call a religious household, but I did end up looking into different religions as I got into my pre-teens. I also worked with clergy extensively while I was in Funeral Service. What I found was that it wasn’t for me. That said, I do continue to have an appreciation for its iconography (something we’ll get to in the story itself) and its sense of pageantry. But back to the window gazing… This story features the inimitable Father Thorpe who people (and I) seem to quite enjoy. This story gives a little more background on the guy and helps detail the early days in the relationship between him and Dr. Flemish (reference “The Sword of Saint Michael” from Moonlight Serenades). It also gives me a chance to flesh out the world in which he operates a little more… which is always fun! I’m hoping to one day pull all of the Father Thorpe stories I have together into a single narrative, but… we’ll have to see if it’s something that time will allow.

Sunlight glinted off the whirling blades of the twin-engine Bell 230 as the helicopter dropped out of a cloud-filled sky. The aircraft was sleek-looking with long elegant lines and a futuristic tone to its overall hardware. The helicopter spiraled down, spinning on its axis, using its mass to slow its rotation. It finally settled onto its three wheels, the tires sinking like pylons into the soft, sandy ground.

The pilot cut power to the engines and the rotors wound down like an unattended child’s toy. The weight of the craft settled onto its landing gear and the hydraulics grunted as they accepted their heavy load. Father Thorpe stepped out of the wide, side door once it had been opened by the lone ground crewman standing by waiting on the tarmac.

The man was a local; rail-thin, Hispanic, and dressed in worn dungarees and a beige, button-up shirt. He looked tired and acted like he couldn’t have cared less about anything going on around him.

Thorpe waited, stretching out the kinks, and composing himself after the long flight from Rio Gallegos. He let his gaze wander around the Aeropuerto de Ishuala, a small airfield in the Tierra del Fuego province of southern Argentina, and saw little to impress him. Essentially a waystation/jumping-off point for those looking to either get to the Antarctic to the south, Australia to the west, or the African continent across the Atlantic to the east.

The air was warm and still around him; not hot enough to make him sweat, but still not so cold as to make him want a jacket. He looked up and took in the darkening sky dotted with stratocumulus clouds that stretched out over the airport like a loosely crocheted blanket.

The grounds man

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