Horror Story Archives II
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It seems like yesterday that I started the Horror Short Story Of The Week program. Now it’s been two months and it’s time to start a new archives page. How cool is that?
If you want to check out the first Archive page, click here:
http://ghastlydoor.com/horror-story-archive/
If you want to go to the current Horror Short Story Of The Week, click here:
http://ghastlydoor.com/horror-short-story-of-the-week/
Or you could make the very wise choice of just staying where you are. Have fun, but be careful. Some doors are hard to close once you’ve opened them.
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April 17, 2010
This week we’re going to Maryland, with horror writer Colin Hersh.
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This is the actual house of Nelson Rehmeyer, who was murdered for practicing witchcraft in 1929. Among Nelson’s many alledged crimes was killing newborn babies for their fat.
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It’s a pleasure to have Colin Hersh back for his second appearance on the Horror Short Story Of The Week page. Everytime I see examples of his work, I’m amazed at how much he’s grown. Colin is not only a writer of horror fiction, he’s a student of horror fiction. I’ve taken full advantage of his reviewing skills myself and plan to do so as often as possible.
Colin’s work continues to evolve in new directions. His stories have gotten shorter and his prose has gotten sharper. There’s not a wasted word to distract from the story line.
I had a hard time picking this story. Colin sent me five or six of them to go through. They were all of excellent quality, but this one struck me the hardest. It’s as spare and lean as a hangman’s noose. It’s as sharp as a razor and it sure cuts like one. You’ll find out that for yourself.
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Emily’s Baby, by Colin Hersh
Emily loved kids. She had wanted one of her own for as long as she could remember. Now at twenty eight years old, she wasn’t willing to wait any longer. Four years earlier, it had done more than just break her heart when the doctor had told her that she was barren.
Over time she collected herself and with quiet resolve, she had come to find a way to have a baby of her own. None of the traditional adoption agencies had been willing to let her become the wonderful mother she knew she would be. So she and her long-time boyfriend Steven had found a new way.
Emily waited at home for Stephen to bring her baby home to her. She was so overcome with excitement that she couldn’t stop moving. She would sit for a few minutes, then stand and pace for a bit before trying to sit down on the couch again.
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Unable to have a baby of her own, Korena Roberts, 27, killed her pregnant best friend and cut her living fetus from her. When the baby died at a nearby hospital, suspicous authorities investigated and found the mutilated mother’s body stuffed into a closet.
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She wandered the silent house, thinking about how wonderful it would be to finally fill the nursery they had put together three years earlier. How incredible it would be to occupy her time with the domestic bliss of changing diapers, feeding her little one, and cooing it to sleep in her arms. Emily knew that she had to hold off on those thoughts for now. She had to focus on the work she and Stephen still had ahead of them tonight.
She was relieved when, after hours of waiting, the door swung open under Stephen’s forceful hand. Stephen rushed through the door like a juggernaut with carrying a struggling woman in his strong arms.
“Hurry, we need to get her to the bathroom now!” Stephen yelled without looking at her.
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Art major Aliza Shvarts wants to make a statement.
Beginning next Tuesday, Shvarts will be displaying her senior art project, a documentation of a nine-month process during which she artificially inseminated herself “as often as possible” while periodically taking abortifacient drugs to induce miscarriages. Her exhibition will feature video recordings of these forced miscarriages as well as preserved collections of the blood from the process.
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Emily hardly noticed the screams of the woman. She only thought of her baby. They made their way to the bathroom. The woman was screaming and relentlessly thrashing as she tried to break free. Emily jumped into the oversized bathtub as Stephen forced the woman into the water with her. Just as they had practiced all week, Stephen held the woman down as Emily wrapped the plastic garbage bag over her face and around her head.
One of the woman’s arms broke free from Stephen’s grip and beat Emily in her head, reminding Emily of her father all those years ago. With his free hand Stephen reached into his back pocket. He revealed a small hobby knife he bought at a discount store some time ago. With Stephen’s hand that was shaking from adrenalin leading it, the blade cut into the woman’s massive underbelly. Stephen freed his baby girl from the now motionless woman that he had been following for several months.
They were parents now, and what wonderful parents they did make. They agreed to name the baby Emily Banks after her new mother.
© Colin Hersh 2010
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In March, 2009, Morgan Hite murdered her newborn son while visiting her parents. She left the murdered child in a suitcase in her parents closet while she left for Alaska. The smell led to the discovery of the body.
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April 3, 2010
This week we’re going to London with horror writer Benedict J. Jones.
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The Winter King, By Will Jacques
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This is Ben’s second appearance here in the Ghastly Door and I couldn’t be happier to have him. His work represents the absolute cutting edge in the UK horror revival movement. It seems like he’s being published in a different horror magazine every week. His latest work appears in the March edition of Deadlines Magazine, but there are probably a dozen I’m failing to mention.
There’s something about Ben’s work that stays with you long after you’ve read it. He inhabits a very creepy world over there in that ancient English city. Like all of his revival brethren, Ben keeps his action clean and visual. He’s a very modern writer, the future of London horror. Read on to see why.
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The Man Who Wasn’t There, By Benedict J. Jones
“No, no, I’m sorry Mr.Wilson. You have no utility bills or other proof of address; you’re not on the electoral roll and have no credit cards or other accounts. Can’t you get a letter from your employer? No. Well then it’s pretty much impossible for us to open an account for you, regulations you understand It isn’t just this bank you’ll get the same answer at all the others too. Is there anything else that I can help you with?”
Kevin sighed and drank the last of his complimentary coffee. The bank worker sitting opposite him wore the same smile that she had when he first sat down. She adjusted the cuff of her dark polyester jacket and handed Kevin’s application form back to him. He pushed it, along with his passport, into the inside pocket of his jacket. The passport hadn’t been enough. Who would have believed that it was so difficult to open a bank account? He thought as got up, without making a fuss, and headed for the doors. It was so easy to drop off of societies radar and find yourself on the outside looking in, barred from its resources. It reminded Kevin of Joseph Heller; this was a real Catch 22 – you couldn’t get into the system if you weren’t already in the system. Kevin shook his head and headed for home.
“Home” was the spare bedroom at a friend’s cottage. The friend, Niall, also allowed Kevin to use the barn at the rear of the property as a workshop for his sculpting. Niall was a software developer for several major finance companies and his work took him abroad for long periods of time. He liked to have someone at the cottage to make sure it was secure and to generally maintain the place. Kevin fitted the bill perfectly. He had known Niall for years, since college, and was happy to maintain the cottage and deal with any odd jobs that came up around the place.
Kevin’s financial situation was partly of his own creation; he did not believe in credit cards and had never owned one, he was politically aware but held no allegiance that made him want to vote and the thought of a nine to five job with all that that entailed galled him. Walking down the narrow country lanes home Kevin’s mind meandered down darker paths. What would happen if he were to suddenly die? Would he leave behind any real evidence of his existence? He tried to brighten his mood by assuring himself that he had left his mark on life. There were his sculptures, although he had only sold a dozen or so, his friends would no doubt remember him and his death would have to be registered somewhere. These thoughts did little to shift the black cloud that had settled over him on his walk home; none of what he had thought of would guarantee that he would be remembered once he was gone. Kevin found himself wishing that he his parents were still alive or that he had a sibling that he could confide in. His thoughts remained dark and he could picture his friends a year or two after his death.
“You remember that artist?”
“Which?”
“The one that did things with wood.”
“Oh the one who stayed at Niall’s cottage?”
“Yes, that’s the one. Dead apparently.”
“How dreadful. Pass the Rioja. Whatever was his name?”
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The entire morning had left Kevin depressed and as soon as he was in the cottage he stripped off the good suit, which he normally reserved for meeting gallery owners and the like, and changed into his working clothes. That done he headed into the barn. A week earlier Kevin had come across a large piece of fallen elm while he had been walking in nearby woods and the piece now sat on his work bench. He took a piece of heavy duty sand paper and began to work it over the wood, rendering some parts smooth while leaving the knots and grains visible in others. As he worked a calmness descended over him that he only found when he became engrossed in his work. By mid-afternoon his spirits were much improved and he headed back into the cottage. He sat with a plate of cheese and pickled onion with a glass of Merlot in his hand. This was what life was all about, not having your name on a dozen computer systems. He poured himself another glass of wine and headed back to the barn where he worked until night fell.
Rising late Kevin looked out over the fields and watched the weak winter sun burn away the last of the mist. He threw back an orange juice and went back to work, the idea of what he was sculpting clear now. By lunchtime the sculpture had begun to take on a definite form; the piece of elm trunk was the torso from which protruded four other bits of found wood like limbs. Kevin stood back and admired his handy work. He felt a little like Doctor Frankenstein staring down at his creation and he grinned at the thought.
“Just have to find you a head now mate.”
Kevin headed back to the cottage and resolved to go out into the woods after lunch in search of a head piece for his creation. There was a message from Niall on the answer; he was flying to Frankfurt direct from Zurich and didn’t think he’d be back for at least a couple of weeks, some problem with exchange feeds. There wasn’t any more wine but Kevin found the last of the cider that he and Niall had bought from a local farmer. Kevin polished off a plate of scrambled eggs and most of the cider. Not for the first time he found himself questioning his drinking habits. He resolved to have a serious look at his drinking once the sculpture was finished. His mood slid as he contemplated his failed attempt at opening a bank account, that was to have been the first stepping stone to what Niall and his other financially stable friends called a “proper life”. Kevin grabbed up his rucksack and his wallet. He would find a head for his creation and restock the wine rack – drinking habits be damned! The New Year was for new resolutions and that was still a month away. After a walk through the woods he would have himself a couple of pints in the village pub, Kevin decided as he pulled his coat on.
“Excuse me! Are you serving?”
Finally the barmaid looked up from refilling the change drawers in the till and acknowledged Kevin, who stood alone at the end of an empty bar. He waved a ten pound note at her and she walked down the bar towards him.
“Sorry, love, I didn’t see you there. What’ll it be?”
Kevin took his pint of lager and headed into one of the side booths. The barmaid had ignored him for a good five minutes and it still irked him but it felt good to be out of the cottage and back in civilisation. A solid lump of wood sat in the bag that Kevin hefted onto the chair next to him. Once he had cut away the bark and carved it down the lump of wood would be about the size of a human head, it would be the crowning glory of his piece if he managed to carve it right.
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Sipping on his pint Kevin watched the early evening patrons and found himself feeling like a starving beggar looking through the window of an expensive restaurant. Everyone seemed to be in groups and enjoying themselves; there were a group of farm labourers laughing with the barmaid who wasn’t ignoring them, a couple sat by the fire touching each other’s hands and whispering. Only Kevin sat alone. This realisation darkened his outlook and he drained the last of his pint before heading to the supermarket on the edge of town.
The piece of wood that was intended for the head sat on the counter. Kevin walked around it with a glass of wine in his hand and watched how the light played across the grain. The size and shape of the wood seemed perfect and Kevin imagined that there was already a head below the bark just waiting to be uncovered. He hurried out to the barn and returned with a bag full of tools. With Niall away Kevin knew that he would be able to work in peace and be able to clean up any evidence that he had been working in the house, it was warmer in the cottage than in the barn. Taking up a chisel Kevin began to work at the wood and chip away at the shroud of bark that hid the unformed face from view. The work absorbed him and the wine flowed. The sky darkened from blue to black until it began to lighten at the horizon and as the black was slowly replaced with grey Kevin halted and lay the chisel aside. His hands felt raw and blistered and as soon as he lay down on the sofa he was claimed by the dark hands of sleep.
He awoke well after midday and felt as though his skull was moving, slowly expanding and then contracting over his brain. His mouth was so dry that the water from the kitchen tap tasted as though it came from a fresh mountain spring. Kevin put the kettle on and thought about breakfast for a moment before his stomach rebelled at the thought and turned over. He looked at the head on the work counter and then moved in to take a closer look at what he had created the night before. He had carved a face very much like his own into the wood and left part of the bark to act as hair. The delicacy of the thing stunned him. He moved around the head watching as the shadows played around the eyes and mouth. Kevin lifted the head from the counter and for a moment was reminded of Hamlet holding the skull of Yorick, all he needed was two grave digging clowns to stand beside him. He headed out across the yard to see if the head would fit onto the groove atop the body’s neck. It fitted like a knife into its sheath and Kevin stepped back to take in the full vista of his creation. It stood taller than Kevin and in the shadows of the barn light played over the hard muscles and the hard knots of the body. For a moment Kevin imagined a sneer upon the hard carved lips which disappeared in a twist of the shadows as he stepped in closer. He knew without a doubt that it was the finest of his creations and if displayed in the right light it could make his name as a sculptor.
His good feelings continued through lunch, a full fry up of local produce, and he felt jittery with nerves as he called some gallery owners that he knew in London. The enthusiasm he felt must have been infectious because one of the owners agreed to see his pieces with a view to putting on a show if he could have a full collection ready within a month. Once off the phone he grabbed a pad and began to list all of the pieces that were finished and those that he could make ready in time. None were as good as the figure that stood in the barn but Kevin felt that together they would form a decent enough collection with which to frame his show piece. Once the list was finished he uncorked a bottle of Rioja and started in on it.
Soweto Kinch played on the stereo and Kevin sat in an easy chair with his second bottle of wine of the evening and a roll up stuck between his lips. His mind was wandering down a myriad of future paths, each coloured by his good mood and the wine he had consumed. Standing uneasily he grabbed the bottle up by the neck, collected a second wine glass from the cupboard and stepped somewhat unsteadily into the yard. Above the stars glittered in a clear sky like pinpricks in a shroud that had been thrown across the Earth. The overhead lights in the barn flickered on slowly and Kevin smiled as they lit up the carved form that stood in the centre of the room. He showed the empty glass to the emotionless wooden eyes.
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“I thought you might join me in a celebratory drink.”
He put the glass on the work bench near one of the wooden hands and splashed a little wine into it. He drank down some of his own glass and turned on the small radio he kept in the barn. As music filled the space he threw one of his old work shirts around the shoulders of the sculpture and when he found a baseball cap in the corner he put it over the carved head and adjusted it so that it covered one eye.
“Looking suave.” He told the wooden man.
Kevin sat back onto the hard floor and drank straight from the bottle. He lay back for a moment and closed his eyes.
When he awoke it took him several seconds to realise where he was. His sculpture stood over him blocking the light from the long bulbs overhead. With a groan Kevin rolled onto his knees; his back and shoulder felt as though he had been trampled by a horse and his left arm felt numb and tingled with pins and needles. Once he had gotten to his feet Kevin began to rub at his arm to try and restore circulation and be rid of the strange sensation that he felt in it. Again he thought he saw a sneer on the lips of the wooden head and he tried to pinpoint exactly where the look came from so that he could adjust it with some sandpaper. He decided he would look again later, what he needed now was a few hours sleep in a proper bed.
Consciousness returned slowly. Beyond the window the night was dark and Kevin moved to turn on the bedside lamp. His arm did not respond. It was more than just numbness now he couldn’t feel anything of the limb. He tried to swing himself out of bed using his right arm but this time it was his legs that refused to respond. His right arm still had movement but he could feel the pins and needles sensation starting in the fingers of that arm as well now. Kevin lay back for a moment to try and decide upon a course of action. Somewhere in the cottage a door opened. Kevin lay back and listened. Had Niall come home early? Thank God if he had, though Kevin. Heavy footfalls moved along the corridor to the door of Kevin’s room, he heard them stop just outside the door and tried to call out. Not a sound emerged from his throat. The footsteps moved away and he heard the front door slam shut. All was silent once again and Kevin lay unable to move anything but his right arm.
When he awoke again Kevin found himself staring at the hard features of a face very like his own. The differences in the face of his twin were obvious; the features and lines of the face were as hard as oak and the eyes were dull and dead. He knew then that it was his sculpture. But the face didn’t look as though it were made from wood; as hard as the shape of it was it had some of the suppleness and fluidity of flesh. It wore the same old work shirt that Kevin had thrown around its shoulders and the cap still sat atop its head. But it also wore a pair of jeans that Kevin had thrown in the wash basket a few days before and a pair of Niall’s boots that normally sat by the front door. Kevin saw the dull glint of a chisel in his creations hand. The thing saw him looking at the tool and stared dead into his eyes.
“I’ve come for my hair.”
The voice sounded flat and hollow, with no real tone to the inflection it put on words, as though it were not yet fully formed. A hard hand grabbed Kevin’s head and held it steady as the tool came closer. He felt the cold, sharp, steel cut into his flesh and if he could have screamed he would have. Instead his mouth opened in a silent imitation of a cry. The steel pushed in until it made contact with the bone beneath and Kevin heard as much as felt the grating movement as the tool worked its way around his skull. He prayed for the bliss of unconsciousness which refused to come.
Red filled his vision like a crimson veil and Kevin saw the blood on the sheets. So much blood that death couldn’t be far away, he could almost feel the lingering presence of the reaper standing over the bed. He creature stood in the corner looking in the mirror and adjusting Kevin’s scalp atop its own head like a bald man desperately trying to make a wig look like his own hair. He gave it a final adjustment and then pulled a jacket from the wardrobe and looked at Kevin.
“Mine now.”
The creature sounded like a petchulent schoolyard bully who had taken another child’s toy as his own. He punched Kevin once in the shoulder, turned out the light and disappeared into the corridor closing the door behind itself. A few minutes later Kevin heard the front door slam shut.
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Lying in the dark Kevin had no concept of time beyond the darkening and lightening of the sky beyond his window. He knew it was late when he heard the front door open by the blackness of the sky outside. Giggles followed, a feminine voice Music filled the cottage. Kevin listened and heard the giggle below the music turn to groans and pants of passion. The groans and pants continued until they changed again to the whimpers and cries of pain. The music finished and the noises ended in a crescendo of shrill screams that Kevin found hard to relate to another human being. And then silenced reigned over the cottage once more.
The door swung open and Kevin saw his other self silhouetted in the hallway light. It flicked on the bedroom light and Kevin saw that its intricately carved loins and lower body were dark with fresh blood.
“I didn’t know when to stop.”
The sneer was back on the doppelganger’s lips. The wooden man sat on the chair next to Kevin’s bed.
“Not long now Kev. You’ll have to go soon.”
Could his creation survive without him? Kevin tried to vocalise his thoughts but again nothing ushered forth from his mouth. Had he simply provided a spark to something that had roared to a life of its own? Once he saw the hatchet and knife that the thing placed on the duvet before him Kevin knew that it didn’t matter anymore.
“I’ll just take what’s mine and then I’ll be off. There’s a big world out there…”
© Benedict J. Jones 2010
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March 21, 2010
This week we’re going to Oregon, with horror writer Alex Flippo.
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Alex Flippo is an Oregon native who has lived and worked in that beautiful state all of his life. I love the way this young man writes. The moment I read his story, I knew I had to have it for my Short Story Of The Week page. Just notice the flow. I can’t believe he’s as young as he is. He writes like a 23 year veteran, not a 23 year-old.
I’m a huge Lovecraft fan myself and I love a Lovecraftian pastiche, but this story is more than that. It’s an adventure tale. It typifies everything that modern horror is becoming, intelligent escapism, that manages to frighten without brooding or depressing imagery. His setting and sense of place is impeccable. I worried at first that the story might be a little long for the Internet, but I think you’ll agree that the overpowering draw of the story more than keeps your attention.
Alex is going places. I’m honored to feature him on these pages and I’m looking forward to seeing more of his work in the future.
Well, enough of that. It’s time to sharpen up your axe and board the train of yesterday. We’re going back to the Western landscapes of 1910. I hope you’ve got plenty of firewood.
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The Poison Tree, by Alex Flippo
Journal of Arthur J. Peabell November 10th 1910.
Today I have received word via telegraph from a sheriff in a small town in NorthWest Nebraska; apparently George Dee my great uncletwice removed has died. WhileI know little of this distant relative who died at the ripe and some say unnatural old age of 97, he has left to me as his soleheir a substantial fortune. He has also left me his estate in the pine ridge region of Nebraska just outside of the small town of Miakoda, named by a little known offshoot of the Otoe Indian tribes. The descendants of said Indians claim to have forgotten what the name of the town means long before its current Slavic and German inhabitants arrived in the region.
November 20th 1910
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I arrived in Omaha after a dreary train ride across a dull and lifeless landscape. The wet weather was constantly fogging my spectacles, however I am thankful for it, hopefully it will keep the pollen and dander out of the air because I have ever been pained by allergies and I fear that this open country will be horrendous on my sinuses. Unfortunately I learned upon disembarking that my late uncle’s driver had not yet arrived andso I have put myself up at a small motor lodge on the outskirts of the city. The inside of the motor lodge was sparsely decorated, the walls a depressing blue-grey and the furniture worn andplain. As I washed my face in the lavatory I reflected that traveling did not treat me well. I looked paler than normal; my eyes sported dark circles beneath my thick glasses due to fitful and restless sleep on the train, andmy thinning hair has seemed to accelerate its abandonment of the top of my head like a sinking ship. On top of it all I looked like I may have lost even more weight from my one hundred twenty pound frame; leaving me looking like a very tired and very nearsighted skeleton. After freshening up and inquiring at the front desk where I could get a good scotch and water at after-hours, I sat down to write more of what I hope to someday be the definitive text on cryptozoology, the noble study by which I (aspire to) make my meager living.
December 7th
I have waited a full week for the driver to arrive and he has not so I have purchased a relatively cheap automobile and a map and I am hoping to make it across the state in a matter of days despite the intermittent snow and foul weather.
December 11th
I have finally arrived in the town of Miakoda. I entered the town at aroundone o’clock in the afternoon. I met the sheriff at his office, a tall country boy who seemed tired. He told me he would give me a little tour of the town before showing me to my new estate. As we walked down the street making polite conversation he pointed out several areas of interest. He also explained about the natives who inhabit the outskirts of town, clinging to life with subsistence crops and selling scrap metal or magic charms during the snowy winter months.
A queer thing happened then as we made ready to leave for the estate. There were two Czech women walking across the street from us, as I watched them they suddenly looked towards us as if they could feel my gaze. They then crossed themselves and shielded their eyes in a way most peculiar which invoked in my mind a vision the old country, its dark alleyways and tall houses wreathed in shadows, each generation built upon the one that came before from time immemorial.
As we climbed into the car I asked the sheriff about the old women and their peculiar behavior; He told me that they were two of the last Czech immigrants in the city who still held to the ways of the old country, and to its superstitions.
“To them”, he said, “An old man living in a big house alone must be a wizard.” After which he laughed and slapped his knee.
“How quaint.” I replied, somewhat put off by the chilly welcome I had received thus far.
A wizard, the idea is laughableI suppose, or at least laughable to a small town sheriff who has admittedly never been out of his own state. However to a cryptozoologist and a scholar of the Miskatonic University who has spent long nights in its vaults pouring over such tomes and grimoires as the Pnakotic Manuscripts, the Ars Goetia, and Abdul Alhazred’s maddening Al Azif, a wizard is not a laughable thing. Of course I could not say anything to this affect for fear that I would seem as eccentric, and inspire loose talk about town regarding my pursuits and disposition.
As we drove past the town’s outer habitations and into the country neither the Sheriff nor I spoke, a sudden melancholy had fallen over me, probably related to the dreary barren landscape, the seemingly infectious scrub grasses and the stunted and twisted cottonwood trees occasionally lining the road. After forty minutes of creeping along the rutted and dilapidated road we reached the estate, surrounded on all sides by seemingly endless rolling fields of frost laden shrubs and grasses, with an occasional small thicket of densely packed trees. The mansion was a dreary Victorian styled house with 3 stories, most of the windows were boarded up and whatever color it had been had peeled off to reveal the worn grey planks beneath. The only thing in sight breaking the flat skyline besides the sprawling grey mansion itself was a gnarled and ancient tree with no leaves or fruit to speak of. The tree seemed to be unnaturally tall compared to the stunted growth surrounding it and its gnarled branches were a cloudy grey branching out in all directions. The Sheriff caught me gazing at the tree and said,
“Yep, That’s where he did it.”
“Did what?” I asked him. The sheriff then looked down at his feet and said quietly,
“So you don’t know?” he was silent for a moment before continuing on. “That is the tree your uncle hung himself from.”
My throat had suddenly gone dry; I most certainly did not know that my late uncle had taken his own life, and so the sheriff filled in the bleak details. After a long absence from town my uncle and his driver were spotted in the general store of the town buying the usual goods needed for my uncle’s reclusive lifestyle. They traveled back to the house and then the next frosty morning the driver rushed into town pushing the model K to its limits, he skidded to a halt in front of the Sheriff’s office gibbering madly. After he recovered his lucidity the Sheriff accompanied him back to the estate where my uncle’s nude and frozen body hung from the tree, he had inked himself from head to toe with strange diagrams and symbols whose geometry could only be described as utterly alien and mysterious, unwholesome even.
The sheriff accompanied me into the cavernous sitting room which was filled with old furniture draped with dust cloths, and bookshelves stuffed so full that they spilled into piles on the floor. The sheriff asked if he could look in the servant’s quarters for any indication as to why the driver had not met me in Omaha, I permitted him to as I searched through the sparse liquor cabinet, settling on a single malt whiskey which I poured for the both of us.
After searching through the driver’s room and finding no indicator as to why he would be missing the Sheriff phoned back into town for a deputy to pick him up and then joined me for a drink.
After about six ‘o clock a deputy arrived to bring the sheriff back into town. After I was finally alone I decided to make another drink and explore my new accommodations.
The majority of the rooms were filled with dusty furniture, covered by old and yellowing sheets, the only rooms which showed any sign of recent use were the driver’s old room in the servant quarters, the kitchen, and my uncle’s study where it appeared that he spent most of his time reading and writing scholarly essays, he even slept in an old chair in that room as made evident by the thick layer of dust covering everything in his bedroom. The only things outside of the study that appeared to have been touched in that past year were the myriad pile of books stacked in all the spare rooms of the house, these books ranged from subjects as mundane as calculus and other mathematical subjects, to fantastic tomes such as le dragon rouge, the Codex Occultus and The lesser keys of Solomon.
After acquainting myself with the house I unpacked my modest amount of clothing and whatever books I absolutely needed to bring with me for my work on my own scholarly writings. As I was stuffing my clothes into a dilapidated chest of drawers in the master bedroom I noticed a small but beautiful jewelry box on top of the dresser that was free of dust, it was fashioned of some sort of hardwood, richly stained a dark crimson with a clasp in the shape of a serpent devouring its own tail, this clasp had a large keyhole inside of the O shape created by the serpent. I put the box in the study in hopes of finding the key and whatever I had inherited that my uncle felt was important enough to lock away from the world.
December 12th
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I made my first real foray into town today. The town itself is small, and peopled by German and Czech immigrants. On the northern outskirts of town near a wooded area is the Otoecommunity which is little more than a shanty town. The main street of town is where all the business is done, and it has more than enough goods andservices to provide the town and the dozens of outlying farms withmuch of what they need. While the Czech immigrants seemed to avoid me like the plague I was ableto talk to a few second generation Germans, who were glad to give me a brief history of the town, which was originally a settlement of Otoe who had split off from the main tribe in the south. A small coal vein was then discovered by white settlers, who began mining and cutting down the pines to the north.
As I was leaving town the sheriff called out to me from across the street and ran over to talk to me. He seemed agitated andexplained that they had found my uncle’s Model K just 10 miles out of town some distance off the road in a copse of pine trees. Apparently the car appeared to have hit some large animal having its hood smashed in, two of its wheels torn off andits windshield broken inwards. No trace of the driver was found.
After my talk with the Sheriff I made my way home, passing the grey tree on the grounds just as dusk’s orange glow was beginning to settle over the estate. I parked the olds in the carhouse andsomething seemed to compel me over to the grey tree. Perhaps it was the morbid curiosity inherent in all mankind that seems to manifest itself in the presence of an accident or crime scene. In the steadily fading light the tree’s gnarled grey branches looked more like writhing serpents than anything that had grown out of the earth. I was so entranced as I drew closer that I failed to see the small raised stone about four yards out from the tree and I fell into a particularly large and gnarled stinging nettle. As I examined the stone I tripped over I was able to barely make out a worn carving on its flat surface, it seemed to be some sort of written symbol whose origins I could not begin to fathom. The stone itself was about the size of a loaf of bread with roughly hewn edges. On either end there was another similar stone witha similar but distinct carving on its face. I realized that each stone was flanked by another in a slowly curving arc. As I walked aroundthis arc I found that it was actually a widecirclesurrounding the tree. After examining this circlefor a few minutes I walked up to the tree itself, its bark was smooth, and slate grey, it was only broken in spots where a sticky reddish sap had burst forth. As I walked aroundthe tree to the northern sideI founda carving, or rather an indentation because the bark had long grown smoothover the symbol, but a snake swallowing its own tail was clearly visible. Underneath the symbol was a freshly carved arrow pointing downwards with reddish sap oozing from its edges. I planned to investigate further but the failing light forced me to retire.
December 13th
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This morning I woke up tired, having been haunted by dreams of howls in the night, bringing to mindupon waking my favorite story “The Hound of the Baskersvilles” but without the usual sense of excitement and pleasure. After breakfast I immediately tried to force open the locked box with the representation of the serpent swallowing its tail, my curiosity overcoming me. Unfortunately the box was much stronger than it appeared, andagain I am a 120 poundintellectual not well known for my strength of body. After furtively trying to pry the box open with a screwdriver, I went out into the carhouse for a shovel. Going off of a sneaking suspicion I decided to go out to the grey tree anddig at the base beneath the snake carving.
After about five minutes of digging I managed to unearth a small crate, the crate was made of cheap wood and nailed shut; I quickly brought it back into the house and pried the lid off with my screwdriver. Inside was a velvet pouch which contained two keys, the first was a plain key, perhaps used to open a drawer or cabinet, the next was a small key with a snake swallowing its own tail carved into the bow. I set the first key on my uncle’s desk and brought the previously impregnable jewelry box into the study I was not surprised to find that the snake key opened the corresponding snake shaped lock on the box. Upon opening the box I was both disappointed and intrigued. Inside was volume one of the Encyclopedia of the Brethren of Purity with the spine torn off, and a scrap of paper with the quote “The truth is hidden in plain sight. -D.”
After examining the book for a moment I realized that the spine of the book I was looking at had been cut neatly as if by a razor, and was possibly removed on purpose rather than from constant use, and so I began searching the large estate for the volumes of this particular encyclopedia.
It took nearly two hours but I finally was able to find the 4 volumes of the Encyclopedia of the Brethren of Purity, it was in an upstairs guest room in a far corner. As I pulled out the first volume it was as I had expected, the book I pulled from the shelf was some sort of diary with the spine of the encyclopedia taped to the back to conceal it. The book was a dull brown cover, on the front of which had been drawn a serpent devouring its own tail with the single word “Yig” scratched into the cover with some sort of sharp implement. The book was also sealed shut with a sturdy iron clasp with a keyhole in the center, I took the tome down into my uncle’s study where I tried the second key I had unearthed, unfortunately that was not the key needed to open the book and reveal whatever mysteries were contained within. I tried to pry the book open but it was no use, the covers were of sturdy leather overlaying a dark hardwood, and the clasp was just as sturdy as the one securing the box had been, I would have to find the key to open it if I wanted to learn of its contents. After wracking my brains for a while I decided to write a chapter on the giant squid in my own book to clear my head and distract myself from the problem. As an intellectual who grapples with the mysteries of the natural world I know that sometimes the most difficult puzzles and mysteries tend to work themselves out in the unconscious.
December 17th
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Last night the howling woke me again at just after midnight, driven by curiosity I managed to find a flashlight in the driver’s former quarters and quietly opened the front door. As I shined the light out into the fields I noticed a strange mist issuing up out of the long grass andstaying low to the ground at about 4 to 5 feet. Shining the light out into the field I thought that I could make out grey figures capering in the mist. Unfortunately I could not substantiate if what I had seen was reality or just the overactive imagination of a Cryptozooloist unable to sleep traipsing out in the dark of the witching hour. Perhaps I was seeing what I wanted to see, the Wendigo, Skin Walkers, the Tsul ‘Kalu or the Ozark Howler. Despite my fascination withimaginary creatures however, these shapes whether imagined or real invoked an inexplicable feeling of dread deep in my heart.
December 18th
Due to my recent lack of sleep and its effect on my work, I have decided to go into town to ask the sheriff to investigate the howling at night. I also needed to check on the status of my flat and my possessions in providence, as well as my cats. Not to mention frankly I wanted the company of another human being for a change. After I arrived in town my first stop was to the local general store, where several Czech women were speaking in hushed tones in the corner. I purchased some milk, bread, and cheese andthen decided to restock my uncle’s liquor cabinet which appeared to have been visited heavily before his death. After purchasing some Eau de vie, Port aged 10 years and Bourbon whiskey (regrettably there was no Scotch in stock) I made my way to the police station which was just across the street.
I asked for the sheriff and after a brief wait he called me back into his office as a hushed and veiled Czech woman shambled past.
After a brief explanations of the nocturnal howling keeping me awake for the past week, and a good deal of convincing that it was not in fact the common coyote the Sheriff agreed to come out to the estate that evening with his dog and a shotgun to try and kill or frighten off what he believed to be feral dogs.
The sheriff arrived at around dusk with a large St. Bernard. The dog was unusually timid as it first approached the house but quickly warmed up to me as the sheriff and I sat down for a glass of port and some small talk. The sheriff drew out an old cherry wood pipe that looked as if it had seen many years in his coat pocket and began to puff away, sending aromatic smoke up to hang around his head in a nebulous and sweet smelling cloud. After a few hours of talk I began to nod off in the large armchair where I was seated; only to be jerked back into consciousness by a blood curdling howl. The clamor appeared to be emanating from the front room. I dashed out to see what was the matter followed closely by the sheriff only to find that the source of the howl was the sheriff’s St. Bernard howling and clawing deep furrows into the front door, its mouth lathered and panting in between deep howls. The Sheriff opened the door and the dog ran off into the darkness baying deeply. I ran back through the kitchen to a seldom used parlor where a gun cabinet stood. The gun cabinet was locked; however this gave me an idea. I ran back into my uncle’s study and found the key I had dug up earlier; I ran back to the cabinet and unlocked it with the key. Inside were a few shotguns and an old pistol. I selected a single barreled shotgun and snatched up the only box of shotgun shells in the cabinet. I jogged out to the front porch and joined the sheriff; his own shotgun was in hand as he gazed via lantern out into the darkness. A mist was rising from the frosted ground and the dog was still barking frantically out in the darkness. However it was joined by a more ethereal chorus of howls that trailed away into faint hisses that resonated out in the fields. As I opened the box of shells a small key tumbled out onto the porch. Was it the key to the journal that my uncle had taken such great pains to conceal? After a few minutes the Saint Bernard stumbled up out of the darkness and the mist to the porch, mouth foaming pink from the blood oozing from lacerations on its muzzle. The formerly imposing brute looked frightened and whined as what could only be the wind hissed out across the field.
December 19th
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The Sheriff and his dog left this morning. He seemed convinced that coyotes were not to blame for the howling last night as no coyote could conceivably beat his giant dog in a scuffle. He concluded it may be a pack of wolves, unheard of in these parts but even then there were questions that lingered in his mind. He could not explain why they would continuously inhabit the area near my estate as game is scarce in the open fields. One would think that wolves would stick to the woods where they can hunt freely without oppression from the townsfolk and where game is more plentiful.
After the sheriff left the estate I took the small key I had found in the box of shotgun shells. I had replaced the shotgun and removed the old pistol that had been gathering dust in the gun cabinet loaded it with some ancient looking cartridges and deposited it in my breast pocket. As I approached the diary with its mysterious title “Yig” I found myself strangely comforted by the gun, as if the diary could somehow harm me.
December 21st
I have studied my uncle’s journal extensively and can only describe it as disturbing in the least. It chronicles what can only be described as the conspiracy theories of a man slowly sinking into the dementia of old age. The more lucid parts at the beginning of the journal seem to be concerned with deciphering the origin of the tribal group of Otoe living in the surrounding region andhow they have come to be so fundamentally different (diametrically opposed in truth) from the main Otoe tribes that inhabit the other portions of the state. He detailed meetings with a few of the Otoe who were not as insular as the rest, for a modest sum of money two young Otoe teens put him in touch witha shamanistic healer of the tribe who for a horribleprice, would relate to my uncle the details of how her tribe had branched out from the main Otoe tribes and become its own insular group. This particular tribe longer called itself Otoe in fact. They called themselves the Yig’seh’tah, A term which has no root in any language known to me or to my late uncle who tried unsuccessfully for days to trace its meanings.
The horribleprice that my uncle was forced to pay to gain audience with the priestess was a human tongue, and as he was a scholar of some repute he was able to get one sent to him in the post from the anatomy department at Miskatonic University.
Soon the wrinkled and gnarled old priestess had accepted his grisly offering with a barely perceptible nod of her wrinkled and grey head. At his prompting she began to tell him the unique mythology of the Yig’seh’tah’s birth, her broken sentences and dusky voice made it fairly difficult to understand however he was able to make out a good deal. I will copy it directly into the diary for accuracy’s sake, complete with the notes scrawled into the margins.
Times immemorial…two brothers, names lost, known only as Eagle andSnake. Were sons to the greatest Chief, name unknown. Snake was very cunning, Eaglewas very proud, brave, etc… Eagle chosen to be the next chief, Snake very upset, bashed his skull in with a club/rock(?) Snake cast out, some went with him into the unknown (evil?) territories. After weeks of wandering discovered tree (tree on my estate?) tree is called the poison tree andis worshiped as the source of enlightenment (power?) Camping under the tree, Snake is visited by YIG, massive serpent, claims to be the god of the serpents, god of poison, He swallows the moon each month at the endof the lunar cycle, YIG says he will devour Chief if Snake and his followers drop down and worship him, sacrifice (blood?) to him. Snake agrees and his followers are in return made cunning and given powers… (No explanation of powers) YIG has strong magic andwithin a month the Chief was ripped apart by wolves. Snake and his followers are not allowed back into the main tribe however…are exiled permanently … Form their own tribe called Yig’seh’tah, or yigseh for short, means children of the great serpent, worship at the poison tree, perform (possibly human?) sacrifices etc…
At that point one of the young Otoe (or as I had learned, “Yigseh”) boys who had helped set up the meeting between my uncle andthe priestess or witch burst into the room, seeming upset, he said something unintelligibleto the witch (funny how uncle degenerated from calling her a priestess to a witch after meeting with her for the first time.) After hushed and frantic deliberations the adolescent led him out of the shack andhurried him along to his car, however his frantic shepherding ceased when he gazed out into the crude square that the shack bordered on and saw a group of 5 Yigsehmen, staring at my uncle motionless and silent.
The journal documents the events of the following day in an increasingly frantic and unsteady handwriting which slowly grew larger and larger until it was like the scribbling of a child recently endowed with the ability to put pen to paper. Apparently the two teen youths who had introduced him to the healer appeared on his doorstep two days afterward, along with an escort of emotionless Yigsehmen. With eyes wide andbreathing tense they hastily handed back the sum of money he had paid them, as he accepted it they both spat at his feet and recited what seemed to be a curse or incantation: Ve Yig setam dur. The men who had brought them to the house looked on witheyes intent but faces featureless until this strange oath was finished and then slowly turned andbegan to leave, the boys then, looking a little less like madmen and more like scorned children, scampered after them silently. If this had been some sort of punishment then the boys had fared much better than the old witch, her house burned the very next day andshe was foundbound to a tree in the nearby woods with my uncle’s charneloffering lying next to her in a circle of stones. She had been eviscerated andher various possessions found smoldering in a nearby pit where they had been mostly burned andcharred beyond recognition.
December 28th
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I cannot sleep, outside howling and shrieking are drowning out all other sounds. Whenever I chance to gaze from the window of the study I see nothing save a vague suggestion of some sort of figures capering out in the mists. However no matter how hard I try to decipher whatever form my tormentors could take they seem to dance off farther into the mists and disappear altogether, only to reappear and begin their shrieking anew as soon as I leave my window.
December 31st
God! If only I had never come to this godforsaken wasteland! I cannot sleep, the figures out in the mist see to that, the sheriff does not believe me, or at least does not believe in the tall and somehow sinuous shapes that I spy out in the mists night after night.
January 1st
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I do not know what has been keeping me awake at night, but of late I have been having a strange suspicion that that damnabletree out in the field is the source of my problems, So I have taken it upon myself to tear it from the ground. Really it is long overdue that the tree be removed, every time I see it I think of my uncle’s frozen and inked body swaying from it. In fact I had planned to remove it tomorrow withan axe taken from a cabinet inside the carport. However as the sun slowly began its decent down towards the horizon I gazed out upon that grey blasphemy, a disgust anda hate incredibly profound rose up in the back of my throat like black bile. Despite the encroaching darkness I found myself trudging out into the field, loaded pistol in one hand, the rusted iron axe in the other. As I approached the tree andits mysterious circle of stones I began to hear a rustling wind rising up in the empty spaces, andseemingly out of the grounditself. As I reached the tree I tucked the pistol into my waistband andtook the axe in both hands, swinging withall my negligible might into the trunk of that grey sentinel. Instead of the dull ‘thwack’ noise that always characterized my wood chopping efforts as a child, the sickly trunk of the tree seemed to squelch, andreddish orange sap began to flow out of the gaping wound viscously. The hissing noise emanating from the earth seemed to take on a higher pitch but I heedlessly swung the axe again and again. It was when I had nearly hewnhalfway through the tree that I had to stop from exhaustion. With the last few cuts the tree itself had seemed to recoil, as if it could run away or was reacting in pain to my onslaught. However I would not be able to finish the job in one day as the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon and had turned a blood red hue.
As I turned from the tree I froze in my tracks; wolves had somehow materialized out of the mist that was rapidly beginning to rise from the scrub land. Perhaps they had made their den in a nearby copse of trees. There were up to a dozen of the shaggy grey beasts fanned out between myself and the house, and as they raised their heads to howl, they were echoed by what could only have been 30 or more behind me, hidden in some secretive place. I did the only thing that I could do at that moment, I took up my axe and drew my pistol from my waistband and began to advance forward, steadily but not too quickly as to give the animals some time to decide whether to fight or run. However the beasts stood their ground until I was less than 15 feet from the one crouched directly in front of me, the only one that was directly between myself and the mansion.
This rather large specimen cocked its ears back and bared its teeth as I pointed my pistol directly towards its face. It began to growl for a moment before its entire head disintegrated to the tune of the deafening pistol shot. This startled the other wolves and gave me a short head start in the mad dash back to the mansion, however these sinister creatures were not frightened away, in fact they seemed to recover all too quickly from the shock of the gunshot and began to close on me from either side. Behind me, and close at that, I could hear heavy paws slapping the ground and snapping slavering jaws as more unseen wolves began to give chase from the rear. I pointed the pistol towards the closest wolf on my right, aiming to intercept me. I fired again, the pistol jerked up in my hands and a pitiful yelp sounded from the nearest wolf. Bringing the gun across my body I pulled the trigger, this time aiming for the nearest wolf on my left. The hammer clicked home but the gun refused to fire. I pulled the trigger again and once again it misfired. The fifth cartridge refused to fire as well. My very life depended on the next cartridge to miraculously fire, and as I squeezed the trigger the wolf to my left had gained enough ground for me to become uncomfortably familiar with the dark brownish-red stains upon its muzzle, and its patchy unhealthy looking fur. Luckily the barrel of the pistol flared to life and snuffed out the life of my closest pursuer. After the wolf fell the rest began to think twice about their pursuit, or perhaps it was that I was too close to the mansion now to be caught. Either way the remaining wolves slowed to a trot and retreated to a safe distance, slowly melting into the now encroaching mist that I had come to recognize and dread in my nights at the mansion.
January 2nd.
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Today I went into town to purchase new ammunition for my shotguns and the pistol that had misfired the night before, I made it a point to set out just before dawn, hoping the sun would keep whatever force is hounding me at bay, I also bought a newer and heftier axe, as I held it in my hand I imagined with great glee the feeling of it biting deep into that damned tree, the red sap spurting out from its branches in sickly gobs. As I raced home a deep resolve built inside me. Today I would fell that poison tree and nothing save death would stop me, it had been long enough casting its shadow on my new house. As I reached the house and parked my resolve momentarily wavered. As I stared out at the tree that had never shown any foliage before, I saw that all of its boughs were covered in vile black vestments that seemed to ripple and move restlessly. I steeled myself against this new anomaly and went inside to retrieve the shotgun and pistol.
Fully equipped with shotgun, axe and pistol tucked into my belt, I made may way through the living room and foyer and out the front door onto the porch. As I approached the tree its black foliage seemed to shuffle back and forth in waves despite there being no wind to speak of. It was at that time that I noticed the bloody stains where the wolves had fallen to my pistol the night before. There were no bodies to speak of. To my surprise and horror, as I made my way to within 20 feet of the tree its foliage burst in to the sky. It was not leaves but ravens, hundreds or even thousands of them. The black birds did not make so much as a single noise as they scattered however many of them darted down and swooped at me, their beaks clacking together as they tried to rake my face. I fell to the ground horrified and raised my shotgun firing both barrels at once into the cloud of birds above me. Dead black birds rained down on me in a bloody feathery hail as the rest scattered. This was it; I had to destroy that tree before any more of nature’s darker side was arrayed against me. I sprinted the remaining distance and began to lay into the axe wound I had created the night before which was oozing over with red pulsing sap.
As I hewed into the grey trunk, the tree’s grey branches themselves started to thrash wildly. Astounding as it was not I could not stop for anything, with each dull thwack of the axe red sap jetted out covering me and the axe blade in sticky red streamers, as I neared closer and closer to my goal, hail began to fall from the grey clouds overhead. The hailstones must have been near to two inches in diameter. They pelted my body stinging me over and over again, but I would not be thwarted. Finally the tree began to topple I moved out of the way and the seemingly live branches seemed to reach for me as they slowly tilted up and away, the hail stopped immediately as the tree crashed to earth, from its stump its red sap spurted out in rhythm as if pumped by a massive and laboring heart.
Bruised from hail and bloodied with scratches from beaks and claws, I sunk the axe into the stump, retrieved my shotgun and made my way back to the house making sure to skirt wide of the fallen tree. Who knows what dangers it still may have held? Exhausted, I collapsed in a red and sticky mess onto my bed.
January 3rd
It is 12 a.m. and someone is in my house! I can hear them creeping about downstairs. The occasional squeak of a floorboard and shuffle of papers has probably saved my life; luckily I dropped the pistol on the floor next to my bed as I fell asleep.
January 03rd II:
It is as I feared, last night someone broke into my house, luckily as I made my way downstairs pistol in hand, I heard the front door slam shut, and footsteps out in the tall grass.
January 20th:
So much has happened since my last entry, where to begin? I had spoken to the sheriff on the 4th about the break-in at my house, he made his way to the estate to make an investigation with a few deputies, one deputy a big man by the name of Red Washington was conducting a search for evidence in my study, convinced that the break in was a mere burglary he began opening the drawers of my uncle’s desk searching for signs of theft. As he opened the last drawer, a look of utmost fear came across his face, he let out a short cry and then fell backwards over the chair and onto one of the many dusty piles of books, as the sheriff and I drew closer he began to foam at the mouth. The sheriff ran to him trying to assess what was wrong. That is when I saw the snake. I drew the pistol that I had kept with me night and day as it slowly wriggled its way out of the half opened drawer, I sighted along the barrel and fired one deafening shot. The sheriff nearly jumped out of his skin at the noise, and it brought the other deputies running weapons drawn. The sheriff only noticed the snake after disarming me and nearly knocking my teeth in, it was a rattlesnake; however it had given no warning before it struck. The reason? Because it had no rattle, the end of its tail had been cut off neatly with a knife, the wound cauterized. Unfortunately I was thrown into the town jail in suspicion of causing the death of Deputy Washington, as if I was some snake handler. The idea is laughable really.
Every night a great grey mist rolls into town and out in that mist I can see grey shapes moving softly. They are alone some nights, and some nights they are accompanied by loping wolves. There is no doubt now in my mind that it is the Yig’seh’tah, waiting for their revenge, sometimes they hiss in mad parody of the snakes that they love so dearly; the first and foremost of all their dark gods’ evil creatures. I have cut down their most sacred artifact, their grey and poisonous altar given to them by the dread snake Yig. I have asked the sheriff to seal up the window to my cell until his investigation is complete, but he has no love for me; a suspect. I no longer sleep at night, this, and a bed sheet, are my only weapons against whatever may slither in through the bars tonight.
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© Alex Flippo 2010
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March 13, 2010
This week we’re going to Tennessee, with horror writer Shaun Hammel.
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This is an actual “Designer Baby.” It’s being grown in a laboratory.
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Shaun Hammel is one of the brightest lights in the small-press horror world. I’ve said before and I’ll say again, the moment I read anything he’s written, I know it’s him. He has a style and presentation all his own. Behold the master of the long sentence.
Shaun’s interest in the horror genre goes far beyond his own fiction. He’s an avid reader and quite a film critic. I have several of his reviews on this site that prove just that. You can always count on him to be incisive and irreverent. At the same time, he has a clarity of vision that shines through in everything he writes. He’s a strait-shooter, someone who speaks his mind and someone worth listening to.
Shaun lives and works in Chattanooga, Tennessee, a town that he has lived in all his life. He maintains his own substantial web presence at:
http://alcoholicnightmare.blogspot.com/
Join us now for a very weird story. You can snuggle up with baby, and don’t think it’s going to be pleasant.
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Here’s the end result of genetic manipulation…Can you tell that the photograph is a fake?
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© Shaun Hammel 2010
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March 6, 2010
This week we’re going to England, with horror writer George Taylor.
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George Taylor represents the new breed of horror writing that’s evolving in the UK. I’ve been calling it the UK Horror Revival Movement. Movements in writing are a lot like movements in art. Sometimes the people involved don’t really realize that they are following a trend.
It’s group-think in a way. Evolving just like a fashion trend might evolve. You see a new type of fashion that appeals not only to how you might look, but to the way you live, say from wearing tight, restrictive clothing to clothing that is loose and designed to be free-moving. It’s just so overwhelmingly superior at so many levels. Even if you’re independent-minded and usually don’t follow fashion, you can’t help but being influenced by this style of dressing. It’s just better, like moving from a canoe to a kayak.
In the horror ficion world, we’re moving away from the dim, fuzzy, psychiatrist’s couch, of depressed neurosis that seemed to be taking over. For a while, it seemed that the supernatural tale was dying. It was gradually being displaced by murky musing of unease. Self-obsessed stories by self-obsessed writers who seemed to be motivated for the most part by anti-depressants.
The 90’s were good, but the 00’s almost lost me. It got to where I couldn’t read a book of “modern” horror short stories without becoming fed up. Enough “art” already, enough psychological unease. Isn’t it time to move on with that? Those writers must live with a perpetual headache.
Screw them!
I get tired of arty nose picking. I want escape. If you want to sit in a dim room where you can be alone with your cynical, condescending, alienation, have at it. I want to go somewhere and have some fun.
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Can you believe this picture?
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Schrödinger’s Cat, by George Taylor
Miles glanced at his watch again, still trying to keep his mind on the matter at hand. Julia would just have to live with it, he told himself for the umpteenth time, just as he would. It was too late to turn back now: the experiment was well under way. In fact, it was nearly complete. Her concern for the cat’s welfare couldn’t be that great anyway, otherwise she wouldn’t have agreed to help. He didn’t expect her to get the poison, even though she’d owed him a favour. She’d probably never let him forget the risks she’d taken to get it (or forgive him if she lost her job – or if the cat died), but if necessary he’d keep reminding her that he’d taken risks too. It wasn’t easy to get the radioactive material required for the experiment…
He felt certain that deep down she was as curious as he was to find out what would actually happen. Common sense told him that the experiment would more than likely come to nothing, and could possibly lead to the untimely – and needless – death of the cat. But he had to satisfy his curiosity. Just this once. He wasn’t doing it for the fame or the glory. Publicising it would doubtless bring only outrage and notoriety. Any credit he could legitimately claim would be for the construction of the box, which wasn’t that difficult.
Perhaps calling the cat Schrödinger was in bad taste, he reflected, but he had to call it something – and Schrödinger seemed appropriate at the time.
Glancing at his watch again, he saw the hour was almost up and wondered if the radioactive sample inside the box had decayed. He thought the cat was still being very quiet, considering it had been cooped up inside there for all that time. There was little room to move around in its section of the box, to be fair, but he still expected to hear the odd shuffle or scratch or meow. Not many strays – or household pets for that matter – would be so accommodating…but Schrödinger seemed the perfect test subject. Perhaps it did trust him. He’d had it almost eating out of his hand for weeks, after all. Up to today, he’d only ever petted it, and was a bit wary about picking it up. But it was like a baby in his arms.
Part of him wanted it to live through the experiment. His heart sank a little when he admitted the signs were not good. Perhaps it was already dead. He would have taken more comfort from the knowledge that its demise would probably have been quick and painless had his head not been full of the paradoxical probabilities of Erwin Schrödinger’s thought experiment. According to that, everything inside the box was in a state of suspended animation. The radioactive material had both decayed and not decayed, the vial of poison was neither broken nor unbroken, and the cat was both dead and alive, neither alive nor dead. In a strange way, he realised, that brought its own kind of comfort. He marvelled at the fact that almost anything was possible until someone looked inside the box. What he would give to be able to see, unaided by any artificial device or intelligence, without actually looking.
Unable to wait for the results any longer, he approached the box.
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Give Freakums the sweetest kiss.
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No sooner had he opened it than Schrödinger leapt out like an unhinged jack-in-the-box. He recoiled at the sight, instinctively raising his hands to protect his face, and felt searing pain surging through his exposed arms. Screaming, he saw the cat clinging to his forearms by it claws. Its teeth were bared and its eyes blazed with fury that struck terror in his heart.
Miles screamed again as the cat bit into his right hand, drawing blood which made him see red. With gritted teeth he threw it down to the floor with all his might. It bounced off a cabinet nearby and struck the opposite workbench like a pinball, but was back on its feet in no time at all and appeared unhurt.
He staggered back towards the door, blinking away tears and sweat, and watched the cat step forward purposefully. Backing into the door, he reached round and groped for the handle. He dared not take his eyes off the cat. It had matched every step he’d taken, and was looking at him as if he were an oversized rodent.
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This is a good lesson in weird relaxing.
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Hardly had he opened the door when the cat pounced. As he turned away, he saw Schrödinger over his shoulder before he felt the biting pain of teeth and claws tearing into his flesh. He howled in agony, grabbed the cat by the scruff of the neck and, gritting his teeth, wrenched it from his back and threw it across the room like a rag doll.
Schrödinger crashed into a cabinet, shaking the instruments on the workbench, but still seemed unharmed.
Miles staggered forward, too shocked and surprised to prevent the cat scrambling through the gap in the door, and grabbed the back of the stool to support himself. Perhaps it had had enough, he thought. He prayed it had. He couldn’t take much more of this. He was hurt and bleeding quite badly. Blood was pattering the floor like raindrops. He peered at his forearms. There were deep gouges in each one. Wincing, he looked over his shoulder and saw a red patch spreading over his shirt.
Then he noticed Schrödinger through the gap in the door. He flinched, expecting another attack. But none came. The cat was just sitting there, staring, its eyes seeming to glow with a peculiar light in the dimness of the lounge.
‘Hey boy,’ he said as naturally as he could, hoping the sound of his voice would stir the cat’s memory.
There wasn’t a flicker of recognition in its eyes as it stepped forward.
Miles swallowed nervously, weighing up his options, and then lunged for the door. It slammed in Schrödinger’s face.
With a heightened sense of satisfaction he turned around, slumped against the door and breathed a sigh of relief.
A noise disturbed him. He listened attentively but could hardly hear it over his pounding heart. After what seemed like a lifetime, he recognised the sound. Scratching. For a mad moment he thought it was coming from the box, but the logical part of his brain told him it couldn’t be. He dismissed the idea, the insanity of it lingering in his mind as he tried to concentrate on the sound.
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This is a scarred veteran of the streets. His eyes and ears are surrounded by scar tissue from all of his past conflicts.
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Miles soon realised it was coming from the other side of the door. He pictured Schrödinger ripping out slivers of wood, and shook his head in dismay. Any other cat would have quit already – but not Schrödinger. Schrödinger appeared to have no intention of stopping until…until…. He shook his head again, scarcely able to believe what he was thinking. How could such a seemingly docile animal have become so murderous in such a short space of time? Something must have happened to it inside the box. Yes. It must have been quietly going crazy in there. Something akin to cabin fever, perhaps. Or perhaps its derangement was a form of radiation sickness. Perhaps it was due to a combination of both. Whatever the reason, one thing was clear: as outlandish as it seemed, it wanted him dead.
He’d have to kill it before it killed him, he thought in a moment of cold and savage reasoning. But how? He couldn’t use his hands, much as he’d like to. It would tear them to shreds before they became effective weapons. How about his feet? He could kick it to death, trample it under foot until it resembled road kill. Yes. He liked the sound of that. But he’d have to catch it first, corner it, and that wouldn’t be an easy thing to do.
He had an idea. It was very simple. He’d stand with his back to the wall beside the door, open it, and wait for the cat to come in. Then he’d slam the door and Schrödinger would be at his mercy. The plan was foolproof. But he’d need something with which to defend himself if things didn’t go as planned; something to use as a weapon if necessary. He scanned the room for something suitable but saw nothing he could use.
Desperation forced him to consider using one of his shoes until he focused on the stool. That would do nicely, he thought. It seemed a bit excessive for a domestic cat – even for one as deranged as Schrödinger – but it was convenient and practical.
Wiping his bloody and sweaty palms on his jeans, he realised the cat had stopped scratching at the door. He breathed as quietly as he could, turned his head to one side, and put his ear against the smooth wood. There was no sound of movement. Was the cat still there? He imagined it was, waiting for him to open the door, and decided the time had come to give it what it wanted.
****
By a kind of instinct, Miles began making his intention acceptable to himself by laughing at it. The thought of using the stool as a shield against a domestic cat, as if it were a circus lion, was absurd – even comical – and he smiled.
He staggered over to the stool, with the smile dying on his lips, and picked it up. It was heavier than he remembered, but all the better for bashing in Schrödinger’s head…
Swallowing uneasily, he stood to the left of the door as planned, put his back against the wall, and took a deep breath. He assumed the position he’d take if Schrödinger tried to attack him again, shielding himself with the stool, and smiled once more. But there was no humour in it.
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This is an actual one-eyed cat.
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It was just a cat, he told himself, not a lion, a domestic cat – a deranged one, certainly, but a cat none the less. With this in mind he reached for the door handle, opened it, and raised the stool in readiness.
There was no sign of the cat.
Miles waited, certain it would make an appearance.
But it didn’t.
Growing impatient, he craned his neck round the door frame and peered into the lounge. The cat was nowhere to be seen. It had to be hiding somewhere, he thought, somewhere in the lounge. The doors to the kitchen and the hall were closed. Was it hiding from him? Had he misinterpreted the situation? Perhaps it had had enough. Perhaps he should just leave while he could and let the RSPCA deal with it. A couple of inspectors would have a much better chance of catching it than he would. They were trained for this sort of thing, after all. He’d just tell them that the cat had been hanging around for days, and that this morning it had got in through the kitchen window, and that, while he was trying to see it off, it had turned on him for no apparent reason, and had run amok through the house. After seeing his injuries, they’d have no reason to doubt his story. He couldn’t tell them the truth; if he did, they’d probably think he was mad, not to mention a menace to cats. He could see the headlines now: “CURIOSITY (ALMOST) KILLED THE PHYSICIST”. He’d be ridiculed as well as reviled…
Miles shook off the shame and indignation this scenario induced, trying to recall where he’d put his mobile phone, and peered into the lounge again. He wished the cat would do something – anything – to betray its whereabouts. But it was staying put.
Cursing its mangy hide, he entered the lounge, stayed close to the bookshelf along the nearside wall so that he could keep an eye on the rest of the room. He reached the door to the hall, and was about to open it when he saw something out of the corner of his eye. A black spot that suddenly grew in size as it rapidly descended on him. He couldn’t turn around in time to see what it was, but he realised soon enough after a piercing pain spread across his shoulder-blades like wild fire. Shrieking, he crashed back into the end of the bookshelf in a desperate attempt to crush the creature clinging to his back. The bookshelf shuddered with the impact but the books held fast.
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Through a haze of pain he saw the cat scamper round him. Yet again it appeared to have escaped serious injury. He watched it in stunned disbelief, wondering what he had to do to stop the thing.
It was sitting on its haunches now, as though ready to spring.
Miles backed away, deciding all over again that he’d have to kill it, and raised the stool like a club.
Undaunted, the cat took a step forward, it eyes blazing with a hard and purposeful delight.
‘Come on then,’ Miles said as he backed into the utility room. He’d trap it here, he decided once and for all, trap it and bludgeon it to death.
Schrödinger paused in the doorway, looking at him suspiciously, almost as if it had read his thoughts.
Miles met the cat’s gaze as evenly as he could. ‘Don’t be shy now you little shit,’ he muttered through gritted teeth.
The cat remained motionless, its slitted eyes fixed on him.
‘COME ON THEN. I’M RIGHT HERE.’
He stood his ground.
‘WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?’
The cat cocked its head, seeming to contemplate the question.
Miles put the stool down beside him, hoping the gesture would encourage the cat to strike.
His eyes lit up as Schrödinger stepped across the threshold.
‘That’s it,’ he murmured, his pulse quickening. ‘Come on.’
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He felt naked without the stool, and thought about making a quick exit via the window even though he knew he’d struggle to fit through it. Schrödinger would be on his back before he even got it open anyway. He had to stand firm, he told himself, and wait for the cat to make its move.
He didn’t have long to wait.
The cat made its move in a single bound.
Miles matched the leap with a bound that carried him out of Schrödinger’s path. He lurched a few steps to the door and slammed it shut. All thoughts of escape had been forgotten. He was consumed with a desire to destroy the creature and put an end to this nightmare.
He spun around, confronting the cat, and realised he’d have to go through it to get to the stool. Sod the stool. He’d kill the cat with his bare hands if he had to. Seeing it poised to strike again, he lunged forward with the intention of kicking the beast as it came for him; but he slipped on the fresher spatters of blood on the linoleum, fell backwards, and banged the back of his head on the door.
Before he knew who or where he was, the cat was clawing at his face. Sharp slivers of pain wrenched him from his daze. He screamed in agony and terror as his vision turned red.
Lashing out blindly, he grabbed the cat and, ignoring its frenzied bites and scratches, drew it close to his chest.
It felt cold in his arms, and almost as stiff as a dead lab rat. Stifling his shock and horror, he squeezed it with all his remaining strength. He squeezed until it had stopped squirming in his grasp – until he was sure he’d squeezed the life out of the thing.
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No cat was harmed or mistreated in this picture. It’s actually of a vet giving medicine to a kitten.
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Exhausted, Miles loosened his grip on the beast and, blinking away the blood and tears from his burning eyes, wondered if he would ever see the light of day again.
****
Julia hoped the cat wasn’t dead. If it was, she’d be partly responsible for its death. She’d supplied the poison, after all. She’d been feeling guilty ever since she’d stolen the stuff (knowing full well what it was for and what it could do to that poor cat), and was still worried about being found out. She’d said as much several times, but Miles didn’t seem to care. All he seemed to care about was a silly experiment – an experiment that was never meant to be carried out for real.
Opening the front door, she noticed junk mail on the mat and wondered if Miles was out. She stooped to pick up the leaflets and the menus, stepped into the hall and turned to shut the door.
She hoped Miles had gone out. It would give her time to determine whether or not the experiment had been a success. She hoped, for the cat’s sake and for her peace of mind, it had failed.
She opened the door to the lounge. The crimson stains on the end of the bookshelf instantly caught her attention. She froze, staring at the marks, wanting to believe they’d come from a ketchup bottle or a tin of red paint. But she couldn’t. She’d seen enough samples of blood to know the difference between it and sauce or paint. The question was whose blood was it.
‘Miles,’ Julia called anxiously, wondering what had happened, and entered the lounge.
There was more blood on the floor. Maybe Miles had had an accident, she thought, and was at the hospital. That would explain his apparent absence and the blood. But why hadn’t he phoned? The blood looked as if it had been there for a while.
Julia felt her stomach tightening as she approached the door to the utility room. She didn’t want to open it now. She wanted to do what she usually did on a Monday evening, and pretend nothing was wrong.
She told herself to stop being silly, and suspected Miles had probably had a few stitches for a cut and was on his way home from the hospital. She remembered how clumsy he could be.
‘Miles,’ she said to be sure, not expecting to get a reply.
She opened the door and noticed more blood on the floor. Quite a bit of it this time. The air was thick with the smell of it.
Realising Miles’ cut must have been serious than she’d imagined, she scanned the workbench for anything sharp which he could have been using – but her eyes kept coming back to the box. It was open.
Was the cat still in there? she wondered.
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Needing to know, she approached the workbench. Two feet came into view on the other side – two human feet – and she almost jumped out of her skin. They were wearing Miles’ scuffed shoes.
Julia scurried around the workbench, stood aghast, and tried to take in what she was seeing. Miles was lying in a pool of blood. Streaks of it stained his ashen face like crimson tears. She couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or closed. Clods of gore caked each socket.
She realised why there was so much blood when she saw the gashes in his throat, and put her hand to her gaping mouth in shocked disgust as the full horror of the scene began to sink in.
She knew he was dead. The faint but unmistakable odour of decay was already supplanting the smell of blood. The wounds on his arms, face, and neck indicated an animal attack – but surely the cat wasn’t responsible for his death…
She noticed small, bloody footprints – unmistakably feline – leading away from the crimson pool surrounding Miles’ corpse. She followed them with her eyes and saw they came to an end at the far wall. The window had a hole the size of a man’s fist in one of the bottom panes.
Walking back around the workbench to avoid the majority of the blood, she cautiously approached the window, keeping an eye out for the cat despite what she was thinking about it.
At the window, she saw a few strands of black hair caught on some of the remaining shards of glass, and knew the cat was somewhere out there, in the dark.
Julia still couldn’t believe it was responsible for all this, but unless a mad dog or a maniac. A maniac! The possibility of one lurking somewhere in the house, waiting to pounce, became all too apparent, and rooted her to the spot. Trying to control the panic welling up inside her, she reached into her bag for her mobile phone.
A sound suddenly penetrated her consciousness. She almost dropped the phone as she acknowledged the noise. Whirling around, she was relieved to see nobody but Miles in the room with her.
Her heart was beating so loudly that she could hardly hear the noise. But it was there.
She strained to listen, trying to determine what it was.
To her disbelief, it seemed to be coming from the box.
© George Taylor 2010
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February 27, 2010
This week we’re going to South Africa, with horror writer Joe Mynhardt.
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Joe Mynhardt lives and works in Bloemfontein, South Africa. While modestly admitting that he’s only been writing for a year-and-a-half, Joe has enjoyed remarkable success. This story marks his third publishing and he still has volumes of work he hasn’t had time to send out.
Joe contributes to horror fiction in more ways than his own fiction . He maintains a constant presence on several of the major horror writer’s forums as a contributer and adviser. He’s also an administrator for a major writer’s group. All in all, he keeps his finger on the active pulse of current horror. He’s a player, and it’s a pleasure to have him here.
In real life, Joe is a primary-school teacher. He devotes himself to his work, and to feeding his two dogs. I’m sure if something happened, and he were incapacitated, he wouldn’t mind if his dogs ate him. After all, it would be a shame to let all that talent go to waste.
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This is a rainbow off of Cape Point, South Africa.
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Michael, by Joe Mynhardt
Michael Saunders stretched out in the tub. A passing shadow drew his attention to the small window above. He stood up and peered out at the deserted garden below, drops of water trickling down his naked body. A waist-high stone wall separated his two story mansion from the six hundred foot drop into the ocean below. The waters surged in recognition of its power as the red sun dipped beneath the waves. Thick black clouds raged towards him.
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The cliffs at Knysna, South Africa
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Michael eased back into the bath, the warm water coursing over his body. As town realtor, he was certain he had acquired the best house for himself.
A loud bang from the garden made him jump up and gaze out once more. A cold breeze snuck up behind him and Michael turned to face the open door. Didn’t I close that?
Michael climbed out of the bath and peeked into the long hallway. He focused on the far side, to the first step leading down to the foyer. He strained his ears as he stepped into his jeans.
A thunderous crash echoed from downstairs – the front door.
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Here’s a South African cliff house, with it’s own cable-car.
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A winded feeling sank into Michael’s gut, his muscles felt heavy and his skin showered with goose bumps. His body swayed back and forth from his heels to the tips of his toes. “Who’s there?”
Footsteps banged up the staircase and stopped near the top. Michael clenched his fists and ran forward. His heart thrashed inside his chest, and as he took the third step, the lights went out. The house was silent. He could smell the intruder – a hint of wet dirt and rot mixed with vomit. Its foulness rolled over the tip of his tongue. What’s happening?
Michael stumbled back to the bathroom. The darkness engulfed his arm as he searched the icy wall for the other switch. His muscles relaxed as he turned on the lights, yet the putrid smell grew stronger. Three rooms – doors open and filled with darkness – stood on either side of the deserted passage. He could dash past the rooms, down the stairs and through the front door. But what if it grabbed him? The stench alone would subdue him.
The lights went out again and cast Michael into darkness. His flexed arm shot like an arrow towards the switch. “Stop it!” he shouted as he turned on the lights. The sound of his heartbeat roared in his ears. “Come up here and I’ll kick your teeth in. Get out of my –”
His gaze drew to the staircase; a black figure, blurry yet unmistakable, leaned into the hallway. Michael bit down on his lower lip. The figure paused… and turned off the lights.
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Ocean cliffs near Cape Town, South Africa
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“Please, leave me alone,” Michael said. “Take whatever you want.” His body shook in feverish anticipation of the dark. The wooden floor was cold beneath his touch, icy chills marched from his bare feet to the back of his neck.
A whisper floated into his ears. “Michael.” The voice, soft and irregular, came from the master bedroom behind him, and darkness followed once more. His feet froze in their attempt to flee. God help me.
With slow, unwilling movements he turned around.
A figure stained in black charged towards him. Its large, muscular frame grabbed Michael and hoisted him into the air, its skin moist and decayed. Between thick strands of long, dark hair a colossal mouth gaped. Its teeth flashed with rotten veneer.
Michael’s body swayed from side to side within the beast’s grasp as it ran down the passage.
Michael struck his fist down onto the intruder’s face. The power of his strike hacked its jaw in half, and black liquid oozed over Michael’s hand. The beast tightened its grip around Michael’s neck, and with its dagger sharp nails ripped off a piece of his flesh before it tossed him through the air.
Michael screamed with a mixture of pain and fear before he crashed onto the wooden floor. He kicked up into the air in a desperate attempt to fend off his attacker, yet no one came. He scrambled to his feet. Murky red blood seeped through his fingers and down his bare chest. Fighting was no longer an option, he had to escape.
Michael stumbled to the stairwell. What have I done to deserve this? I don’t want to die.
Lightening illuminated the room to his left and he stopped to stare at the creature within.
It turned to him and talked in a coarse, female voice. “Why?”
Michael shrugged his shoulders. “Who are you? Why are you here?”
A barrage of footsteps ran towards him from the master bedroom. Michael turned to face the foul-smelling beast before it thrust him through the air. He had barely touched the ground when the first attacker – which he now recognized as the male – plunged on top of him. It ripped at his naked chest with animal-like claws.
The female stood over him and unleashed a flurry of kicks to the side of his face, again and again. She pushed the male off and raised Michael up. Holding his bloodied head between her hands, she smashed it against the wall. A dull thud echoed in his ears as the world around him slowly distorted.
All sound eluded him as he collapsed to the floor. His body was a canvas of pain, yet the torture continued – hitting, scratching, clawing, kicking, biting. Warm blood flowed over him and onto the floor. The cold grip of death approached.
Michael’s mind turned numb and his eyes blank. The male picked him up and slammed him against the ceiling. His body became oblivious to the pain, yet the echo of his ribs snapping ravaged him into unconsciousness.
Michael woke to the feeling of being wrapped in a cold, wet mantle of blood. A dim light shone through the cracks of his eyelids. He opened his eyes to the master bedroom and gazed upon his attackers. They stood side by side; their bodies a conglomeration of brown, decomposed rot – a powerful attribute of the walking dead.
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This is how they come back from the sea.
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“Who are you?” his voice cracked. “Why are you doing this?”
“Think!” the male said.
Michael tried to sit up. “I don’t know.”
“How dare you sit there and lie. You ripped our very lives away from us.”
Michael gathered his strength and stood up, his hands reaching out to them. “Please.”
The female looked at the male and shook her head. “We’re finally home, honey. Just finish it.”
The male revealed an axe from behind his large frame and swung it over his head. The blade whistled through the air and split Michael’s left shoulder in two with a terrible crack.
His arm dangled by its skin as the axe stuck out of his torso like a wooden limb. The force of the blow pushed him down and around, sending him crashing head first through the bedroom window. His limp body lay halfway out of the window. Life outside the house moved in slow motion, the wind, the storm, the trees. Michael’s heart beat faded, his pulse weakened; blood and pain besieged every inch of his body.
Michael felt his life trickle away. What have I done to deserve this?
He gazed into the grove of lush, evergreen trees, and then over the two open graves. I remember. How could I forget? It was only two years ago. All the screams, the fighting… the blood… Those bastards didn’t want to sell the house. They deserved what they got.
Michael glanced down at his shoulder and grinned. My axe.
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Cool image, I really like this one.
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“This is my house. Fuck off.” Michael said as he stood up. He tore the axe from his shoulder and leapt forward.
The female watched as her husband’s head plummeted to the floor. She looked up just in time to see the blade plough into her skull.
Michael collapsed between his two victims, yet only his body was found the next day.
© Joe Mynhardt 2010
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For a special treat, I’ve included an illustration specifically done for this story by South African artist Michael Goetze. Michael is a truly international guy who typifies this very modern nation.
Michael has chosen to interpret the aftermath of Joe’s story. The uniforms and equipment worn by the policemen are authentically detailed. Look for these two policemen later, in Joe’s stories to come.
