Horror Stories: A Macabre Collection (9 page)

I watched a deader stagger around aimlessly.
I followed the clay colored sun burnt beast of yesterday. Wherever
it roamed I followed. It had no idea I was there. It could’ve been
months, or years, hell, it could have been minutes, it didn’t
matter. The deader eventually found someone alive. I give it credit
for trying, but it was pretty useless, the lady clubbed it to
death. She bashed his head over and over again. Not one drop of
blood came out of the thing—it was probably dried up, or bled out.
She took her breaths and moved on, as did I.

I never did find out how a ghost dies. I did,
however, watch a world die. I watched mankind disappear forever. I
watched its walking shadow decay into nothing. I saw other ghosts,
other things, but nothing could ever keep me company. I watched the
climate change, and the animals all disappeared. I traveled the
world time and time again. The landmarks I knew turned to dust. For
a time, it was only the roaches and I, but they died off as well.
The earth grew hot for a long time, and the sky turned red. The sun
was dying. Then the earth turned to a ball of ice. The sun began to
fade. Then there was the day the sun went out. Then it was just me
and the darkness.

* * * * *

Kaleidoscope Eyes

* * * * *

Distinct shapes grew fuzzy and abstract as
J-Bone’s vision went black. He’d been spray-painting his latest
masterpiece under the bridge when he heard footsteps approaching.
He didn’t have time to turn around let alone finish his
painting.

When he awoke he found himself strung up
upside down and stripped naked. He was in a cement room, and it
smelled like a sewer. Once he was able to focus he spotted his
clothing in a ball on the floor next to his cans of
spray-paint.

“Help!” J-Bone screamed.

His echo ran away. No one replied. No one
came.

“Help!” J-Bone screamed again to no
avail.

He heard footsteps behind him once again and
then a voice.

“You done screaming yet?” A voice asked.

“Not till you get me the fuck down,” he
threatened.

“I’m real scared, boy,” the voice
replied.

“You should be mothafucka!”

“Why were you decorating my bridge?”

“Your bridge? And the who the hell do you
think you are?”

“Don’t
matter
who I am. So, you like
spray-painting huh? You think that makes you an artist?”

J-Bone didn’t reply.

“I used to think I was an artist. Went to
art school…almost graduated too, then I found out what real art
was. You have to suffer to make real art. You have to bleed and
labor and sacrifice. You have to make a statement. You think
throwing colors on a wall is art?”

J-Bone didn’t know what to make of the angry
man behind him. He didn’t want to show his fear, but he had never
been more scared in his entire twenty years on this earth.

“Well, let me tell you.
That
isn’t
art,” the man said, jabbing him with a sharp instrument.

J-Bone screamed. His back felt warm with
blood. “What the fuck, man, stop!”

He didn’t.

“This is art. Suffering!”

The man kept stabbing and stabbing J-Bone
with his sharp instrument and J-Bone bucked and writhed and spun
around, swirling his blood around a canvas that lie beneath him
that he didn’t notice till now.

“Do you see it yet?”

“P-Please…s-st-stop…”

“Open your eyes and look around you!” The
man yelled.

J-Bone listened to him. He looked around the
room, and this time, instead of noticing his belongings, he noticed
the lampshade made of skin; a picture frame made of human bone; a
candle sitting atop a small skull. His vision grew blurry once
more, but he fought for consciousness.

“You can see now can’t you?”

J-Bone could only see swirls of color, he
couldn’t focus and he felt like he would soon see only blackness,
but then he began to see as if he were looking through a
kaleidoscope. It was more vivid and far trippier than any
drug-induced oasis he’d experienced. Aside from the agonizing pain,
it was beautiful.

“I knew you’d see it. I knew,” the man
proclaimed.

Then J-Bone saw blackness once more.

When J-Bone awoke he was in the hospital.
His mother and a few of his friends were sitting around looking
grim, but they didn’t look like he remembered them. They were
colorful and abstracted and for a moment he thought it was the
morphine drip attached to his arm but then he remembered the old
man who taught him how to see, and he was thankful for the
pain.

* * * * *

Versions

* * * * *

Arlen wanted to see the beast known as
Bigfoot ever since the first time he’d heard his father tell
his
version of the story. He was no older than eight when
his father took him camping for the first time and tried to scare
him with his tale of Bigfoot. Arlen’s father was a bit disappointed
when his son was entranced rather than being frightened. He wanted
to give him a scare, not wet his appetite for a lifetime’s worth of
what-ifs and maybe-so’s. But that’s what happened and that’s why
Arlen is now handing over the better part of twenty dollars to some
pimpled-face kid to see what remains of Bigfoot at some
backyard-sideshow.

The kid took the bill and handed him back a
few singles and some grimy coins. The kid opened the fence to the
backyard and a man wearing a sweaty gray shirt and dirty overalls
walked over.

“Welcome, sir. Come to see the Bigfoot have
you?”

“I have,” Arlen replied.

“Right this way then.”

The man walked him over to a large worktable
that had a few sawhorses and planks of board atop them. Arlen’s
eyes followed the table up to what lie on top of the
hobbled-together gurney. It was a massive shape, draped with a
painter’s drop cloth. The thing, whatever it was under that cloth,
stretched out longer than any man he’d ever seen up close.

Arlen began to shake nervously. He’d dreamt
of the day where he could come face to face with Bigfoot. He just
never thought the beast would be dead had he ever had the chance.
He tried walking slow, but before he knew it the man in overalls
was pulling back the cloth. Flies were buzzing all around the beast
and maggots were crawling in the nooks of his eye sockets. His hair
was matted, graying in spots, and filthy in bugs. Did Bigfoot get
mange, he wondered. The stench alone was staggering.

“He’s a big son of a bitch, eh?”

“Yes indeedy. At least what? Eight feet?”
Arlen asked.

“Shit…I measured him when I first shot the
bastard, a lick under ten.”

“You shot him?”

“Yep. Me and Bobby over there were walking
to the creek, and out of nowhere this hairy beast come running at
us. Luckily, I always carry my double barrel–shot ‘em right in the
chest. See, right there,” he pointed at a large wound in the center
of his chest.

“Damn,” Arlen said, mournfully.

The man smiled, and nodded his head, “kill
or be killed, I always say.”

Arlen touched Bigfoot’s giant hand. His hand
looked like a kids hand in comparison. It felt as real as could be.
His skin was rough to the touch, and as cool as the air around
them. It had to be Bigfoot, he thought, and this
damned
yokel
killed him.

“Want me to take a Polaroid of the both of
you?”

“No, thanks,” Arlen declined.

“You sure? Only five bucks.”

“I said no.”

“Suit yourself, pal.”

Arlen looked over the bulking remains and
couldn’t help but think of how the moment so punctuated the
sentence of his life. Adulthood had been nothing more than a
depressing dream-killing journey to this point, where yet another
of his childhood dreams met a vicious end.

“You can see yourself out when you’re done,”
the man said, leaving him to greet a handful of new curious
customers.

Arlen stood there for a minute more, and
before the newcomers ruined the peaceful moment, he left. His cell
phone began to ring. He fished it from his pocket and checked who
it was before answering. It was Laura, his wife. What does she want
now, he wondered.

“Hello?”

“Hey hon, what are you doing?”

“I told you I was visiting a friend today.
What’s up?”

“Well…I just…I want to tell you some news. I
couldn’t wait for you to get home. I’m pregnant!”

“What? Are you serious? That’s great
honey!”

“I know. I can’t believe it. After all we
went through and now for this to just happen…it’s crazy.”

“Yeah, oh my God. When can we find out what
it is?”

“Not for a while yet.”

“Okay, okay. Listen, let me go. I’ll be on
my way in a bit. See you in a few hours. Love you.”

“Okay. Bye, love you too.”

He drove away from the place, filled with
many mixed emotions all competing to rise to the surface. He
managed to smile as best he could. Arlen always longed for a child
to call his own but his wife was always unable to carry it to
fruition–

Something darted in front of his car. He
swerved, almost veering off the road. He looked to his left. The
trees and shrubbery shook as a large burly beast pushed through
them. It was sniffing the air as if in search of something.

“Bigfoot,” Arlen whispered.

Then from the other side of the road came
more Bigfoot-like beasts. Some of them carried spears while others
carried makeshift axes. Arlen couldn’t believe his eyes. One of the
beasts glared at Arlen, then continued on his way. Arlen waited in
his car, the window rolled down. He knew where they were going.
Just a few more minutes, he thought.

Arlen could hear the screams behind him; he
heard the roars of the beasts; the screams of the customers; a
single shotgun blast; and then… silence. He waited twice as long
for them to come back, but they never did. No cars passed him, and
he couldn’t hear any other screams. He debated driving back there,
but figured some things were better left unseen. He drove off and
couldn’t stop thinking of the day when he could take his son or
daughter camping so that he could tell
his
story of
Bigfoot.

* * * * *

TV Casualty

* * * * *

“…but you’re always busy,” Billy whined.

“I know, sweetie, just give mommy another
hour and we’ll do something together okay? Just go watch the
television.”

“Fine,” he huffed, walking into the other
room toward the couch in front of the television.

Jane returned her attention to her work
while her son pulled the remote out from in between the couch
cushions. He pressed the little red power button and the familiar
hum of the television calmed him down. He surfed the channels
looking for something to watch. Many of his favorite shows were on,
but they were repeats, so he continued surfing. Then all of the
channels turned to static. He continued surfing, looking to see if
there were any that weren’t. Then he began to see images in the
static; symbols and faces that he didn’t understand or recognize.
He could hear a strange sound interwoven with the static.

Billy put down the remote and stared
intently at the screen.

Jane wrapped up her work almost two hours
later. Billy had behaved so well, not bothering her once. She felt
bad about constantly working but couldn’t find any other way of
paying the mortgage and the rest of the bills. Things would get
easier over time, she figured, but they didn’t.

She walked into the other room and noticed
the static-filled television screen. She looked at Billy who stared
unblinkingly at the screen. His expression was sullen and his jaw
hung slack.

“Billy? Are you okay?”

He didn’t respond.

Jane walked over to him, touching his
shoulder gently, “sweetie…?”

He continued to stare straight ahead.

“Don’t be mad at me. How about we get
something to eat. Do you want to go out for ice cream?”

Billy stood up and turned toward his mother.
He looked up at her with vacant, unflinching eyes. He raised his
hand and moved it in a ‘come closer’ manner. Jane bent over with a
smile, she expected her son to smile back, but he didn’t.

He whispered, “I want to eat your brain,”
then lunged at her, wrapping his arms around her neck and biting
into her cheek. She screamed and fell as Billy clung to her neck,
knocking her off balance and pulling her to the floor. He continued
to bite at her face and once he bit her neck she stopped struggling
and proceeded to bleed out.

Billy sat around his mother, pulling her
right eye out so he could get to her brain. Unsatisfied with his
results he went into the kitchen and came back with a spoon. He
jabbed the spoon into her eye socket and scooped out a spoonful of
brains, eating it while he stared at the static-ridden
television.

“Yummy,” he grumbled, wiping blood and bits
of brain from his chin. “I love you, mommy,” he said.

“I know, sweetie, she replied as she opened
her eye, “I love you too. Do you want to get some more brains with
mommy?”

“Yes!” Billy exclaimed, “brains are
yummy!”

* * * * *

The Last Broadcast

(a Stay Dead short
story)

* * * * *

The station was set to go off the air at
noon. Station Manager, Morgan Latch, had sent everyone home
yesterday with the exception of a skeleton crew. Amelia, the sweet,
sultry voice of New Jersey on the Airwaves, NJOA 101.9 for short;
Patrick, the audio engineer, who started as an intern over a decade
ago. They were all he needed for one last broadcast. Morgan had
updated all of his emergency information including a list of all
Safe Zones. He had the most recent press releases from the CDC,
FEMA, Homeland Security, DERA, ETO and every other combination of
letters known to the general public and then some. He gathered what
information they could on the local traffic situation, which was
dismal. Patrick interrupted the regularly scheduled Breakfast with
The Beatles slot to air a few pre-recorded emergency preparedness
segments passed down from the mother and sister stations. NJOA was
the ugly stepsisters friend in the broadcasting family tree. The
one not pretty enough or slick enough for a fancy office in the big
city, which is why they were the last station standing. Every other
station on the east coast was off air, sure some of them had old
news and top 40 countdowns on loop, so if you tuned in you’d think
things were okay. If you heard the same 40 songs over and over
again you might just think they were good too, but you’d be wrong.
You’d be dead wrong. All you had to do was look out any window and
you could see that everything was not okay.