Authors: James Newman
Tags: #torture, #gossip, #trapped, #alone, #isolation, #bentley little, #horror story, #ray garton, #insane, #paranoia, #mass hysteria, #horror novel, #stephen king, #thriller, #rumors, #scary, #monsters, #horror fiction, #mob mentality, #home invasion, #Horror, #zombies, #jack ketchum, #Suspense, #human monsters, #richard matheson, #dark fiction, #night of the living dead, #revenge, #violent
Animosity
A PERMUTED PRESS book
Published at Smashwords
ISBN (Trade Paperback): 978-1-61868-2-383
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-61868-2-390
Animosity
copyright © 2013
by James Newman
All Rights Reserved.
Cover art by Dean Samed, Conzpiracy Digital Arts
This
book
is
a
work
of
fiction
.
People
,
places
,
events
,
and
situations
are
the
product
of
the
author’s
imagination
.
Any
resemblance
to
actual
persons
,
living
or
dead
,
or
historical
events
,
is
purely
coincidental
.
No
part
of
this
book
may
be
reproduced
,
stored
in
a
retrieval
system
,
or
transmitted
by
any
means
without
the
written
permission
of
the
author
and
publisher
.
Table of Contents
“’Tis slander, Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue
Out-venoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath
Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie
All corners of the world.”
--William Shakespeare, “Cymbeline”
“Gossip is always a personal confession of malice… it is a low, frivolous, (and) dirty business. There are neighborhoods where it rages like a pest; churches are split in pieces by it, and neighbors made enemies for life…”
--Jack Holland
“The Bible tells us to love our neighbors, and also to love our enemies; probably because they are generally the same people.”
--G.K. Chesterton
Ten minutes ago I killed three of my neighbors.
***
Perhaps I should feel something—disgust, remorse for what I have done. But for now I am only numb.
Hot blood drips into my eyes. Some of it is mine, but not all of it.
“
Drive faster,” I tell the man behind the wheel. I can barely hear my own voice above the shrill ringing in my ears.
I cough, tasting cold steel and bitter bile, and something ricochets off the dashboard into my lap.
Several
somethings: small, off-white, speckled with dark crimson and trailing meaty pink tails…
Two of my front teeth. And the jagged splinter of a third.
“
Faster,” I start to weep. “P-please…”
I peer down at the hole in my chest. It seems to pucker up and grin at me, like a cruel alien mouth dribbling gore.
My tears burn like acid through the grit upon my face.
“
For Christ’s sake, don’t stop for
anything
…”
***
Ten minutes ago I killed three of my neighbors.
Four, if you count the baby.
***
Ben Souther was the first. At one time, I suppose I would have called Ben a friend. We had emptied countless bottles of beer together on his front porch during so many hot summer nights. No matter how depressed I got about my recent divorce, my next-door neighbor always made me smile with his endless repertoire of spontaneous quotations. Of course, that was before I put a bullet in Ben’s throat, watched him fall to the ground, jerking and gurgling like a rusty faucet that has not been used for decades.
Next was a stooped old man by the name of Sal Friedman. Sal had a thick Jersey accent, drove a Cadillac the size of a small yacht. Last I heard from Sal, he was yowling for Sweet Mother Mary to put him out of his misery after I shot him pointblank in the groin. His fancy pink golf pants had gone bright red, and his curly white toupee hung off one side of his skull like a sated parasite as he writhed upon my lawn.
Then there was Donna Dunaway, the lady who lived across the street from me. Despite her “plain Jane” demeanor, I admit I did enjoy a bit of harmless flirting with her even while I was married. I could never understand how her husband Allen had left her last spring (for another man, if you believe the rumors) especially since she was due to have a baby any day now.
I did not want to hurt Donna. Or the child inside of her.
But I had to shoot her twice.
July 17 - July 31
CHAPTER ONE
It seems like months have passed since it all began.
Hard to believe it has barely been three short weeks since my world came crashing down, and my life became a nightmare.
Like something out of one of my books.
My name is Andrew Kenneth Holland. I am thirty-nine years old.
And I am a horror writer.
Shit… that sounds like some sort of
confession
, doesn’t it? A shame-faced introduction to Hacks Anonymous:
ME
(hanging head, sniffling softly)
Hello. I’m Andy. I write horror for a living.
