Glimpses

Glimpses
The Life and Times of Hang Plowman
Told In Scenes and Shadows


Rough Draft

Premise: several short stories/movies all linked to the demon, Hang Plowman.

Outline

I. Introduction
A. explanation
B. what to expect.
II. Body
A. Arkansas
B. German Cross
C. Mansion Slayings
III. Interludes
A. The beach
B. The World Trade Center
C. Oh so many colors
IV. End
A. Apology
B. Decision


Introduction


My name is Mark Andrew. I’m going to exclude my last name in order to maintain some sort of anonymity. Were I really trying I suppose I wouldn’t give a name at all, however I want this to be taken serious, as few things with an author’s name omitted are. I suddenly feel a bit of a dread coming on me, as I sit at my computer. I’m not certain why, other than the fact that I’m going to have to delve into my mind rather deeply in order to make any of the following make sense.
From time to time I might have included a writers note, seeing as I am writing this before I start the main piece. I want to see how this effects me, I haven’t quite faced this up til this point, though I’m not afraid of what comes, just a bit of apprehension I suppose. What you are reading is the dreams of either a madman, or the bits and pieces of the life of a demon, but not just any demon, mind you. I suppose he would want to be referred to by the name he gave me, Hang Plowman. A rather odd name for a demon you would say, as I did when he first told me.
Now before the churches amass to burn me at the stake, I’ll state, I’m not involved in the occult. Everything I know about Hang, he has told me in dreams. I didn’t call him up, I never showed interest, this is all him, not I. Hang, undoubtably this isn’t his real name, came to me several years ago. It took some time for me to understand what was going on. It started off with strange and bazaar dreams, leading to further revelations. I don’t know why he is here, what his purpose though I don’t doubt its probably something I’d rather not think about. But for now, make what you can from these stories and glimpses into his life. Ahh yes, one last thing, he goes by another name..

“What It Needs”

Note: The following stories are dreams I’ve had. That is to say that nothing in them is meant to be realistic. I’m not claiming to be a psychic, as far as I know none of this ever happened. This is to avoid any lawsuits that may pop up because of this document.

Arkansas

Chapter One

Somewhere in Arkansas, I’m not saying where, there is a small town. When I say small I do mean small. And when I say “is” I mean “was.” Time might have come, moved, blew, weathered, tore, rended, any other of 1000 adjectives that describe what this thing called time does. So as to where and when this place was (that’s not even accounting for “if”) I don’t know.
If I could guess I would say that this quaint little town in the middle of the dustbowl catches our eyes during the depression. Straight up John Steinbeck depression. Somewhere about that time you wouldn’t be all that surprised if you happened across two men traveling together, one short and beady-eyed the other large with a vacant expression of a child. But this is not “Of Mice and Men.” This is another story…

The good people of the town were just pouring out of their little church, apparently the good reverend had preached a beautiful message on the peace of God. Now the man in the suit wasn’t sure if the people were please because the message filled them with love, or because quite like the peace of God it had passed all understanding. He grinned a little at the thought as he watched the good people wander off towards home, no doubt for a bit of food and more reading of the Holy Scripture.
He waited until the last family moved away, his eyes locked on them all, one at a time. From father in his Sunday best, to mother, whose eyes would haunt their children long after she died of pneumonia next spring, to the children themselves. At last they were gone as he strode up to the still open doors. He took a breath and removed his hat stepping inside.
The inside of the church was like any other, nothing remarkable, nothing had to be for those simple times when faith was all that was needed. Wooden pew carved from oak, stood like soldiers waiting for the word to attack. The sanctuary was quite, other than a bit of noise from the pulpit area.
The man in the suit strode up the aisle, casually he trailed his fingers over the back of the pews as he mounted the few stairs that elevated the man of god above his congregation. And there he was, kneeling, the middle-aged preacher was praying. The man in the suit raised an eyebrow at this as he crossed his hands leaning against the podium.
Mid-prayer the preacher stopped opening his eyes, he turned his head to look at the man.
“Sir, I am in the middle of talking with the Lord. Would you like to join me?”
The stranger tilted his head, “What do you and the Lord talk about, preacher?” Something in the man’s eyes caused the reverend to stand.
“A good many things I don’t believe you would understand, sir.” The preachers eyes began to narrow.
The stranger in the suit chuckled at this walking down the stairs and surveying the silent sanctuary, “No need for cold attitudes with me, reverend, after all I’m only a lost sheep searching for the shepherd.”
“If your seeking a shepherd, sir, you have found one, but if your lyin’ trying to steal the sheep, then you’ve found a warrior in the army of the Lord, who ain’t gonna stand aside and watch no wolf butcher them.” The preachers hand came to rest on the open bible on the pulpit.
The man at last turned back lifting his eyes, as he did so the day seemed to grow quieter. The sun which had beat down outside suddenly seemed like a pale muted light, all paled in comparison to what the preacher saw in the strangers eyes. He gasped taking a step back, before he caught himself.
“That’s right, warrior, look into the eyes of a wolf sometime, you’ll be surprised what you find there.” The man’s eyes shown with a light, like the fires of hell.
The preacher stared as if hypnotized, his mouth open in silent prayers, pouring from his lips like the images pouring from the strangers eyes.
(War, horses---armies, desert)
These images assaulted him, flying from the strangers eyes, he twisted throwing his hands over his face, scriptures ran from his mouth, losing their rhyme and reason, still the pictures came.
(There was our Lord Jesus Christ, dressed in robes as he rode through the desert accompanied by an army.) “Blasphemy!” (The crusades were ravaging the middle east, we were there. I was there, preacher.) “Get thee behind me, Satan!” (And guess what else, preacher. He won, that was the surprising thing. There we were, Hang Plowman and his General, defeated by the Son of God. His second victory against Hell.)
A fresh bloody foam ran from the corner of the preachers mouth as he panted, bracing himself up against the front of the pulpit, “You speak lies, demon!” Still the images came.
(Blood painted the desert sands copper, I remember the fires that lit that sky, can you smell it, preacher? The smell of 1000 bodies frying in the sun? Do you understand why we were fighting? No..I suppose not. All you know is your church, your crops, and your faith. That’s it… I’m going to show you faith, preacher. Such faith…)
A scream came from the church house.

It was a farmer that first saw the preacher striding down the road, hell bent for the local bar. It wasn’t much of a bar, but like any small town, it was well taken care of and loved by all who frequented it.
“I’ll be damned, where is the reverend going in such a hurry?” the man said to the other playing checkers across from him. We’ll call these two for the sake of names, Hal Frier and Bone Maclain.
Hal turned his head to see if any one else in the store was watching this as the preacher, his clothes stained with something, hair unkempt, eyes wild like an animal, burst through the double doors of the bar.
Bone looked at Hal, who was gawking like a boy who just discovered there was something hanging between his legs, after a minute longer he jumped three of Hal’s checkers and swore up and down he would have beaten Hal’s record for fastest win if not for what happened next.
There was a rumble from the distance that seemed to shake the very earth itself, and the largest storm that the small town had ever seen proceeded to gush for the next 5 days. This is what most thought to be a blessing from the Lord, after all rain was something the townspeople were used to seeing once every 2 months. For others, this was an omen of bad things to come. But for one man, covered in dark shadows, dressed in a suit far too expensive for the area, this was the beginning.