WHAT FEARS BECOME
An Anthology from The Horror Zine
Edited by Jeani Rector
WHAT FEARS BECOME
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Published by Imajin Books at Smashwords
Copyright © 2011 by various authors and Jeani Rector, The Horror Zine. All Rights Reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. And any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead (or in any other form), business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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FIRST EDITION ebook
Imajin Books - http://www.imajinbooks.com
August 2011
ISBN: 978-1-926997-19-3
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Praise for WHAT FEARS BECOME
"You won't be able to put WHAT FEARS BECOME down, not even for a second…Darkly humorous…Each spine-tingling chiller takes the reader into the depths of eerie imaginations…Thanks to Rector, get used to names such as Philip Roberts, Larry Green, and Cheryl Kaye Tardif because you're going to be hearing from them in the future!"―Jorge Solis, Fangoria
"There's nothing like a good scary story, except a lot of them, collected in an anthology from some of our top horror/suspense writers. So read one and be scared, or read a few and be good and scared, or read the whole book and lock all the doors and stay up all night listening to the house creak…They're terrific."―William Martin, New York Times bestselling author of Back Bay
"What Fears Become is a bold, brilliant collection of some of the most innovative and eloquent voices in modern horror. A musthant read for any avid horror fan."―Gabrielle Faust, author of Eternal Vigilance
"What an inspired mix of energetic and captivating horror. Here is work from acclaimed writers and a host of talented newcomers. This anthology is like a fearful breath from an ancient crypt; enter if you dare!"―Trevor Denyer, Midnight Street Magazine
"Dip in and you're hooked. WHAT FEARS BECOME is a high-bar mix of new and established talent."―Stephen Gallagher, author of Kingdom of Bones
"From the producers of The Horror Zine, this anthology of frightful fiction pulls in an impressive cast including some of the old masters of the genre, several bright luminaries and a handful of newcomers, promising that the top quality of the fiction, poetry and art is the only thing that matters."―Djibril al-Ayad, editor of The Future Fire
"This anthology showcases unusual and deeply disturbing horror fiction by numerous distinguished authors. Ramsey Campbell's story, in particular, will surely strike terror into the hearts of all aspiring writers."―Margaret L. Carter, author of Different Blood: The Vampire as Alien
"The stories in "What Fears Become" epitomize what Stephen King has called "the bad death." Whether they're jealous mirrors, irradiated vampires, clueless ghosts, or carnivorous homes, this anthology's shadows render the world a deadly place that gets most of its stories' protagonists in the end. Unless the protagonist is a monster—or already dead. That happens, too."―Paula R. Stiles, editor of Innsmouth Free Press
"The well crafted stories, and list of writers new and well known make WHAT FEARS BECOME a must read for horror lovers."―Selina Rosen, author of The Host trilogy
For the loyal readers of The Horror Zine
Acknowledgments
As editor of The Horror Zine, I would like to take this opportunity to thank all the talented writers, poets, and artists that make us what we are. There would be no The Horror Zine without all of you. I want to especially thank the best-selling professional writers who so generously and graciously lent us their works for this book.
I also want to thank all the hardworking and underpaid (think working for free!) editors of print and online magazines who strive diligently to give the writers, poets, and artists a venuein which to display their talents.
I particularly want to thank Trevor Denyer of Midnight Street Magazine for introducingme to Ramsey Campbell a couple of years ago, which basically started this whole adventure. I want to extend my thanks to Geoff Nelder for introducing me to Conrad Williams. I would like to thank Mattfrom the online forum Shocklines and also Ed from Cafe Doom for their unselfish devotion to giving people like me a venue to share my news and also to promote my endeavors.
I want to thank Trudy Hunter, Julia Cross, Sue Quiberg, Cheryl Babcock, and Kathleen Matranga for their continuing support. I would like to thank Heather Rector and Eric Rector for their refreshing uniqueness that never fails to inspire me.
And finally, I would also like to thank Cheryl Tardif, Lisa Hazard, Jennifer Johnson, Dean H. Wild and Toni Lopopolo for making this book possible.
Foreword by Simon Clark: A Small Matter of Life and Death
Fiction
A BAD STRETCH OF ROAD by Dean H. Wild
THE HOUSE AT THE END OF SMITH STREET by Stephen M. Dare
REFLECTION OF EVIL by Graham Masterton
WANDERING DANIEL by Jagjiwan Sohal
NEXT TIME YOU'LL KNOW ME by Ramsey Campbell
METHODS OF DIVORCE by Philip Roberts
AND BABY, YOU CAN SLEEP WHILE I DRIVE by Elizabeth Massie
THE ORPHANS OF LETHE by Rachel Coles
CHRISTENING by Scott Nicholson
YOU SAID ALWAYS AND FOREVER by Richard Hill
BONES IN THE MEADOW by Tim Jeffreys
ADELLE'S NIGHT by David K. Ginn
BONES FOR A PILLOW by Alexandra Seidel
WHAT THE BLIND MAN SAW by C. Dennis Moore
Poetry
The Artists
Editor's Corner
THE HOUSE ON HENLEY WAY by Jeani Rector
A SMALL MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH
Foreword by Simon Clark
I want to talk to you about a mystery. An interesting and important mystery. One that is, well, a matter of life and death.
And what has this extraordinary volume, What Fears Become, got to do with that extraordinary mystery?
Because the book you hold in your hands is part of a unique gift that we enjoy as a species. That gift is 'story.' As far as we know, we are the only creatures to tell, invent, and enjoy stories. And stories are important. We owe our existence to them. They sustain. Interpret. Educate. Encourage. Give hope. They allow us to see through the eyes of our fellow humans. They nourish empathy. Stories develop the strength and breadth of our amazing imaginations. They give us the power, from time to time, to cheat death. They are vitally important to the human race. Stories mean life.
Many anthropologists will cite singing and dancing as being the glue that cemented early tribal society together. I believe our 'species survival and growth package' includes other vitally important elements, such as a talent for the visual arts, a compulsion for physical and mental games, and stories—our universal passion for the made-up tale. Fiction pumps through our veins.
Where's the origin of this apparent inborn need to tell and to hear stories? The mystery lies in the origins of this need. We can't say precisely where the first fable was spun. Or when. Perhaps a gene mutated in one of our ancestors two hundred thousand years ago. For some mysterious reason our great (many times great!) grandmother or grandfather found themselves saying words that broadly mean "Once upon a time." And then relating events that never actually happened, yet which contain iridescent truths that illuminate human life.
Soon I'm going to talk about What Fears Become. First, I should say something about my dramatic statement that stories are so important we owe our existence to them. After all, I can't glibly toss out the opinion "that stories are a matter of life and death" in your general direction, then saunter away, can I? So, Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, I present my case. The facts are, at the time of this writing, scientifically accurate. Of course, I'm a writer of fiction (every cell of my body positively throbs with that 'story' gene: yours, too!), so I paint my facts onto the canvas of imagination.
Here we go. We're traveling back twenty thousand years. Back to a world of woolly mammoth and saber-toothed cats. Silently, we follow a lone figure limping through the forest. This is the last of the Neanderthals. The anatomy of the figure is typical of the Neanderthal species. A very stocky build. Sturdy legs. The jaw juts out fiercely. Large eyes peer from beneath prominent brow ridges. The arms are muscular, biceps are bulging. She is so powerful that she can easily snap the neck of a wild pig.
Her body language radiates confidence and strength. Her formidable torso is protected by a long cloak made from reindeer hides. She carries a spear tipped with a flint that's as sharp as a surgeon's scalpel. For months she has been searching for more of her kind. A quest doomed to failure. She can't possibly know that she is the last of her species. Nor would she understand that something happened in the last few generations that caused the Neanderthal to begin a headlong rush to extinction.
The last Neanderthal is living on borrowed time.
In the forest she hears voices. Though the language is unfamiliar, she is suddenly excited. Her species have communicated with each other in a remarkably sophisticated way for thousands of years, using spoken words and tongue clicks. Her heart pounds. This female is certain she has found another family grouping of Neanderthals. The chances of joining the group are slim—typically Neanderthal tribes are insular, they seldom interact—just the thought, however, of setting eyes on her own kind is so thrilling that she begins to run.
At the edge of the clearing the female pauses. Something is wrong. Yes, the men, women and children she sees walk on two legs, they call to one another, a couple are arguing, juveniles are laughing as they throw sticks into a tree. The figures wear animal skins, carry spears that are remarkably similar to the weapon she carries. Yet they are not the same as her species. Their bodies are so slender they seem almost fragile. Their faces are peculiar, too. They have small chins; the foreheads rise straight up instead of sloping back like those of her race.
The last Neanderthal is disappointed. These aren't of her blood. Yet she finds their behavior interesting. Although it is decidedly bizarre. Not much of it makes sense to her. Lack of food has made her drowsy. So why not settle down here in the bushes? Rest. Observe these delicate creatures for a while.
From her vantage point, concealed in the vegetation, she watches. The peculiar-looking creatures start a fire. They butcher a roe deer with flint knives. Soon they are enjoying a meal. Even though they have been hunting during the day they don't doze after the feast like Neanderthal hunters would do.
These eccentric individuals chase one another about the camp. The young men make a competitive game of jumping over a rock. Meanwhile, a group of children scratch lines in the dirt with twigs. She realizes that the lines resemble horses. This is very perplexing because her own species never did anything like this. Nor did they carve figures as a man appears to be doing right now to a section of mammoth tusk. Just as darkness pulls in, when all sensible Neanderthals would be bedding down for the night, these people start to move about the fire. They clap their hands in a rhythmic way. Sounds come from their delicate, little mouths. They seem to be saying the same words at the same time, then they begin to sway to the rhythm.
Song never featured in the Neanderthal way of life. Dance is alien to her.
After the dancing a silver-haired woman begins to speak. All the tribe gather round to listen. They are captivated by what she is saying. The last Neanderthal notices the expressions on the faces in the audience. She's incapable of figuring out that the Homo sapiens are listening to invented situations that befall a fictional character. And because other tribes of Homo sapiens are eager for new stories, different tribes meet and share their fables. Therefore, they don't experience the tribal isolation that has brought the socially shy Neanderthal to the brink of extinction.
The family group she watches from her hiding are vibrant, outgoing, and passionately interested in life. Their restless curiosity always means that they expand their contact amongst neighboring tribes, so the gene pool is ever-growing. These highly imaginative humans are equipped to survive, even flourish.
The female stares at the creatures listening to the story. The faces of the children shine with delight. They are learning without even realizing a lesson is being taught. Or that the muscles of imagination are being strengthened to the point imagination becomes a tool of incredible power in its own right.
The last Neanderthal continues to stare as the stars come out one by one. She no longer blinks. Not even when a spider begins to methodically spin a pure white shroud for her face.
II
Story. So very important. So vital to the survival of our species. And fiction is important to us individually. You probably remember the first story you heard that fascinated you, and invoked the power of your imagination. Certain films and TV dramas undoubtedly still linger in your mind, even though you saw them as a very young child.
I grew up loving movies that featured monsters, aliens, and robots. When I was three-years-old I watched a film on television that, for the first time, seemed to light up the atoms of my very being. For the life of me, I can't name the film, or the actors. But, wow! I can still remember the hulking, great robot that stomped down a metal ramp with so much force that sparks flew from its iron feet.
Bouncing up and down on the sofa, I shouted, "That's great! I'm going to watch it again next week!" The adults carefully explained to the diminutive Simon, with his wide, shining eyes, that it was a film, not a TV series. That it wouldn't be back next week. That didn't matter. Not at all! Because my imagination had been brought to life. Whenever I wanted, I could recall in vivid, dazzling, awesome detail that huge robot clumping along, sparks blazing from its feet.
So, like my fellow human beings everywhere on Earth, I found my love of story. Books, comics, television, film, radio. Stories pulsated everywhere. My family told tall tales. My uncles had a never-ending supply of haunted house yarns. "Simon. Do you see that house by the canal? There are ghosts in there…" An uncle would point to the creepy old building and I'd believe every word.
Fiction nourished me as much as potatoes, gravy and the sweet puddings we were served at school. What I devoured most in the way of books were anthologies. Fortunately, the school library had a fine stock of ghost stories for children. I gobbled them up one after another. And birthdays brought me the Armada Ghost Book series.
And it was only later that I appreciated that many of the pieces I enjoyed were first printed in magazines, such as the nineteenth century monthly The Strand Magazine, and Weird Tales, hailing from the 1920s. These publications used the latest print technology to deliver their content in what was then a fresh and inventive way. The Strand Magazine not only published great text by the likes of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, there were also dramatic illustrations of soldiers brandishing swords, or explosions, or thrilling cliff-top fights. Weird Tales boasted vivid covers, which were broadly based on the Beauty and the Beast theme. Gorgeous females being menaced by alien creatures were a resounding favorite. Back in the gloomy depression between the World Wars they would have screamed excitement from the newsstands. Buy Me! I can take you away from your worries! Readers would be carried away on strange adventures from the pens of H.P Lovecraft, Robert E. Howard and the top pulp writers of the day. Imaginations would blaze; the reader would step into the hero's shoes. They'd be empowered. Even when the reader was back in the real world again after closing the magazine, they could face the day-to-day struggles with renewed energy and hope.
That's what stories, do. They help our species to survive.
With every new generation there's always an inventive, new way to feed our appetite for fiction.
So, imagine my delight when I heard about The Horror Zine.
Let me tell you about the e-zine.
Launched by Jeani Rector in 2009, this is a glorious online treasury of fiction, artwork, photographs, articles and poetry. With that first click of the mouse I saw that there was something special about The Horror Zine. Lavish color, photos, and illustrations blazed from the screen. Its very look proclaimed a fresh approach to online publishing.
The Horror Zine is divided into different departments. Each one features short stories, poetry, art, or non-fiction. Jeani Rector is a lady with vision. Shrewdly, she understands what horror fans enjoy. Jeani Rector ably ushers in artists, authors and poets for us to enjoy.
There is provocative artwork. Some subtly erotic, some disturbing, some eerie, and some just plain beautiful. All of it very, very good. And instead of simply displaying the artwork of talented individuals, The Horror Zine becomes a vehicle that can take us to the artist's website, or invites us to contact them. In this way, Jeani Rector's e-magazine acts as both an art gallery and a marketplace, where publishers and individuals might seek to commission original artwork that is stimulating and visually exciting.
The same applies to the fiction department. We step into the pages of new and gifted writers who create such remarkably unique and imaginative fiction that it stays with us long after we are finished reading. We can read the story; we learn something about the writer, then once more the door swings open for us to visit the authors' websites.
Besides the new writers, The Horror Zine also has a remarkable list of established authors: Graham Masterton, Melanie Tem, Ramsey Campbell, Piers Anthony, Scott Nicholson, Conrad Williams, Ronald Malfi, Cheryl Kaye Tardif, Elizabeth Massie and others, who have entrusted their work to the editor's decidedly capable hands.
A click of the mouse and we're conveyed to the poets: Joe R. Lansdale is among them. The Horror Zine poets create fluid and artistic lines well worthy of the time spent to savor them.
Elsewhere in the e-zine we find The Banners Page, a portal to other sites in keeping with The Horror Zine's morbid theme. "The Oddities in the News Page" features factual items culled from the newspapers: a medieval 'vampire' burial, plans to clone extinct animals, a 75-year-old mystery in Los Angeles that may or may not be related to Peter Pan, and the like. Anyone who has ever stepped into Ripley's Odditorium will love this. I know I do!
"The List of Zines Page" is devoted to an extensive directory of both print zines and e-zines that that are potential markets for the work of writers, poets, and artists. Best of all, "The List of Zines Page" is kept current and all of the links work.
"The Morbidly Fascinating Page" invites us to peek into some dark corners. Here we find pictures and articles - famous criminals of the past, haunted houses, ancient bodies preserved in bogs, shrunken heads, Victorian post-mortem photography, and an assembly of macabre curios and bizarre exhibits. There is a different subject every month to, well, morbidly fascinate us.
And The Horror Zine holds its contributors in heartwarmingly high esteem. My work features there. I contributed a short piece of fiction entitled The Pass. Working with Jeani is a happy experience. She took a great deal of care in ensuring The Pass was displayed attractively, smartly illustrated, and I was extremely gratified that the reader has the opportunity to find out about my latest novels. Believe me, this gladdens an author's heart. I'm sure other contributors to The Horror Zine have been and will be looked after superbly.
Just when this seems the point where I invite everyone to hurry over to The Horror Zine to immerse themselves in this groundbreaking creation, I holler "Wait!" Because Jeani isn't content to deliver a great online magazine. Jeani has also embarked on editing a very beautiful book.
I'm honored to be able to introduce to you the Jeani Rector-edited anthology here in your hands: What Fears Become: An Anthology from The Horror Zine.
Maybe this book is in the form of paper and ink, or you might be reading it in an electronic format. Rest assured, however, that you are about to step into worlds of wonder where dreams and nightmares are waiting to steal into your heart.
Here you'll find the kind of artwork in book format that elevates The Horror Zine into something so special. Your editor has selected a fabulous array of stories, poetry, and artwork for this book.
Let me give you a little background about some of the contributors. Ramsey Campbell was encouraged in his writing by HP Lovecraft's friend, August Derleth, and has rightly gained a legendary status in the genre. Graham Masterton's skill as a writer shines from the page. Pick one of his stories and read the masterful dialogue aloud. You'll see what I mean.
Piers Anthony's novels have appeared many, many times in the New York Times bestseller lists. I've been fortunate to take part in a convention event with Melanie Tem, and found myself wishing I could make notes about her insights into the craft of the tale. Elizabeth Massie is a well-established writer of novels, short stories and radio plays, and has legions of fans.
A favorite movie of mine is Bubba Ho-Tep, which was inspired by a novella from the prolific and gifted Joe R. Lansdale. Here he turns his skillful hand to verse. Conrad Williams is carving a big name for himself in the horror world. His fans would agree; as does Peter Straub, who describes Conrad's work as "beautiful and blazing."
Scott Nicholson is the celebrated author of The Red Church. The latest in a long line of fine books by Scott is Drummer Boy. Cheryl Kaye Tardif is a versatile writer, and a rising talent of the Canadian book world. A talent destined for worldwide appreciation.
And then there's Ronald Malfi. Always a joy to read, Ronald Malfi's writing-style shines with a diamond-bright brilliance that always leaves me wanting more, much more.
Bentley Little is ferociously loyal to the horror genre. He has been rightly described by Stephen King as "a master of the macabre." In the last twenty years he has built up a dedicated following for his terrific supernatural fiction. Bentley Little's The Mailman is a personal favorite of mine and is wickedly entertaining fare.
Those are the established writing stars. Which make this book an essential must-buy in its own right. However, Jeani Rector hasn't forgotten the new authors. These new authors prove that The Horror Zine has a healthy appetite for writers who have a taste for the adventurous and the innovative.
Online, The Horror Zine attracts the best talent. The well-known, the soon-to-be-well-known. Jeani Rector deserves our applause for producing such a visually stimulating, enchanting and downright exciting website. Now those elements are enshrined here in What Fears Become. This wonderful anthology continues the important traditions of the first story-teller. That ancestor of ours that first spoke the words: "Once upon a time…"
Here is proof that humanity is still confidently exploring the world of imagination. And as we continue our voyage into the future we will always tell one another stories. After all, it truly is a matter of life and death.
Simon Clark
England
August 17, 2010
http://www.bbr-online.co.uk/nailed/
Abstract Green Houses
Ricardo Di Ceglia
BAST
by Christian A. Larsen
The fluorescent light flickered like the minds of the residents. Sometimes it lit up the entire breadth and depth of the hallway, and sometimes—most times—it only interrupted the peace of the darkness.
"I hate this place," muttered Marty, counting off the room numbers. The patients, end-stage dementia sufferers and terminal cancer victims shambling past in flapping terrycloth robes, gave him the absolute willies. They looked like something out of a George Romero movie. He hated the smell worse, though—a mix of piss, disinfectant and ointment that made the nursing home stink like a giant litter box.
The woman at the nurse's station smiled when he walked past, but never looked up from her Sudoku game. In fact, the smile never reached her eyes. "Can I help you, sir?" she asked automatically, scrawling numbers in a grid without pausing for an answer. A fat black cat lifted its head from a porcelain bowl where it had fallen asleep. It followed Marty with its good eye. The other was sewn shut and made it look like it was winking at him.
Marty mumbled a perfunctory no thanks to the nurse and shuffled into his grandmother's room. The sun was a sinking tangerine and the lights were off, but he could hear her breathing raggedly—a faint snore repeating through her diminished frame.
"Grandma?" he asked and wondered why. He hadn't had a real conversation with her in weeks. Not since a couple of months after she checked into the home, since the beginning of her great inexplicable—but not totally unexpected—geriatric decline.
"Hubert? Is that you? It's too bright. I can't see."
"Grandma, it's me. Marty," he answered, drawing a chair closer to her bed. With the faint purple coming in through the windows, he could see the outline of her face like a silhouette portrait cut from black construction paper.
"They were having a party outside, Hubert."
"Who was?"
"The people in the white coats."
"The doctors? Where? Out in the hall?"
"No, the people in the white coats were having a party, Hubert. Don't you listen?"
Marty didn't know why he was bothering with the conversation, given that she thought he was his years-dead grandfather Hubert, but at least they were connecting, at least a little, and it might be for the last time too. At least he hoped it might be. "Where was the party?"
"Across the river," she sounded angry.
"Didn't they invite you?"
"No, they wouldn't stop inviting me!"
For a long time, he couldn't draw anything else intelligible out of her. She moaned and groaned about the cat trying to kill her, how she was afraid to swim, that she wasn't ready, and why did she have to go in the first place? Marty patted her hand. Her skin felt thin and loose, like it was ready to slide off of her bones in a pile, and it made him shiver. Willpower. Old-fashioned German bull-headed willpower. That was the only thing holding her together.
The doctors had said she had six months left in her, tops. That was thirteen months ago, and it beat Marty up every time he came back to see her, a little less there than the last time. But enough of her was left to fight that inevitable slide. How he wished that part of her was the first to go. He didn't mind seeing her bruised from the IV lines, or feeding her a cafeteria version of Thanksgiving dinner. What he minded was seeing her living through these nightmares like they were real, and waking up meant dying. Maybe she would be better off really dying.
Marty slumped back in the chair and watched the sunlight drain from the twilight. His grandmother was sleeping, or some variant of it, but he told her about his day, anyway. The mundanities, the trivialities about his job, how his wife was handling grad school courses—whatever came to his mind. It was reflexive. He didn't actually intend any of it. It merely came out as the room fell into nighttime, with only the flickering fluorescent trapezoid cut by the doorway casting any light.
Something brushed up against Marty's leg and he reached down in that momentary panic—where the small unknown seems life-threatening—and barely missed the fluff of the cat's tail. It sprang onto his grandmother's bed, settled between her feet, and looked at Marty with its single, slitted, radioactive eye.
"Shoo, puss. Go on, go," said Marty, waving his hands at the animal. It looked back at him with something akin to bemusement. "I said go!" he repeated, reaching for the cat. It hissed at him and bared its teeth. When it reared back, the light from the door caught a white splotch on its chest shaped like a swinging noose.
Marty settled back into his seat. It wasn't doing him any harm. Yet. But then it started to crawl up toward his grandmother's face, the blades of its shoulders pistoning higher than its sleek black head. Marty looked over his shoulder toward the nurse's station.
"Can someone come in here and get this cat?"
When he turned back, the cat had settled on his grandmother's chest, where it proceeded to lick its paws. There was a faint wheezing noise coming from the bed, like a broken motor or an air-hose leaking from a pinhole. The sound drew Marty forward, and for a couple of seconds, he thought it might be the cat purring, but it wasn't. The sound was coming from higher up, and then it shaped itself into words in his grandmother's voice.
"I c-c-can't breathe, Hube-b-b-bert-uhh."
"Grandma!" shouted Marty, reaching for the cat with both hands. It stood its ground and glowered at him with its one chartreuse eye. Marty tried to pick it up, but it seemed to weigh more than a thousand pounds. It let out a long purr that sounded like a burp.
Then the room went quiet.
"Grandma? Grandma?" whispered Marty, suddenly and surprisingly very afraid that she might be dead when just a few minutes before he had hoped as much. He took her hand in his and he patted it. It felt cold. He fumbled around her wrist and couldn't feel a pulse. "Nurse!"
"What's the problem, sir?" asked the nurse sleepily as she entered the room.
"My grandma's not breathing and I can't get this cat off her chest!"
As he was saying that, the cat jumped off the bed and padded past Marty with its tail sticking straight up, flashing its anus at him. In the oddly cast shadows, the animal looked bigger than a small dog. The nurse called the staff physician and he declared Marty's grandmother dead a few minutes later. "I'm sorry, Mr. Gustafson," the doctor offered.
"Doctor, there was a cat in here…"
"That's Bast, a shelter cat. She's a favorite around here. Named after the Egyptian cat goddess."
Marty didn't know why any of that was important when they should have been talking about his grandmother. "Why does that cat have the run of the place? That cat sat on my grandmother's chest."
"Bast snuggles up to people when she's feeling affectionate, and the residents seem to like her. She brings their spirits up."
"You didn't hear me. That cat, doctor, sat on my grandmother's chest and squeezed the air out of her."
"Now, Mr. Gustafson, I'll admit she's overfed, but old Bastie doesn't weigh more than twenty-five pounds, give or take. She doesn't weigh enough to do what you described. Besides, if you were so concerned, why didn't you just pick her up?"
"I tried. I couldn't move it."
"I understand," said the doctor. "Some people don't like cats. I'll talk to the director of the home about keeping the cat out of places she's not welcome. And again, I'm very sorry for your loss. We'll make the arrangements for you."
Marty felt like arguing, but let it go because of the offer of arrangements. Still, he felt like pointing out that he didn't have feelings about cats one way or the other—at least cats in general. But this Bast he didn't like at all, from its one-eyed glare to the noose on its chest, to the way it squashed the tidal breath out of his grandmother's dying body. Still, he was too numb to take it any further, so instead he worked with the home about the arrangements for his grandmother's body, and afterward, he walked back down the flickering hallway. Most of the residents were asleep this time, but Marty still had the willies for some reason.
"Well, Grandma, I guess you won't have to be afraid of being alone in the dark anymore," Marty said out loud, feeling like he was whistling past a cemetery. He signed out at the visitor's check-in, spun himself through the revolving door and out of that litter box smell.
But the outside didn't smell any better. Marty supposed it was either on his clothes or up both nostrils, and he'd have to shower when he got home. Hell, he needed a shower anyway, but it would have to wait until after he walked Freya. She was wagging her tail in the backseat. He waved at her with his free hand as he felt the door handle catch with the other.
It was in that last split second that she growled and bared her teeth, too late to be an effective warning. He thought—as quickly as only such thoughts can be—how odd she looked, and then something hit him like the sweet spot of a baseball bat, right between the shoulder blades and knocked him down to the pavement.
The dog was going nuts inside the car, a million miles away. There was a terrible weight on his back and another noise, breathing just above his ear, the hissing of a cat. He felt it curl its claws between his shoulder blades and start to press the air out of his lungs, just like he'd watched it do to his grandmother, and he couldn't even gather the breath to shout for help. His eyesight was graying out, and the last thing he would ever see was his bald tires. I guess I didn't need that alignment after all, Marty thought.
Freya, though, tested the door with her weight and it gave. Marty heard her scramble out, her claws and jaws snapping and scrambling onto the pavement. Marty felt her weight on his legs and hips, but even for a dog her size, it was reassuring. The cat hissed and dug its claws deeper into Marty's back—this time a move not of predation, but of desperation. One cat paw moved off of Marty's back and Freya whimpered, drawing back. Marty's hopes went up in smoke. The cat got Freya. There goes my last chance.
But he was wrong again. Freya leaped back, snapped at Bast, got a hold of something, and pushed her weight against Marty's side, peeling the cat off of his back. Bast mewled pitifully, raked its claws across Marty's back, and then was gone. He managed to look up. Freya's teeth were red with cat blood, her lips curled in a feral snarl.
Marty dragged himself off the pavement and sat against the side of the car. "Good girl, Freya. Good dog." Freya dropped Bast's wrung and punctured corpse in front of Marty and sat down, panting like her master. Marty reached up and scratched the deep pile under the dog's throat. His arms trembled, a nervous reaction to his near-death experience with a house cat, but he'd be okay to drive home if he just gave himself a minute.
Bast was a mess, the cat's tail and hind leg braided together at disturbing angles, its throat mangled, and its innards draped over its wounds like the pulsing bodies of coiled nightcrawlers. Marty watched the heat from the cat's body seep into the spring night air. It smelled like his own rejuvenation and rebirth. Finally he felt strong enough to stand, brush the asphalt off his jeans, call the dog into the car, and put this night behind him. "Come on, Freya."
But the dog was investigating something under the car next to him—the car he had been sitting against. The cat was nowhere to be seen, but there was a track of gore leading from where Bast had been to the underside of that other car, and he could hear an obscene yowling coming from there.
"Freya, get into our car…now!" said Marty, shooing her inside. Jumping into the driver's seat, it wasn't until he pulled onto the highway that he took another breath. "That cat—that damned cat—it still has a couple lives to work through. I don't want to be there when it does."
The lights from the highway rolled over the glass of the windshield and Marty flicked on the radio. Ted Nugent was singing "Cat Scratch Fever" and Marty laughed a laugh out of relief more than amusement. "Hey, Freya, how's that for serendipity?"
When he looked into the rear view mirror, he could see that Freya's ears were flat and her tail was down. Anxiety rimmed the dog's wide eyes.
Marty felt his smile fade under the weight of that stare, dreading the sinister yowl coming from the car's undercarriage—the dead giveaway of a feline stowaway. He checked his gas gauge and calculated in his head how long he could keep the car moving. Not long enough.
About Christian A. Larsen
Christian A. Larsen grew up in Park Ridge, Illinois and graduated from the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. He has worked as a high school English teacher, a radio personality, a newspaper reporter, and a printer's devil. His work has appeared in magazines such as Golden Visions, Lightning Flash, An Electric Tragedy, Eschatology, Indigo Rising, and Aphelion. He lives with his wife and two sons in Kenosha, Wisconsin. http://www.exlibrislarsen.com
by Bentley Little
I never liked Darla. No reason, really. At least no logical one. It's just that some of your kids' friends you like, and some you don't. As an adult, you can see in the children the seeds of the grownups they are going to be.
And I could see that Darla was going to grow up to be someone I couldn't stand.
But she was Stacy's friend and her mom was June's friend, and I didn't say anything to either of them. She wasn't a Bad Seed or a female Damien or anything, she was just...annoying.
So on those rare occasions when June was out and Darla came over and I was left alone to babysit the two girls, I usually let them do whatever they wanted in Stacy's room or the backyard, while I watched TV and tried to ignore them.
This time was no different. It was a Saturday afternoon and USC was playing—a game I really wanted to see—so when Darla knocked on the screen and asked if Stacy was home, I told her to come on in. Stacy was in her bedroom, and the two of them did something in there for a while before going in the kitchen and snacking on some Goldfish crackers. The game got really exciting, and I lost track of them after that. It wasn't until halftime that I started wondering where they were and what they were doing.
Just at that moment, the back door slammed, and Darla came running into the house. She stopped breathlessly in front of my chair and grabbed my hand. "Mr. Harrison! Come outside! I have to show you something!"
"Why don't you just tell me?"
"No," she whined. "You have to see it! Hurry up! Stacy's waiting!"
Knowing that I should be checking on them anyway, I feigned an interest I did not feel and allowed myself to be dragged out of the house, through the back yard, to the chaotic jumble of boards that Stacy called her "clubhouse." Darla pushed aside the swinging piece of plywood that covered the entrance and went inside. I ducked and followed, entering the makeshift structure's only room.
Blood was everywhere, and at first I did not even understand what I was looking at. I blinked dumbly. There was a dead dog in the left corner, a mutilated Labrador corpse that I recognized as Scout, our next door neighbor's pet. To the right of that, on top of the low coffee table we had scrounged from another neighbor's garbage, was a wiggling form covered by a raggedy, red-soaked cloth. A bloody ax leaned against the wall behind it. My heart started jack-hammering in my chest. Underneath the table, I could see a length of crimson-spattered flesh that looked like a leg.
Darla walked up to the table and pulled aside the cloth. "See what I did, Mr. Harrison? See?"
I did see. Darla had chopped off Stacy's leg above the knee and had somehow grafted the dog's leg in its place. I swooned for a second, felt like fainting, felt like vomiting. The strangest thing—the most horrifying thing, perhaps—was that Stacy seemed to be feeling no pain. She was laughing and excited, and she sat up, then stood, showing off. She was wearing nothing but her underwear, and where the hairy leg of the dog met her own thigh, the transition was smooth, unnoticeable.
Darla was looking up at me, and I wanted to hit her, wanted to smack the neediness and self-satisfaction off her smarmy little face. "Don't you think I did a good job? Huh, Mr. Harrison? Doesn't it look good?"
Stacy took a step forward. The leg screeched when she moved it, a horrible shriek that sounded like bad brakes on an old car. She said something to me, but I couldn't hear it. She could not walk and talk at the same time. The sound of her leg was so loud, she had to stop all movement in order for me to hear her speak.
She did stop, and she looked up at me and smiled. "Isn't it great, Daddy? Darla said she could do it, and she did!" Stacy looked sad for a second. "I didn't think Scout would die, though." Immediately she brightened. "But I love my new leg! It's a lot better than my old one!"
Stacy gestured toward the discarded appendage under the bloody table, and I threw up. I managed to lurch to the left first, and heaved in the corner away from the girls. I wasn't disgusted, exactly, it was just...all of it. The sight, the smell, the sound, Darla, Stacy, the dead dog, the amputated leg, the bloody room, everything was swirling inside me, and my body expressed its emotions by vomiting.
I wiped my mouth on my sleeve. Outside the clubhouse, I heard June's voice, bright and cheerful and entirely clueless, thanking Kristie, Darla's mom, for going shopping with her. Darla immediately ran out of the clubhouse, the plywood door swinging shut behind her. Stacy was shouting excitedly—"Mommy," I think—but she was hurrying after her friend at the same time, and her voice was drowned out by the horrible screech of her leg.
I sucked in a deep breath, then pushed the plywood aside, holding the door open for Stacy, who hobbled through the opening. Her new leg, I noticed, was shorter than her old one, and she listed to the right.
Darla was babbling to her mother, bragging about what she had done. June seemed confused, but she glanced over as Stacy emerged from the clubhouse.
She took one look at her daughter.
And fainted.
June adjusted to it.
I don't know what I expected to happen once my wife came to her senses. A rush to the Emergency Room? A call to the police? But I didn't expect what actually happened: a calm discussion with Darla and her mother that resulted in an understanding. I was the only one screaming and yelling, the only one calling names and making threats, and I would never forgive June for that. Never. But recriminations would have to come later. Right now, I just needed to figure out a way to get my daughter whole again.
Before Kristie and Darla left, June actually thanked them.
I wanted to hit her.
From down the hall, I could hear Stacy walking around her bedroom, the dogleg screeching.
I walked back there, standing in the hallway and watching her through the open doorway while everyone else said their goodbyes. I remembered what it had been like when my dad had given me a bad haircut. I'd been the laughingstock of the school for an entire week, the object of attention everywhere I went. I could only imagine what it would be like for Stacy, having a dogleg.
She limped from her bed to her closet, from the closet to her dresser, looking down at her hairy leg and grinning all the while. I felt June's hand on my shoulder and nearly jumped. "She'll be fine," June said. "Look how happy she is."
"That's what's so wrong," I explained, but she didn't understand.
It had happened on a Saturday.
Against my better judgment, I called neither the cops nor the paramedics. As June so rationally pointed out, how would I explain what had happened? At the very least, Child Protective Services would take her away from us for observation, until what had happened could be sorted out and dissected. I didn't want that to happen.
That afternoon, I buried Scout in the backyard. I also tried to salvage and clean up Stacy's real leg, but it was dead, shriveled down to the thickness of bone, the skin brown and dry and leathery.
I buried it, too.
All day Sunday, I kept crying, bursting into tears at odd and inappropriate moments. I loved my daughter, had loved her since the moment she'd been born, and it was the little things that set off my emotional fireworks. Remembrance of the past, thoughts of the future. Recalling the times she had run to me when I got home from work, jumping into my arms and hugging me tightly. Wondering what she would do when there were school dances.
And always there was the screeching of the joint where the dogleg was fused right above her knee, a shriek-like squeal that was almost metallic. I heard it every time she moved, a constant reminder of what had happened. Like the telltale heart, it nagged at me, gnawed at me, made me realize that if I had supervised my daughter more closely, if I had watched her play with her friend instead of watching the football game, this never would have happened. She would be a normal little girl, we would be a normal family, and I wouldn't be dealing with this horror.
Finally, I decided to do something about it.
Night had fallen, and both June and Stacy had gone to bed. I was still up, watching TV in the living room, and I walked back to our bedroom, checking to make sure June was asleep. She was. Stacy was asleep, too, in her own room, in her own bed, although she had kicked off part of the covers, and I could see the dogleg sticking out.
I moved forward, bending down to examine it more closely. From even a foot away, the hairy animal appendage appeared to blend into Stacy's smooth white skin, transitioning seamlessly. But from this intimate vantage point, I saw that there was a definite line of demarcation. Reaching out, I touched the dogleg, feeling a strong sense of revulsion as my fingers stroked rough fur.
The dogleg could be amputated. Even if they couldn't reattach her own leg, doctors could affix a prosthetic limb, I told myself. Anything would be better than this...abomination.
Stacy moaned, stirring in her sleep, and the leg joint creaked, its metallic squeak loud enough to be heard on the other side of the house. I felt like throwing up again, but I didn't.
I knew what had to be done.
The previous day, I had cleaned off the ax and returned it to the garage, where Stacy and Darla had originally gotten it. Now I went into the garage and brought the ax back with me to Stacy's room. For a moment, I wasn't sure I'd be able to go through with it, and I put the blade of the ax down on the floor and leaned on the handle like a cane, watching my daughter as she slept. The dogleg was still exposed, and I thought of the girls, so proud of what they'd done, so utterly uncomprehending of the tragic consequences.
Picking up the ax, I chopped off the dogleg with one mighty swing, gratified to hear an ear-splitting screech that came not from my daughter's mouth, but from the joints of the leg itself. There was blood all of a sudden, much more than I would have expected, and I dropped the ax and moved forward to stem the flow, vaguely aware that there was the sound of screaming coming from somewhere behind me. And then—
I was out.
I felt nothing, no pain, at least not until I woke up, and by then Stacy was gone. June had taken her. I ran through the house, my head throbbing where I'd been hit, but their clothes were gone and so were some of Stacy's stuffed animals and a lot of things I couldn't quite recall. I'd apparently been out for some time, because it was light outside, and the clock on the DVD player said it was one forty-five.
Opening the front door of the house, I saw that the car was gone. They'd taken it. But where? To the police station? To June's parents' house? I didn't know, but I started calling. I phoned everyone I knew, dialed every number in our address book, which for some reason June hadn't taken. No one had heard from them, and no one knew where they were.
I decided to wait, hoping they would come back, hoping June would cool off and bring my daughter back to me. But a day passed, a week, and there was still no sign of them.
The only thing left was the dogleg.
It was not part of Stacy, but somehow it was.
It had been left on her bed, right where I'd chopped it off, and that gave me hope. Wherever they were, whatever they were doing, Stacy was free. All of her body parts were her own. That seemed important, somehow.
I prayed that she was still alive, that June had gotten her medical attention, though none of the local hospitals I called would admit to treating anyone matching my daughter's description.
I took the dogleg and put it on ice, in the extra freezer we maintained in the garage. I found myself going out there constantly to check on it, an obsession that only grew worse as the days passed. I would touch the leg sometimes, holding back tears. I even kissed the leg once. It had been a part of Stacy, if only for a little while, and I felt closer to her as I stroked the frozen fur, thinking of how happy she'd been when she'd first jumped off the table and run over with her new leg to give me a hug.
Perhaps I had been wrong to deprive her of it.
"Stacy," I said, sobbing. "Stacy..."
It was the second Sunday after June and Stacy had left, and I was sitting numbly in front of the television, staring at a football game, but not watching it. The doorbell rang, and when I went to answer it, I saw Darla standing on the stoop, looking up at me with bright eyes. "Is Stacy feeling better? Can she come out to play?"
Stacy's not here, I wanted to say, Stacy's gone. But I couldn't get my mouth to say the words.
Darla just stood there, looking at me in a way that made me think she'd known that all along. I started to close the door, but stopped when she said, "I have an idea, Mr. Harrison. Do you want to hear my idea?"
As much as I disliked the girl, hearing her talk was like having a link to my daughter, and I found myself nodding.
Fifteen minutes later, I was in the clubhouse with the dogleg. Darla had gone home to get what she needed and had just returned. She looked at me I nodded, and I laid down on the table. Darla smeared cat food on my leg, spit on the cat food, then pressed a leaf against it. I felt nothing until she started singing. The words were nonsensical, something about dancing birds and bears in the trees, and they were set to the same tune that underlay a lot of children's songs, the one for "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" and the ABC's. The second she started singing, there was a tingling in my leg, a weird sensation that was not just skin deep, but went down to the bone.
Was this what Stacy had felt?
Darla smiled at me, and lifted the ax.
"Ready?" she asked.
About Bentley Little
Bentley Little was born in Arizona a month after his mother attended the world premiere of Psycho. He is the author of numerous novels, short stories, articles and essays. He originally came up through small presses.
Bentley Little is notorious for not participating in anything on the Internet, so he does not have an official website. The Horror Zine communicates with Bentley Little though mail delivered by the U.S. Post Office.
by Dean H. Wild
Max Drummond was in the depths of a heavy driver's daze, the toll of endless miles since sunup and too much to think about, he conceded, but for some reason the sight of the interchange rising out of the distance brought him around. He gave his surroundings a waking-dreamer's blink. He was somewhere in the back-forty of the Midwest surrounded by dust devils and afternoon heat shimmers. Other than that, he was uncertain of his location. Someplace where they didn't bother to post highway signs, he could say that much. Not a single directional sign graced the roadside for as far as he could see. Now that he was looking, he noticed not a single billboard advertisement either. Not even a friendly reminder of the local speed limit, only cars racing off the ever-closer interchange ramps at a steady pace, flooding the highway with metal and glass and chrome. On the one hand, he reminded himself how much he hated busy highways, and on the other hand told himself it didn't matter. All that mattered was he make Milwaukee by sundown, reach Linda by nightfall, and cling to the thinly wrapped hope she would open the door when he came knocking unannounced.
Just ahead, an ancient structure—a kind of bridge or trestle—stretched over the highway. He hadn't noticed it at first, but there it was, acting as a gateway to the weave-work of feeder ramps beyond. It held its ground with entitlement like a tribal elder. In fact, its rigid profile struck him as possessing a sort of—well—wisdom. The old bridge would be his starting line, he decided. True, his journey began hours ago in St. Louis, but this would be the point where the agonizing fell away, like stages of a rocket, leaving him light and unburdened. He considered it with a sudden pang of hopefulness. Welcomed it, even.
"And we're off," he sighed and punched the Volvo's accelerator as he swept under the trestle.
The sensation was surprising and exquisite. His view of the road gained a harsh, bright-glass clarity that caused him to squint into the two northbound lanes alive with bumper to bumper trucks and cars. What momentarily drew his attention, however, (and brought a hint of unease) were the interchange ramps. There were more than he'd first realized, and they snaked away one after the other into the distance at ridiculous, drastic angles. They joined with mysterious elevated and unmarked roads, or sometimes fed into other ramps.
The only thing worse than a busy stretch of highway, he decided as he twisted anxiously at the wheel, was a busy stretch whose designer graduated the Dr. Seuss School of Highway Planning.
His cell phone was on the seat next to him. He fingered it and thought about the sound of Linda's voice, how it always had the ability to calm him when things got tense. The old Linda's voice, that was, the one full of sweetness and trust. Certainly not the Linda's voice from this morning which seemed to traverse the distance from Fond du Lac, Wisconsin to St. Louis like a hail of arrows. "How could you?" she had asked him three, maybe four times, demanding an answer, insisting he talk about it. He couldn't. It was all he could do to make the call. To go into any great depths was beyond him.