In Rod We Trust

Foreword

These thirteen stories are my personal tribute and homage to the late, great Rod Serling and his seminal show The Twilight Zone.

These stories vary from fantasy to the fanciful, from horror to the horrific, with excursions into the magical, the unbelievable and the whimsical and even a side trip into science fiction.

As a tribute to Rod Serling and his timeless and unforgettable show, I tried to make these stories as varied and entertaining as The Twilight Zone and even Night Gallery was.

There is no way that I consider myself anywhere close to the caliber of Mr. Serling. He was an unbelievable writer that has remained unsurpassed to this day. He was that great, and my greatest influence on me wanting to be a writer.

I knew from an early age at the first sound of the opening musical introduction to The Twilight Zone that we were in for something extraordinary. There was a different treat with each episode. I was hooked immediately. Since then I always wanted to write stories like that.

The stories were powerful. Especially when it came to right and wrong, prejudice and humanity, love and hatred. They have remained so even with the passage of time. The Twilight Zone is a legendary show because it is as relevant today as it was then.

Some of my favorite episodes were Two, The Masks, Death’s Head Revisited, The Obsolete Man, The Passersby, The Changing of the Guard, A Quality of Mercy, The Trade-Ins, He’s Alive and On Thursday We Leave for Home.

I think his closing monologue to his stories Death’s Head Revisited, The Obsolete Man, and In Praise of Pip are some of his finest, most memorable and most haunting writing to me. The stories themselves are truly great as well. I hope I am able to one day write as well as that. I don’t think anyone really can, because he was an original, but one can dream.

In high school, I began writing for a local newspaper covering primarily girls’ sports and features. This was a great training ground for me. It taught me that when writing fiction that I needed to grab a reader early, much like Rod Serling’s opening monologue hooked us into each show.

In 2000 I published my first book. A short time later I wrote my first Twilight Zone-inspired story, The Beggar and the Devil.

Since then, I have written a few others. They have been sprinkled throughout my other books here and there. I decided to put them all here in my tribute to Rod Serling. It is my thank you and eternal gratitude that first inspired me to write and for my all-time favorite television show.

I just hope that these stories are viewed as a worthy tribute to such a great and legendary writer. So, thank you Mr. Serling for your influence and unforgettable stories.

That being said, I have submitted for your approval and entertainment pleasure these stories.

So, without further ado, here are my stories.

From one Zoner to another.

In Rod We Trust.

The Beggar & the Devil

The beggar sat on the park bench exhausted. He momentarily closed his eyes to rest as a cool late afternoon autumn breeze blew against his face. He had just eluded a shopkeeper and his sons after stealing some Reisling Wine and fine cheese. Somehow, even in his current condition, he had gotten away. He’d eluded his pursuers through his superior knowledge of back streets and alleyways. For the moment, he was safe.

Now, he just sat there, breathing hard and sweating. His heart continued to pound. He coughed and hacked from all of the years of smoking and drinking. He was too tired to enjoy the fruits of his labor. He was just another beggar, too tired to really drink and eat at the moment.

In another life, years earlier, he was known as Alfred Hummell. Promising artist, poet, designer and political activist. Most of all, dreamer.

Once destined for greatness.

Abject failure.

Now, all he was, was a tired old beggar. A tramp. Someone who lived on the scraps and garbage of society. A dirty man in worn out clothes and a dirty, rumpled gray overcoat. Nameless, but for the title of Beggar.

He closed his eyes to rest and enjoy a peaceful moment. There he is! came a shout.

He opened his eyes only to see that the shopkeeper and his sons had found him. Before he could get up to run, they were on him. He stood up and tried to run away, but it was too late. The two sons grabbed him and started to pummel him unmercifully.

Dirty Beggar! the shopkeeper yelled as he grabbed the cheese out of his hands and then kicked him in the groin.

We will show you what happens to people who steal fine wine! said one of the shopkeeper’s sons.

The beggar dropped the bottle of wine onto the ground, where it hit a rock and shattered, splashing wine all over the ground and the men. The shopkeeper’s sons continued to pound him as he fell to the ground. As they continued their savage beating, the shopkeeper turned to see two large black dogs, with fierce red eyes and sharp teeth quietly approach.

They were growling and drooling as if rabid and stalking their prey.

The two men stopped their beating when they finally noticed the dogs themselves. Like their father, they turned to watch the two dog’s approach.

Run! yelled the shopkeeper, as all three men then turned to run away, with the large dogs rapidly in pursuit.

The beggar was on the ground semi-conscious, but he could still hear the men’s screams of terror and pain as the beasts tore into them. He laid there for a few minutes, coughing and gasping, as his cuts bled freely. This had been the story of his whole life. His lot in life had always been somebody else’s fault, not his own. It was always somebody else that was trying to keep him down.

He knew he was better than this.

He was just never given the opportunity to show how good he was. All he needed was the right circumstances to do it.

He sensed somebody nearby. At first, he thought it might be the authorities or the shopkeeper and his sons returning. He looked up through his swollen and dazed eyes to only see a blur. He thought he was looking at some kind of reptilian beast’s head with horns and jagged fangs. Then, as the beggar managed to focus more clearly through his swollen eyes, he realized that he was looking at an immaculately dressed, almost regally handsome gentlemen.

He eyed the stranger warily.

Alfred Hummell, I presume? the stranger said, more as a statement than a question, with a wicked smile. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.

Who are you? the beggar asked as he struggled to get up off the ground.

My name is not important right now, the stranger said, with an almost sinister grin. But, Mr. Hummell, please allow me to introduce myself, I am a man of wealth and taste. I am, believe it or not, a friend and a potential benefactor.

I have no friends, the beggar snapped as he finally managed to get up on his feet.

The stranger helped him back over to the park bench. He noticed that the stranger felt hot, yet clammy and somehow different. He also noticed the stranger gave off a particular odor that he could not place either. A kind of burning smell.

Oh, but you do, replied the stranger. Mr. Wittenburg and his sons almost caused you grave bodily harm over that petty larceny you perpetrated. That would have been such a shame. Especially, now.

Damn Jews, he muttered, spitting out the words as if they tasted bad. I hate them.

Well, Mr. Hummell, they will be dealt with, the stranger said. Just then, the two large dogs returned. Their red eyes glowed and blood dripped from their mouths. Each one had what looked like a human arm bone in their mouths. They both stood almost at attention as if on review. He thought that they appeared almost unreal or otherworldly. They were like other large hunting dogs, but something about them was different. A strange, sulfuric smell emanated from them.

Very good Phobos, the stranger said, gleefully as he rubbed the first dogs head. Very good Deimos. Good job my pets. Return home.

The two large dogs turned and walked away, disappearing into the failing light of the late afternoon.

I know about you, Mr. Hummell, the stranger continued as he sat down beside the beggar. You are a man of under-appreciated and unique talents. You are my kind of man.

He was still wary but was now intrigued by the stranger and his knowledge of him. So, what do you want with me? he asked.

I would like to be your generous benefactor, Mr. Hummell, the stranger answered.

Alfred Hummell died a long time ago, he replied, as he gently rubbed his wounds. I am no longer that man. I am no longer worth being a benefactor to."

Not getting into that art school pretty much destroyed you, the stranger said matter-of-factly. Not really achieving in secondary school didn’t help. Plus, bad business decisions. But, art school really was what hurt you. It was your dream. That may have started your downward trend, Mr. Hummell. Fortunately, for you I see a deep dark desire that still burns within you.

How do you know this? he asked, looking at the stranger.

For the first time he looked at the stranger in the face. He noticed that his eyes had no color. The irises were black. He could see that they were lifeless.

I see it in your eyes, the stranger replied. The eyes truly are the window to the soul, you know. Yours still burn with a desire for some kind of manifest destiny. A burning desire for an indescribable kind of revenge.

The beggar rubbed his swollen eyes gently. I still dream, he said. I still dream big. I want to prove all of my detractors so very wrong. I want to show them. I want to show them all. I want to show the whole world. I still dream.

Well, Mr. Hummell, I can help you, the stranger said. What is it you crave most? What is it, you most desire in life? What do you need most for your very existence? Not to just exist, but to really, really live! What are you most passionate for? What is your aphrodisiac?

The beggar leaned his head back and thought for a few minutes. What I really desire, he said softly. Hmmm. He then leaned forward. I don’t know if you can give me that. It isn’t really something you can grasp with your hands.

You would be surprised with what I can give you, Mr. Hummell, the stranger said. I too, have some unique talents and powers.

Power, the beggar said. That is what I crave most. Power. Power. Prestige. Infamy. Notoriety. I want the world to know who I am. I want to be able to damn all those who would not give me a chance. I want to make them quake in their boots. Especially the Wittenburgs of the world. Them and others who have kept me from what I have deserved to have in my life. That’s what I want. I want to discard and reject women, like the whores they are. As if they were rubbish. Like the ones who rejected me. That kind of power. Power and control. Control over lives like others had over my life for all of these years. I want power and greatness. That which cannot be forgotten. That which cannot be denied.

To be God-like amongst the people? the stranger asked, already knowing the answer.

Exactly! the beggar exclaimed proudly, with glee as he stood, in spite of his injuries. I want all of that and more. I once wanted to be a great artist and writer. Great enough to turn heads of royalty and the very wealthy. Now, I want that and more.

I can make it so that women will kill themselves, if they cannot have you, the stranger said with a wicked smile.

Excellent, he smiled. Will I be an artist? An architect? A writer? A poet? A leader of some kind?

Mr. Hummell, the stranger said. In your own way, you will be all that and much, much more. I can almost guarantee it.

Excellent, he said with an equally wicked grin. I would give my soul to have all that you speak of.

I know, Mr. Hummell, said the stranger. That is why I would like to be your benefactor. You are perfect for what I have in mind.

So, what is required of me? the beggar said as he sat back down.

Have you ever heard of soul transformation? the stranger asked.

No, replied the beggar.

Well, it is a simple procedure, the stranger continued to explain. All you have to do is find someone with the same initials and birth date as yourself.

Oh, that’s all, he said sarcastically. There are hundreds of people in this village. How am I to find the exact one? It’s impossible. So much for my dreams of power and grandeur.

That is where I come in, Mr. Hummell, the stranger explained. It is easier than you think. I know of a four-year-old boy on the other side of the village who shares both your initials and birth date.

Really?

Yes, replied the stranger. Usually this must be done on your birthdays."

"My birthday is in April. I don’t think I can make it until then. I am too injured to make it to the other side of the village anyway.

I know, the stranger said. But tonight is Old Hallow’s Eve, thus making it a night where souls are closest to the earth and perfect for soul transformation.

Transportation will be provided, the stranger said. We just cannot have you missing out on this opportunity.

The stranger then whistled. Out of nowhere a black carriage with two large black horses with red eyes rode up. They were driven by an indistinguishable hooded figure with no visible face.

The stranger helped the beggar up and into the carriage. Inside the carriage was a plush and comfortable crimson red. It was something only the very wealthy or royalty could afford or even dream of riding in.

Aaahh, yes October, said the stranger, once he was inside the carriage. It is a lovely time for a carriage ride, would you not say, Mr. Hummell?

I suppose it is. At least the temperatures are pleasant this year.

Do you realize it is Old Hallows Eve? the stranger asked.

The beggar shook his head no. Time is of no importance to me, he answered. I don’t even know what year it is anymore.

I can understand that, the stranger said. Being in the position that you are in.

This soul transformation, the beggar said. What is it, exactly? What do I have to do? How does it work?

Well, first of all, you have to touch the other person, the stranger replied. You have to touch the other person and recite a certain incantation three times either on the day of your births or on the holiday of Old Hallow’s Eve. The power generated by the dead souls will enable the transformation. Your soul will leave your body and pass into his, while his will pass into yours. A trade of sorts. As well as, a second chance for you.

That’s all there is?

Well, there is a bit of a charge that will give you a bit of a shock and numb your senses, the stranger replied. "Nothing too terribly bad. You may even be unconscious for a little while.

That’s it then?

Yes, the stranger answered and then nodded and pointed.

The carriage driver then hit the reigns and the horses took off down the road and through the town at an incomprehensible speed. The beggar could not believe how fast they arrived at the other side of town. He saw a few people here and there, but none seemed to notice the carriage or its occupants. The beggar noticed that the horses and the carriage made no noise. It was as if they were not really there.

Instead of arriving on the other side of the village in minutes, they were there in seconds. The carriage stopped and his new friend and benefactor climbed out. The carriage then took off down the road and disappeared from sight.

Well, we are at the house of the little boy, the stranger said. We are actually near the back of his house. Now, you just have to wait for the boy to come out so you can do the soul transformation.

The beggar finally realized who he was talking to. "You’re