Richard Schiver

Tag: Fiction

  • Weekly Writing Challenge 05/06/2026 K is for Karst

    Weekly Writing Challenge 05/06/2026 K is for Karst

    I’m trying something different with this story, something I’ve not done before. I wanted something that touches the reader on an emotional level while at the same time presenting an anomaly that could potentially occur. The ground beneath our feet presents such a challenge. Dark places hidden from view, abandoned mines filled with the voices of the ghosts that haunt it. But what if the ground itself refused to comply to the absolutes we are all familiar with.

    Hence the creation of K is for Karst. Karst is a distinct landscape formed by the dissolution of soluble bedrock, typically limestone, dolomite, or gypsum, characterized by features like sinkholes, caves, sinking streams, and springs.

    Been doing a good deal of research in an attempt to play the scientific against the unnatural. Hopefully it has the desired effect, but we’ll see, Also if you notice something amiss in the scientific descriptions please don’t hesitate to point it out.

    So let’s get back to the story.

    Continued from 04/26/2026

    While the coffee brewed Madison wandered into the living room and sat in her father’s chair. Flipping through the stack of magazines on the table beside it she uncovered a spiral-bound notebook with a pen stuck in the wire loop. Nothing was written on the green cover to indicate what might be inside, so she flipped to the first page. A date was written across the top of the first page, mirroring the pages that followed, each with a different date. Below the date, lines of her father’s cramped writing filled the first part of the page followed by separate entries as if he were recording his thoughts while documenting what he was doing.

    The first page was dated September 17TH 1992

    Initial survey results continue to contradict established subsurface models. Void spaces register at depths exceeding known excavation limits by a statistically significant margin. Plus or minus 0.2 m accuracy across three independent instruments. Re-calibration yields identical readings. Instrument drift has been ruled out. Historical bore data, when overlaid, aligns internally but diverges from current measurements as if the volume beneath the site has increased without displacement of surrounding strata.

    Voids deeper than permitted by original cut.

    Not erosion. not collapse.

    Checked again. Same numbers.

    Different depth?

     Not possible!

    Impossible unless volume is

     Never mind!

    I’ll re-calibrate tomorrow.

    Madison stopped reading as a chill slowly unwound at the base of her spine. Her father, the most rational, levelheaded man she had ever known appeared to be unraveling on the page before her.

    She flipped to the next page as the coffee pot gurgled in the kitchen signaling that it was done brewing her coffee.

    This entry was dated September 17th of the same year.

    Acoustic testing presents further inconsistencies. Impulse responses demonstrate delayed returns not attributable to chamber geometry. Echo intervals lengthen without corresponding increases in measured distance. In several instances, reflected signals arrive after the source signal has fully decayed beyond detectable amplitude, suggesting propagation through a medium that does not preserve temporal continuity. I note this without proposing a mechanism, as none exists within current geological frameworks.

    Acoustic test: impulse return late.

    Not damped. LATE! He wrote the last in capital letters that took up several lines.

    Echo arrives after source decay.

    Time stamp says it shouldn’t exist.

    Tried again.

    And again.

    No void geometry accounts for this. No chamber shape. Sound behaves like it’s walking a longer way than space allows.

    Granite is normal. That’s the worst part.

    Same grain, same fractures, same ratios—nothing exotic, nothing altered.

    This should not be happening to this rock.

    The next entry was dated a week later.

    During descent, spatial orientation becomes unreliable. Inclination readings remain stable, yet perceived slope varies. Footfall cadence does not match time stamps. Sounds—breathing, equipment contact—return fractionally out of sequence, as though the environment is re‑ordering events rather than dampening them. No seismic activity has been detected.

    Descent notes:

    Inclination stable. Instruments agree.

    Feet do not.

    Slope feels steeper, then shallower, then level while readings remain constant.
    Footsteps echo after I stop walking.

    Radio distortion is not noise.

    It’s timing.

    Jimmy is gone! What have I done?

    The last shocked her on an emotional level she had not been expecting. The sheer power of that simple statement said far more that the words themselves could convey.

    Jimmy was gone.

    How?

    And he blamed himself for what happened.

    To be continued!

  • Weekly Writing Challenge 04/29/2026

    Weekly Writing Challenge 04/29/2026

    K is for Karst

    First off my apologies for missing last week. I’m in the middle of a bathroom remodel that proving to be the remodel from hell. I’ll share more details later when I get done.

    Continued from 04/15/2026

    The inside of the house had not changed much since her childhood. The same worn linoleum reflected the same dull light, the shadow of a solitary table with two chairs imprinted on a pattern that had been popular in the fifties. The entire kitchen, from the avocado refrigerator to the startingly white stove spoke of a time when life was much simpler that it was today. She felt like she had stepped back into a time warp and would at any moment spot her eleven-year-old self sneaking a cookie from the teddy bear cookie jar. A fragment of the past that still lived within these quiet walls.

    Leaving her purse on the small table she crossed to the cookie jar and looked inside, the familiar ring of the lid being lifted pinging against old memories that stirred in response. A few cookie crumbs lay at the bottom of the ceramic jar, remnants from the last time her mother baked, the cookie jar serving as a way back into the past with cookie crumbs to show the way. It reminded her of Hansel and Gretel and how they left a trail of breadcrumbs to find their way back.

    She closed the lid and turned from the memories clamoring for her attention, crossing the kitchen she entered the living room. The old couch she and her friends would sit on when they watched television was still standing in its familiar place. The wing back chair her mother used, and the recliner her father rested in had not moved in years. On the small table next to the chair a small wicker basket filled with bolts of yarn. Two knitting needles stuck out of one of the bolts while what looked like the beginnings of a scarf lay beside it.

    On the table next to the recliner was a stack of magazines. Pit & Quarry and Quarry Management being the most predominant. Again, everything looked as if at any moment her mother and father would enter the room and take their places for a quiet evening. The memories and the emotions they elicited were becoming too much and she debated on trying to get a room for the night, but Williamstown was a small place, and she doubted she’d find anything local.

    Instead, she returned to her rental for a few things and proceeded to make herself as comfortable as possible. Choosing her old room to sleep in was another trip down memory lane. From the posters on the walls to the small desk where she discovered the intricacies of the world in which they lived. Nothing had changed since she left.

    Worried she would be unable to sleep she slipped under the cool sheets and was asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow. The calling of the birds greeting a new dawn beyond her bedroom window pulled her from a deep sleep and she sat up to look around the room as the night sky outside slowly grew brighter with every passing moment. The remnants of the dream remained with her as she threw back the covers and swung her feet to the floor.

    She vaguely recalled hiding at the top of the stairs when she was supposed to be asleep, listening to her mother and father speaking quietly in the living room. He sounded both angry and sad. Her mother tried her best to console him as they talked about Jimmy. The name rang a bell, and she searched her memories for a face to go with it. The only Jimmy she recalled from her childhood was one of her dad’s workers who vanished one day.

    The memory elicited a chill, and she rubbed her arms as she tried to recall more details about what happened that day. Nothing came to the surface, but she was meeting with her dad’s assistant later this morning to discuss the quarry, she’d ask them if the name rang any bells.

    To be continued!

  • Weekly Writing Challenge 04/15/2026

    Weekly Writing Challenge 04/15/2026

    K is for Karst

    Today we start on a new adventure. I’m trying to capture something different this time, the notion that the world is a living thing, and that what we see with our own eyes is not always the truth as we descend once more into those shadowy depths beneath the ground. Keep in mind this is raw with very minimal editing. So come along, I hope you enjoy the ride, and don’t mind that whisper you might hear. It’s just your imagination, I think.

    The call had come as these things typically do, in the middle of the night, dragging Madison from a deep sleep. The male voice on the other end had been straight forward and abrupt. Once she identified herself, still suspicious yet willing to listen to what they had to say, the voice had softened as it delivered the blow.

    Her father had passed.

    She thanked him, trying to chase the sleep away that left her thoughts muddled. Theirs had not been a loving relationship so there was no immediate sense of loss. No sorrow, no crying, only a numbness trapping her as she sat in bed staring at the phone.

    Her dad was the last link to a childhood that had once been full of joy and hope. But after her mother’s death during her last year at college, she and her father had grown apart. Her mother had been the glue that held their small family together, and with her passing the weekly phone calls to catch up had stopped. She had tried several times to reconnect with her dad, but he had always been too busy, too distracted, speaking briefly about his work before dismissing her. In time she quit calling and their relationship that had been tenuous at best, devolved into indifference.

    She tried to go back to sleep, the burden she now carried heavy on her mind. As her father’s only heir, there was so much she would have to do in the morning. Plan, schedule a flight to Vermont, convince her assistant to make the presentation she had been scheduled to give to the board of the National Petroleum Institute. She had been looking forward to that presentation; it would have been a true feather in her cap and secured her place with her employer. Geostar, a national conglomerate that provided geophysical surveys for oil and gas companies.

    She had been with them for three years and had become one of their rising stars. To which she owed her dad a debt of gratitude. He owned and operated a small granite quarry, and it was here she developed her passion for all the mysteries that existed beneath their feet. The thought of the quarry known locally as The Karst, and the happiness she had known there, brought a tear to her eye. She wiped at it absently as she struggled to find any degree of sorrow at her father’s passing.

    The next two days were a blur as she took care of the things she would need to settle so she could disappear for a week. She felt she owed him that much, a week of her time to say a proper goodbye and start the process of selling his assets. She had no desire to run a quarry, and with no other siblings, she felt it best to simply liquidate. She would keep enough to secure her own retirement then donate the rest to those who had been closest to her dad.

    From Burlington International airport she took Interstate 89 to state route 63 to state route 14 south towards Williamstown. She passed her dad’s quarry on the left as she got closer to the two-story house she had grown up in. A small part of her wanted to stop and check out the quarry, but she pushed on, fighting the memories that flooded her thoughts as she followed that familiar route. Passing through forested land where small niches had been carved out along the road to offer refuge against the vast wilderness waiting beyond manicured lawns and neat little homes.

    These places offered lighted refuge against an impenetrable night when the sun went down. She recalled several times as a child venturing out after dark in search of old secrets held within the shadowed depths. She never saw anything. But her best friend Jessica claimed to have heard voices in the forest bordering her backyard late at night. The story had given her chills at the time, and they returned as her gaze was drawn to the gloomy depths of the forest bordering the road.

    Reaching the turn off for her childhood home she pulled into the driveway and sat in the car staring at the empty house. The police had over-nighted her the keys, but she remained in the car as the day slowly drained into evening. She was trying to put her finger on what had gone wrong between them. On what event had transpired to separate them the way they had become.

    She as also delaying the inevitable sadness she knew she’d feel once she stepped inside. She should have gotten a hotel at the airport. But as her father would say, what’s done is done. Thinking of him in the past tense brought a tear to her eye and she brushed it away.

    To be continued!

    Start your adventure!

    Those who sign up for my monthly newsletter get to see the fully edited version of each of these stories before they are released to the public. You will also receive a full length novel available nowhere else. So what are you waiting for, sign up and start your adventure today.

    When the Omega‑9 comet crosses the night sky, civilization doesn’t collapse, it decays. In a crumbling Richmond apartment building, eleven‑year‑old Jimmy and a small group of children are trapped as the dead rise, adults fall, and the rules of the world disappear overnight. A haunted priest questions his faith, and a war‑scarred veteran confronts humanity’s darkest instincts. The story is a ruthless exploration of lost innocence, survival, and how thin the line is between humanity and monstrosity when the world ends.

    Sign Up Now!
  • Weekly Writing Challenge 04/08/2026

    Weekly Writing Challenge 04/08/2026

    This week we come to the final installment of J is for Jogah. It’s reached a little over 6,000 words and will require a little editing to bring it up to a serviceable standard, but that’s how writing works. You start with the spark of an idea, build a concept on top of it then try to create an ending that will stay with the reader long after they read the story.

    As it stands right now I’m a far cry from its completion. But I have recently completed and published two from the very start of this challenge. A is for Alone on the Devil’s Doorstep, and B is for Brotherly Love. Both are available where ebook are sold and can be purchased for the price of a cup of coffee.

    It’s what inspired this idea to begin with. Create an alphabet series, but instead of writing the stories in solitude, share the process, and the first draft, warts and all, with those who follow my blog. I hope you enjoy it, and I hope you’ll honor me by purchasing one or both of the stories currently available. You wont be disappointed.

    Without further adieu let’s get into the final installment of J is for Jogah.

    From the shadows came a soft voice speaking in a language he’d never heard before. It wasn’t Spanish, Italian, or German. The voice carried a pleasing quality to it, the individual words spoken in a sing song manner that sent a chill whispering down his back. Goosebumps broke out across his arms, and he stepped out into the hallway, the creak of a board beneath his foot, causing whoever was singing to stop. In the silence it felt like his heart was going to escape the confines of his chest it was beating so hard, and he was afraid that whoever, or whatever, had invaded his sister’s bedroom would hear it.

    After several moments of silence the voice continued its haunting melody and Jeffery managed to make it the rest of the way across the hallway. At his sister’s door he peered around the trim and spotted a shadowy shape standing over her crib. It looked like a person staring into her crib as it continued to sing softly. Jeffer reached around the door frame, his fingers searching the wall until he found the light switch.

    He flipped the light on, filling the room with a sudden brilliance, the singing punctuated by a surprised shout that was followed by the frantic sound of running footsteps.

    He stepped into the doorway as whoever was fleeing crashed into the dresser. A small figure emerged from the shadows on the other side of the dresser and raced across the floor to vanish beneath Melinda’s crib. Melinda began crying, drawing his mother’s attention as the sound of her approach came from beyond the open door.

    “Who turned on the light?” his mom asked as she reached the door to find Jeffery peering under the crib.

    “What are you looking for?”

    Jeffery put his finger to his lips to hush her and turned his attention to what was hiding under the crib. He could see it in the back, where the shadows were deepest, a slender figure no more than ten inches tall, and dressed in what looked like native American garb stood motionless.

    “I see you,” Jeffery said.

    “What do you see young man?”  his mother demanded as she came into the room, “why are you in your sisters bedroom? Why is the light on?”

    “It’s under there,” Jeffery said, pointing into the shadows under the crib.

    Melinda’s cries, coupled with his mother’s comments drew his father who appeared in the doorway with sleepy eyes and a messy head if hair. “What’s going on in here?” he said.

    “It’s your son,” his mother replied, “he disturbed Melinda. He says there’s something under the crib.” His mother crossed to the crib and gathered Melinda from her bed. When she did a solitary feather dropped to the floor to land next to Jeffery’s hand. It appeared to be a feather from a black bird, its surface shimmering with the light.

    “What’s under there?” his dad asked as he knelt where Jeffery was hunkered down.

    Jeffery looked away for only a moment, but that was enough time for the creature under the crib to make a break for it. Tiny racing footsteps came from the perimeter of the room as it made its way to the door. Jeffery tried to get to the door before it, but it managed to slip out into he shadowy safety of the hallway.

    He raced after the tiny figure, down the hall, to the steps, taking them two at a time as the little Indian crossed the foyer to the small door where it stopped and looked back once before vanishing into the night.

    Next week I’ll start a new story for the letter K. At this point I have no idea what I’m going to do, but I’ve got 7 days to come up with the first 500 words. See you then.

    Click on cover for more info.
    Click o cover for more info

    They live in the shadowy corners of our well‑lit world. Where reality is thinnest, where dreams curdle into nightmares, and belief becomes dangerous.

    This A‑to‑Z short story challenge explores ghosts, spirits, old myths, and the paranormal at the edge of reason. Each letter delivers a new doorway into the dark. Standalone tales linked by atmosphere, dread, and the uneasy question, what happens when you look too closely at the veil?

  • Weekly Writing Challenge 04/01/2026

    Weekly Writing Challenge 04/01/2026

    Happy April Fools day everyone. Sorry for not getting this out earlier. But here’s the continuing story of Jeffery and the little people. I do hope you enjoy it.

    J is for Jogah contd!

    The weeks following his little sister’s arrival were filled with crying, laughter, and a sense their little family coming together. While his mother seemed perpetually tired, what with the 2am feedings and being awakened at all hours of the night with a fussy baby, things slowly settled into a routine.

    Jeffery had given little thought to the blueberry muffin incident, and he noticed his parents were not as attentive as they had been before. It was a relief not to have to keep reassuring them every day that everything was all right. He had even fallen into his own little routine as the big brother responsible for watching over his little sister. A task he accepted quite easily.

    Two months after Melinda came home, with a new school year fast approaching filled with the worries any new student might endure. His biggest being his worry he might not fit in. He had managed to make one friend out here in the middle of nowhere, as he liked to refer to it.

    Will lived on the property adjacent to their own was his own age and in awe of the fact Jeffery used to live in New York city. He was always asking questions about life in the city. What if was like walking to school in a city that big. If he was afraid someone might snatch him off the street. If the naked cowboy in times square was real. The last had stumped Jefferey, they lived nowhere near time’s square, and he had only ever been there once, passing through in the early evening as night slowly settled over the city and the lights the square was famous for had not yet reached their zenith.

    With two weeks before the start of the new school year he was starting to drift off to sleep, snuggled in his bed, when he heard the unmistakable sound of a door opening and closing softly downstairs. He lay there for a moment, listening, any thought of sleep having been banished by the disturbance. It might be his dad sneaking out to have a smoke. He had promised to quit, but Jeffery found his stash behind the large flowerpot at the edge of the porch. He never said anything, but occasionally he’d hear his dad sneak outside when he believed everyone else was asleep in the house.

    It was the soft sound of a footstep on the steps that drove him fully awake and he lay there trying to determine if he’d been mistaken, or someone was sneaking up the steps, which made little sense as his parents slept on the first floor.

    He lay there listening as the soft sound of footsteps came from the hallway right outside his door. The soft light of a nightlight came through the narrow crack at the bottom of his door and he saw a shadow move across that narrow strip of light. The doorknob of his door turned slowly, the grating sound of the bolt being drawn back was loud in the silence of the room. Jeffery lay with his blankets pulled up to his nose, watching the door.

    The ghosts he’d seen had never used the door the way it was intended, simply gliding through on their rounds, so whoever, or whatever was at his door was not a ghost. The doorknob stopped turning and he released his pent up breath as the shadow under the door moved away. The door across from his room opened and he realized that whoever it was, had entered Melinda’s room.

    Throwing back his blankets he slipped out of bed and crossed to his door. Slowly, carefully, he turned the knob and opened it a mere sliver. The door to Melinda’s room stood open, a yawning put of emptiness filled with menace.

    To be continued!

    I’ll be back next week with more. Have you considered signing up for my monthly newsletter? This month subscribers will receive the fully edited short story Destination Unknown. If you’re interested follow this link for more info,

    Join the Adventure