Tales of Sin and Madness (28 page)

Would Almus really have sold him an empty tin?

Then he thought: what if there was something inside waiting to lash out with deadly fangs, or crawl out with eight hairy legs, or sting him with a lethal tail?

He was all alone out here, far from the next town, a doctor, or a hospital. The closest thing to civilization that Craig knew of was Almus and his roadside stand.

Not a comforting thought.

Craig didn’t recall seeing a car parked near the stand, or even a bike.

Either the old coot did live close to the stand, or he walked a long way to get to work.

Keeping a firm hold on the lid, Craig shook the tin. Nothing rattled inside.

He let out a nervous breath.
Really is empty.

He chuckled.

Set the tin down, reached over and grabbed another can of beer. Opened it, gulped it down, listening to the crackling of the fire and the cries of the animals.

Not laughter anymore
, Craig thought; their cries were more intense, beckoning.

They wanted him to open the tin.

This is what you’ve been searching for
, they seemed to be saying to him.
You paid for it, why not open it? It’s yours. Aren’t you just the least bit curious?

Might give you some answers. You want to put Rachel behind you, don’t you?

Open it and find out.

“Ah fuck it,” Craig muttered and exchanging the can of beer for the tin, pulled off the lid.

A rotten smell, like swamp gas and dead flesh spewed out and clouded Craig’s head.

“Ugh!” he gasped, throwing the tin to the ground. It rolled towards the fire. Craig jumped up, not wanting it to land in the flames, but the tin stopped short.

The stink remained.

Craig turned away from the fire and gagged, worried that he had inhaled too much of whatever it was he had set free from the confines of the tin.

What’s too much? Christ, I don’t even know what the hell it was I breathed in. Chemicals? Dangerous gas? Remnants of mouldy cheese?

He spat globs of phlegm to the ground, even washed his face with what was left of the beer. He could still taste and smell the rancid odor.

I spent thirty dollars on a toxic canister!

He was going to pay Almus back. He was going to drive back to that roadside stand and open up every one of those tins and shove Almus’s repulsive, money-grubbing face into each foul smelling tin until he choked to death.

At once the night fell silent.

All animal noises ceased; only the crackling of the fire echoed around the dim, shadowy woods.

Craig’s already racing heart sped up more, and cold sweat seeped out of every pore.

It was too quiet.

Then a voice: “Thank you.”

Craig drew in breath. “Who’s there?” He gazed out towards the trees, to where the voice seemed to have come from. “I’m armed, so show yourself.”

He didn’t have a gun, or a weapon of any sort; didn’t believe in them.

Now he wished he did.

Because out of the woods stepped Almus.

Only he looked different.

“Stay back,” Craig warned, his voice quaking.

“I knew you would open it sooner or later,” Almus said, grinning. “It’s human nature. I know.” As he ventured closer he winked, only this time, his eyeball rolled from his left socket, jolting to a stop as the nerve ran out of length. Like a gory yo-yo, the eyeball bounced up and down a few times, before coming to a stop against Almus’s chest.

Craig whimpered. The beer he had consumed threatened to come out unannounced.

“It’s funny you should pick this clearing. Back in those woods was where I buried my body. You see, I’m no different than the animals back at the stand,” Almus said. “I’m road kill, too.” Almus hobbled closer, the light from the fire revealing his true form.

His collar bone protruded from his neck, causing his head to lean to one side. One arm was missing, torn at the elbow, while the other was bent backwards and jiggled abnormally as he walked. His upper body was bloody, clothes ripped, exposing deep, nasty-looking scars that seeped a rainbow of fluids, while the bottom half offered an assortment of intestines, fat and muscle. Some shiny, wobbly organ slipped out of the wound in his stomach and slithered to the ground. Smiling, Almus squished it as he stumbled towards a stunned and nauseous Craig.

Almus sniffed the air. “Ah, the smell of freedom,” he said through a bulging black tongue. He touched the top of his head, which was a mess of blood-soaked hair and splintered skull. “Old Wilmer was quick, that he was. And you know something, his smelled a lot worse than mine. You were lucky. Wilmer’s soul had been trapped for nearly a hundred years when I came along. Paid a pretty penny for it too.”

Craig knew he had to get to the Jeep, or to the road; had to get away from this…creature, this madman.

“I’m not a ghost, nor a spirit. I’m sort of like a soulless, physical representation of my dead self. Without a soul, I can’t leave this world. But you’ll find all this out yourself. You see, you bought the tin, you opened it; you have to suffer the consequences. One soul replaces another. Like mine did Wilmer’s. Wilmer wasn’t the first and you won’t be the last.”

Almus’s mangled body ambled closer.

Craig no longer smelled the putrid fumes from the tin. All he could smell was Almus – a stronger and more disgusting emanation that was blood, faeces and death.

Craig’s mind screamed
run
!

“You’re my saviour, Craig. As I was Wilmer’s. There’s only one final act that needs to be done and then I’ll be totally free.”

Craig ran; he ran for the highway, leaving the maimed figure of Almus – or whatever that was back there – alone in its crazed world of souls and road kill, calling “Who will be
your
saviour, Craig?”

With the moon guiding his path to the safety of the highway, Craig dashed past pine trees and jumped over bushes. The night was still, as if all the creatures were watching, and when he spotted the road up ahead, he ran even faster, bladder full, eyes watering, mind a whirlwind of dismay and confusion; he heard Almus’s laughter, a joyful cackling, then a blinding light shone in his eyes, and the creature bearing down upon him gave a screeching cry, the lights grew bigger…

Craig felt incredible pain, a sense of his body being torn apart…followed by something else being torn apart, though there was no pain, only the feeling of leaving his body, then a man’s smile, a sly, knowing smile…

* * *

A car pulled over to the side of the road – a station wagon full of kids in the back, and suitcases tied to the roof. The driver, a rotund, red-faced man, said something to the woman beside him, then hopped out and waddled over to the stand.

This could be it
, Craig thought.
Oh please let this be the one
.

“Howdy,” the man said, wiping his face with a handkerchief. He was wearing shorts that were much too tight, a Yankees baseball cap and a T-shirt that said
Support the troops. Support Bush
.

From the car the kids laughed and yelled.

The man turned and shouted, “Quiet!”

The kids obeyed.

The man turned back, face pleased. “Sorry. Kids are restless and we’re, well, lost.” He shrugged, as if to say this kind of thing happens all the time and surely the poor sap behind the stand will know how to get back to civilization.

“You know how to get back to route seventeen?”

Craig ignored the constant pain that gnawed at his body and smiled politely. “Sorry partner. Can’t help you there.”

The man frowned, lines forming across his pudgy, sweaty face. “What the hell kind of accent is that? Canadian?”

Craig wanted to scream, to let this doughy conservative sweat-ball know how much pain he was in, that his insides felt like they were turned upside down and his head felt like a tomato that had been squashed, but knew he couldn’t. Not if he wanted to be free from this pain, from this void existence he was living. “Australian,” Craig answered. “Interested in purchasing something for the kids? The wife perhaps?”

The man looked up at the sign, then back down at Craig. He looked as though he had just sniffed shit. “You’re kidding, right pal?”

Steady, Craig told himself. Can’t lose it. There hasn’t been anybody by in at least a month. “Forget about the road kill. How about a soul?” He looked down at the large tin – dented even more now than when Craig had first seen it – hoping the man would follow.

Can’t ask him to buy it, he has to decide for himself, but hell, there’s nothing to say I can’t influence his decision.

“Fuckin’ weirdo,” the man huffed. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Selling this crap to people.” He wiped his dripping forehead and coughed. “And that hat, it’s disgusting; I’ve got kids in the car. And besides, who are you to make fun of our leader? You’re not even an American.”

With a scornful look, the man made his way back to the station wagon and drove off, the kids making faces at Craig as they left.

He sighed.

Not even an American.

Right.

Craig sat back down. The glaring sun was bright in his eyes, and it would’ve been hot, if he could feel it. All he could feel was pain.

His eyes fell to the money on the ground. His payment. Thirty dollars for a lifetime of hell.

He had tried tearing the bills up, burning them, even eating the money; but no matter how many times he got rid of the two bills, they always came back.

A constant reminder.

Just like the animals in the woods; unseen, but present at all times. Always waiting.

For someone to buy their tin.

For Craig to go mad and try and escape this godforsaken roadside stand. Then they would attack, seek their revenge; didn’t matter that Craig didn’t start it – he had continued it, just as Almus had.

Even now he could hear them laughing at him, knowing he had to stay behind the stand until that special person came along.

He hoped it wouldn’t be too long.

  Surely someone wanted to buy a soul.

NOTES:

This story was written with the old E.C. comics in mind, like
Tales from the Crypt
. I’ve done a fair bit of travelling around the States myself, so I thought it’d be interesting to have my main character as an outsider, too (though I didn’t encounter anything as bizarre as the roadside stand in my travels). My third novel,
Torment
, is a continuation of this story, so if you’re keen on reading more about road kill and cheap souls, then check it out (Craig even makes a cameo appearance).

THE PROJECT

As a child he was deprived of the one thing he had wanted most.

It was only during the past month that he had thought of the perfect way to get that thing – he would
make
his very own.

* * *

Night one – the Snare

“How much?” Hartford said.

“That depends on what you want, darlin’.”

Hartford licked his lips and grinned. If only she knew, he thought. “Will five-hundred suffice?”

The hooker’s eyes lit up. “Five hundred? Holy crackers boy, you want the works, don’t ya?”

Hartford nodded. “Surely do. The works.”

The hooker leaned in close. She smelled strongly of perfume. “I’m gonna show you the best time of your life, darlin’. You’re gonna go off so hard N.A.S.A. is gonna want to use you for a rocket.”

Hartford gazed at her body. In this scorching New York heat, even the nuns wore skimpy clothing, so what this hooker was wearing almost gave Hartford wood. And that hardly ever happened.

Well, maybe I could fuck her
, Hartford thought.
Wasn’t in the plan, but what the hell.

“Anyplace you prefer to do it?” the hooker asked.

“I have this nice house in Newark.”

“Boy, you are a long way from home.”

Hartford nodded. “I know, but the best hookers are found in Manhattan.”

The prostitute giggled. “I like that. So, where’s your car, lover boy?”

“Not parked too far away. Come, I’ll show you.”

Hartford started walking down the darkened street. The hooker followed, high heels clacking against the pavement with each step. “Say, what’s your name anyway, big spender?”

“Name’s Ed,” Hartford called back. “Just call me Ed.”

* * *

Hartford crawled off the bed, stood up, and wiped his mouth free of the saliva. His penis quickly went limp. “Well, that was fun,” he said down to the naked hooker.