Twelve Short Horrible Stories Vol.1

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NightMares™ Twelve Short Horrible Stories Copyright © 1996-2001 by NightMare Books Publishing All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without express written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address NightMare Books Publishing, P. O. Box 55625, Saint Petersburg, Florida 337325625 Printed in the United States of America. Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: ISBN 0-9708727-0-4

NightMare Books Publishing www.NightMareBooks.com

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             What a find! A large black widow spider. I’ve been looking for a model to use for my latest piece of artwork. I specialize in the darker side of art, airbrushing Harley tanks, designing tattoos, comic books, and more. This guy is perfect, a “real prize.” I take a sharp needle and carefully aim the point at the center of the spider’s back. I know about poisonous plants, snakes, and insects.

The black

widow is one of the most potent. One bite from this arachnid can be deadly and at least cause muscle cramps, fever, and nausea, even if you receive prompt medical attention. As long as you don’t get bitten, you have nothing to worry about.

I plunge the needle

perfectly into and through the black widow. It is not happy about my accomplishment, and struggles on the end of the slender shaft of the needle. Soon it draws its legs inward and stops twitching. A dead spider, you see, is virtually harmless. I take it home, still suspended on the needle, and secure it to a book on spiders. I had been researching for an adequate model to sketch. As luck would have it, I had found my own reference material crawling across its web. It’s getting late. A little dinner and a few beers later, its bedtime. I’ll work on the sketch first thing in the morning. Tossing and turning all night, I keep having wicked dreams about that spider. Giant spiders chasing me, being caught in a huge

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RICHARD L. YORK, JR.

web while the creature slowly approaches. Looking me over, trying to decide where to start chowing down. Or, that the black widow stuck on the needle has given birth to hundreds of offspring. I sit straight up in bed, covered in sweat, reassuring myself that it is just a dream. My sudden motion wakes my beautiful wife. She asks if I’m okay. “Sure, baby, I’m fine... just a bad dream.” “I hope it wasn’t about me,” she says with a soft giggle. I lie back down and try to get comfortable telling myself to dream of nice things... or nothing at all. [BEEEEP-BEEEP-BEEEP-BEEEP] every morning at 4:30

A.M.

Our alarm goes off

We don’t get up until 5:00 or 5:30,

taking turns hitting the snooze button.

[BEEP-BEEEEP-

BEEEEEEEP] The alarm continues to sound. Attempting to roll over and slam the clock, I realize that I can’t. I’m caught in the sheets. [BEEP-BEEP-BEEP] The alarm drones on as I struggle uselessly.

Suddenly I realize I’m not caught in the sheets.

NOOOOOO! I’m entombed in an intricate web. This can’t be. I must be dreaming again. As I struggle, sharp stabbing pains riddle my body. I feel horribly sick, my head spinning out of control, and everything fades to black. Again, I awake to the still beeping alarm. I can just make out the large but blurry, red digital numbers on the clock. 1:30?

2

THE BLACK WIDOW

1:30? How could it be? I look out the corner of my eye to see my wife apparently still out from being bitten. I also see dozens of tiny black spiders working frantically on the web cocooning us. I scream out for help and am again bitten by several young spiders feeling the vibrations in their web. My body tenses as every muscle cramps. Everything is getting real fuzzy, but I’m still awake. I try to move and nudge my wife, knowing I’ll be bitten again, but I have to see if I can wake her.

It is no use.

I’m

paralyzed from the venom surging through my body. I attempt to scream out again but I’m too weak to really make much of a sound. My body stiffens further to a rigor-mortis-type state. I’m able to do nothing, not even blink my eyes. Just stare at the ceiling watching the tiny black invaders crawl across my face, suspended on their network of shiny silk. Time passed slowly. Minutes seemed like hours, hours like days.... Why doesn’t someone come over to see why we aren’t at work? We always call in, even if we’re only going to be a few minutes late. I lie there thinking that this must be the most vivid, horrifying nightmare I’ve ever had. This just can’t be real. Finally, the doorbell rings. I cry out with all that I have left in me. “Help… help... us...” My screams sound more like faint whispering. Again, the mass of spiders attack and the last thing I

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RICHARD L. YORK, JR.

see is the whitening, stunned face of our elderly neighbor, entering our room, before everything fades to black. “Ma’am, ma’am, can you hear me? Ma’am?” A young doctor urges the badly swollen and disoriented survivor of the young horde of black widow spiders. “Ma’am? You’re going to be okay. You’re at Memorial General Hospital.

Can you see how many

fingers I’m holding up?” “Th-three,” she answers weakly. “Good, ma’am, real good. Do you know what happened to you ma’am?” asks the doctor gently. “No, not really,” she answers groggily.

“Where’s my

husband?” After a short pause the doctor answers, “I’m sorry, ma’am, he wasn’t as lucky as you.... He was pronounced D.O.A. Dead On Arrival.” “I know what D.O.A. means! Where is he!” she demands shrilly. “He was buried two days after you two were brought in. You’ve been in a coma for three weeks. We weren’t sure if you were going to make it either. Your husband was a brave man, ma’am.

The number of his wounds compared to yours would

suggest he struggled mightily to free the two of you. He--” “STOP!” she screams. “Just leave me alone!”

4

THE BLACK WIDOW

“Okay ma’am, I’m sorry. I’m very sorry. You should get some rest now.

There’s a button beside your bed if you need

anything, anything at all.” Meanwhile, six feet underground, I’m freezing. It’s so cold in here.

What a weird dream.

Spiders?

There were spiders

everywhere. I can’t get back to sleep with the air conditioning down so low. Attempting to sit up in bed, I smack my forehead hard, knocking me back down. I shake my head, searching with my hands. I find I’m not in bed. I’m in a box. A small cramped box! What is this? Straining my eyes to focus I see what appears to be white silk sheets hanging over me. I push against them, but they are rock hard. Suddenly panic rushes through me. I’ve been buried alive! “HELP! Somebody help me!” Silence. My screams are muffled by tons of earth separating me from the world above. I thrash uselessly against the walls of my 6’x2’x2’ tomb.

Tiring from my futile

attempts, I relax and pray. Please, someone, somewhere, realize that I’m alive! Please... Please... I hope and pray my wife hasn’t met the same fate. Is she alive, or truly resting in peace? Back at the hospital, my wife awakens from a vivid dream. “He’s alive!” she screams out.

“My husband’s alive!”

She’s

quickly surrounded by the hospital staff, assuring her it was just a dream.

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RICHARD L. YORK, JR.

“These things happen, ma’am. When you lose a loved one unexpectedly your mind can play nasty tricks on you,” soothes one of the nurses. “No! I’m telling you, he’s alive! I heard him in my dream, struggling to escape his coffin. He’s calling out for help. We have to dig him up! NOW!” she screams out in a panic. “Just relax, ma’am. He’s been buried now for three weeks. He couldn’t possibly be alive, even if we did bury people we weren’t positive were dead, which we don’t. I’m sorry, ma’am. Your husband’s gone,” said another staffer. “NO! NO! We’ve got to dig him up right now!” insists my wife. “Sedate her,” the doctor on call demands, obviously disgusted with her inability to accept reality. Later, when she awakens, she finds herself strapped to a different bed in a strange room. “Where am I?” she calls out. One of four attendants approach her saying, “Third floor... Psychiatric Unit. You got very upset downstairs. They thought you might disturb the other patients. It’s okay, you can scream as loud as you want up here. Nobody can hear you, or will even care,” states an attendant. “My husband can... He’s gonna come and get me!” my wife says.

6

THE BLACK WIDOW

“Yeah, right, lady. The dead guy?” another attendant sneers exposing the few remaining rotting teeth he has left in his nearly empty skull. “He’s not dead, he’s just buried,” insists my wife. “Okay, whatever, lady.” The attendants obviously tire of her delirium. “We need to be together, baby!” She screams out in her mind with her eyes clinched tight. I NEED YOU! My eyes snap open wide. Overcome with rage over my wife’s helpless plight, I feel stronger than a thousand men. Slamming my body furiously against the walls of my small box, I feel it give a little... and then a little more. Creaking sounds fill my coffin, and dirt starts sifting in and then pouring in. I dig like a madman consumed with one focused thought… to save my wife. I dig up toward the dirt rushing in on me. I dig and dig until my hands find the warm breeze. Grabbing hold of my headstone, I pull myself up and out into the night. I stretch for a brief moment, and then I am pulled in one direction by some unseen force. I take off running as fast as I can and suddenly realize that my feet are barely touching the ground. A loud buzzing comes from behind me. Looking over my shoulder to see what was making the sound, I see a set of large black wings attached to my back,

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RICHARD L. YORK, JR.

humming in the air. I concentrate on working them and take off into the night sky. Flying high over the lights of the city, I can’t help wondering how I got these wings. No spider I know of has wings. Most of their victims do, however.

Somehow, chromosomes, DNA, or

something must have transferred through the spiders’ bites into my system. My weak condition must have allowed the insect genes to become dominant. While I rested deep underground in a type of hibernation, I have metamorphosed into a strong winged creature. I LIKE IT, but now I must get to my wife. “HE’S OUT!” she screams, “My husband’s free!” An attendant comes over to give her another sedative injection. “I got what you need, baby,” he says with an evil grin. “You know, you’re kind of cute strapped down to that bed.” She stares him directly in the eyes, opens her mouth, and sprays him with a stream of thick, clear liquid. He lets out an agonizing scream while dropping to his knees, his hands rubbing his eyes. The other attendants run to his side as he falls flat on his face, paralyzed. “What the hell did you do to him?” they all demand. “Untie me, now!” she orders. “No way! You’re staying put until we find out what you did to him,” the head attendant proclaims.

8

THE BLACK WIDOW

Another attendant produces a large hypodermic needle. “This is gonna hurt, a lot,” he grumbles. She struggles against the restraints as he nears. She opens her mouth again, taking aim. A pillowcase is quickly slipped over her head by an aid standing behind her. “That should take care of her for awhile. Stick it in her neck!” he says. “That’ll fix her up.” “Yeah, good idea,” grins another attendant. Just then, a large window in the room shatters, spraying shards of glass throughout the room as I come crashing in. Standing up I see my wife tied to the bed with a pillowcase around her head. I lose control. Jabbing my hands with ridged fingers extended right through the chests of the two attendants standing by my wife, I shake their lifeless bodies off my arms, dropping them on the floor. As I move toward the two remaining attendants, one takes off running. The other one has the hypodermic needle. He thinks he’s a tough guy, holding the long needle like a knife. I quickly and easily snatch his hand, twisting it around and up toward his face. His lips twitch uncontrollably as sweat pours from his forehead. Holding his hand, which is still clutching the needle tightly, I wait a moment for effect then force it deep into his eye. As I push the plunger in, releasing the powerful muscle relaxant into his brain, his body goes limp.

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RICHARD L. YORK, JR.

“Come on baby, let’s fly,” I say while ripping my wife’s restraints free. “I knew you would come for me,” she whispers. “You’re all that matters,” I answer, walking to the window. “Hang on baby,” I say, leaping out of the window and into the night.

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%*72#%#$4# CHUPACABRA FKÌ-S-N-EU Q: A beast of various sizes and shapes. Some with wings, some looking more like large lizards with huge eyes and sharp teeth. Each drains the blood from its victims. Goats, dogs, and cats seem to be the diet of choice. Thousands of domestic animals across South America fall prey to these beasts each year. Sightings and reports of drained livestock are documented as far north as Texas and the Gulf Coast of North America. Some animals are found missing their internal organs as well as their blood. All with two puncture wounds on the neck or back.

A hundred years ago or so, rumors spread across South America of UFOs buzzing over the small villages dotting the countryside. Some people were said to have been abducted and had strange tests performed on them. After the testing, the abductees were usually dropped off near the point from which they were snatched. People were reluctant to tell others for fear they would be thought of as unstable or insane. Many people did tell, and ended up in the dirty, old, state-run asylums. In the years to follow, some children were born with hideous birth defects. Many died because of their deformities. This is a story of one such family. The child did not die, but the situation may have been better off if he had. The husband was working out on the farm late one afternoon. A large craft suddenly appeared fifty feet above him. As he attempted to run back to the cabin, a beam of white light encompassed him. It lifted his body into the air and onto a large ship. A blinding flash of green light filled the sky and the ship was

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RICHARD L. YORK, JR.

gone.

A few moments later the farmer lay shivering in shock,

staring straight up into the sky. That is how his wife found him when he did not show up for supper that evening. He told her of the painful things he had experienced while aboard the flying ship. She had no reason to doubt him. He had never lied to her before. Not wanting to be ridiculed by the other villagers, they decided to keep what had happened between the two of them. In the months that followed, the woman became pregnant. When the child was born, he was very deformed. They were forced to make a decision: a hard tormented life for the child, or quick death. They could not bring themselves to kill the boy, nor did they want to subject him to the taunts of the cruel children of the village. They decided to keep the child hidden in their small cabin. They dug a mock grave so that people would think that the child had died. As the child grew older, his deformities became more and more pronounced. What originally looked like exposed shoulder blades became long, bony appendages resembling small bat-like wings with a thin flap of almost transparent skin webbed between them. His eyes were huge and solid black. His finger and toenails were very strong, more like a dog than a human. His deformities grew rapidly, although his body size seemed stunted. At birth, he weighted five pounds.

At three years old, he was only fifteen

pounds. Now five years old, he weighed in at twenty-five pounds. He rarely made a sound except a cat like deep purr when he ate. His parents tried feeding him balanced meals including bread and

14

CHUPACABRA

vegetables. He refused all foods except meat, chicken, or fish. He was kept inside a small, dark room. His large eyes were extremely sensitive to light. He would hide his face on the rare occasion his parents would bring him outside into the daylight. Late one night, the parents awoke to the sound of breaking glass. They rushed to the child’s room. Unlocking his door, they found the heavy drapes blowing in the breeze. The broken window allowed the night air to enter the room.

The child was gone.

Running out into the night, they heard the terrified screams of their livestock. They followed the screams, finding a dead goat. They watched as another was raped by their deformed son. He looked up. Seeing the horror on his parent’s faces, he took off running while flapping his bony little wings. After taking several large strides he actually took to the air. This was the last time the parents would ever see their son. When the sun rose the next morning, the village was abuzz. People were frantically telling stories of livestock found dead or dying, each with two large puncture wounds.

Ashamed and

terrified, the parents were reluctant to tell the villagers of their son. They knew they would be held responsible, and more than likely would be killed, for unleashing this evil upon the village. Instead, they told the story of their murdered goat. The villagers formed a large posse to search the countryside for what they dubbed Chupacabra, the goatsucker. For weeks they searched with guns and dogs, yet they found nothing except dozens

15

RICHARD L. YORK, JR.

of lifeless domestic animals.

There were some sightings of the

goatsucker, usually early in the morning when the farmers went out to milk their cows. Most people who claimed to witness the creature turned and ran for their lives. Back on the farm, our husband and wife find their pregnant goat lying on the hay in its stall making pitiful sounds. They assume it is a breech birth, and prepare to help the goat deliver. As they kneel beside the suffering goat, they see its stomach move and pulsate. Suddenly a clawed hoof rips through the stomach of the now screaming mother goat. The two look at each other in horror, knowing that this is only the beginning of the Chupacabra’s reign of terror.

Each variety of animal the Chupacabra mates with will

produce a different hideous creature. Some with wings, some with fur, some lurking in the marshes with scales. Each will have large black eyes, sharp teeth, and a ravenous hunger for blood and meat.

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17

18

7+(&5(6&(170221 As I look up toward the crescent moon, excitement pulses through me. Adrenaline courses through my veins, causing my hair to bristle as my eyes open wide sinking back into my skull. The corners of my mouth pull back, exposing strong, sharp, white teeth. Suddenly everything is crystal clear. The slightest sound is met with an eager twist of my head, eyes focusing quickly on every movement. RUN! I feel like running, faster and faster into the night. It feels soooo wonderful! Stretching every fiber to the limit, more energized with each and every step, the more quickly and farther I go, the more alive I feel. My hands cup the air, pushing it behind me as I lean forward. I attempt more speed until I am almost parallel with the ground. My fingertips brush the ends of the grass. I am virtually flying as my hands contact the ground. It feels so natural for my hands to grab into the soil, forcing it back into the air behind me. I hear the dirt hit the ground a mile past its point of impact. Thousands of sounds in front, beside, and quickly behind me are fading into the vast distance between me and where I was a moment ago. The air is full of tempting aromas like fresh meat on an open fire. Drawing closer to the scent, I see two dirty vagabonds sharing a bottle of cheap liquor.

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RICHARD L. YORK, JR.

Slowing to a stop, I rise to a crouched position, watching the two men laughing, smoking, and taking turns draining the bottle. I know these guys gotta smell real bad in their filthy, worn-out clothes. All I see are two succulent hunks of rare meat waiting to be devoured. Those fools have no idea how close they are to being dinner. Wait, what the hell am I thinking? I can’t eat those guys! Oh, but they smell better than anything I have ever encountered in my whole entire life! Why? I look down toward my legs; suddenly my attention is grabbed by one man standing up. Pointing toward me he says, “What the hell’s that thing?” Anger rages through my body. First, for being seen, and then, for being called “a thing.” Crouching down to the ground, I spring into the now silent night air and in three mighty leaps I land on one guy’s back, driving him face-first into the dirt, screaming all the way.

His weakness and shrill

screams irritate me further. Without thinking, I bite a huge chunk out of the back of his head. It happens easily. Comfortably. Like taking a bite out of an apple. A delicious, crunchy, steak like apple. Looking up toward the other one, I see the color drain from his face. He drops his bottle as his pants slowly show wet-stains. He starts to turn away. I twist my head sideways and lunge toward the next victim, hitting him with my jaws halfway between his chest and hips, ripping away half of his waist. The sound of his back snapping as he hits the ground fills me with a deranged satisfaction. He

20

THE CRESCENT MOON

wasn’t done yet, moaning, groaning, and carrying on... I rise up partially, coming back down on his head with one foot, crushing it like an empty beer can. After devouring their remains, surprisingly enough I still felt hungry. How could I be, after eating two medium-

21

RICHARD L. YORK, JR.

sized male adults? Looking down, I see my stomach is bloated and hairy, very hairy. Long, thick black hairs cover my body, arms, and legs. Sharp claws at the end of each elongated finger work well, ripping apart the carcasses of the unfortunate derelicts. What am I? What have I become? A flesh-eating freak, running through the night, covered in hair, with long claws and sharp teeth? LOOK OUT, Little Red Riding Hood, the Big Bad Wolf’s coming to get ya! A deep growl of a chuckle emanates from my throat, with a grin forming on my blood-soaked face. I wonder what those guys must have thought when they saw me crouched in the darkness.... A nearby mud puddle catches my attention. I could use a drink. Bending over the dirty water, I see myself for the first time. Big, strong face muscles, long sharp white teeth, eyes glowing neon green with the reflection of the moon above. You are one good-looking, badass mother I think, twitching my ears from side to side. Yes, you are. No man or beast dare challenge me, or I’ll... “Mom!” I hear a young voice in the distance. “Mom, why does Blacky move his legs and ears like that when he’s sleeping? Why does he make those funny noises?” the tot asks curiously. “He’s dreaming, honey.

Dogs dream too,” answers the

mother.

22

THE CRESCENT MOON

Oh, yeah, I’m a dog.... Maybe if I lie still they’ll leave me alone, and I can get back to sleep and enjoy my dream.... Awaiting the next time the moon calls me out to play...

23

24

5)&
%&"%-:
%3&".&3 I woke up in excruciating pain, held down by the intense weight of a horrible specter tearing at my throat. I grabbed for the head of the hideous creature and jammed a thumb into one eye, attempting to hold it off me. I thrust my fist at the creature with all of my terror shooting adrenaline through every fiber of my body. Connecting with the side of the creature’s head, I was certain that I had shattered my hand. It was as if I hit a bronze statue. Suddenly I was hurled through the air and slammed into a wall. Maybe my punch had hurt this thing after all, I thought. That’s all I could remember when I woke up this morning. I was sore, but surprisingly enough, I was not torn to pieces. Not even a scratch! I had always had strange sleeping habits, staying up later than everyone else. Kind of lonely, I guess, but I like the old, grade-C movies that they play at all hours of the night. Tonight I feel almost exhilarated. The later it gets, the more alive I feel. I cannot stop thinking about the dream I had last night. It was just too real, not like a dream at all. My being here leaves no other conclusion, though. I seem to be getting some kind of rash now. It’s raised, red, and incredibly itchy and blotchy. I sure smell bad, too. I guess I need a shower. Ah, yes, the warm water seems to soothe my itchy skin. Hotter water feels even better. Ahhh, hotter still. Damn, I burned

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RICHARD L. YORK, JR.

the heck out of myself! Strangely enough, it doesn’t hurt a bit. Whew! Horrible blisters appear on my arms. The rash has spread. What is happening to me? Maybe I fell out of bed and hit my head. Oh well, I’ll go along with it. Like I’ve got a choice. Whoa! The blistering skin seems to be lifting away from my body. It peels right off in big, quivering chunks. This is too weird! Maybe it doesn’t hurt because I burned my nerves. I’m going to the hospital. Man, this is weird. It’s about 2:00

A.M.

and no one is on the road. My stinky skin is almost

melting off my body. Almost there, just over the bridge... [SLAM!] AHHHHHHH, I scream, as the car is flying straight up into the sky! All I can see are the street lights disappearing hundreds of feet below me. Looking out of every window in a panic, I see nothing; turning back to the windshield in horror, I see that same, hideously sadistic face staring back at me, laughing hysterically as he releases my truck from his grip. Plummeting back toward earth, I know this is it, the big one. The truck smashes into the black water below and sinks quickly. I should be dead, or at least gasping for air. Maybe I am dead. Am I? This is not what I thought it would be like at all!

I guess it could be worse.

I hope not.

Swimming up to the surface, I see a large shadow overhead. Suddenly it vanishes into nowhere.… This is too much like one of those late-night, grade-C horror flicks. But it’s real! At least, I think it’s real....

26

DEADLY DREAMER

Walking home, I hear the sounds of a party in the distance. Why not crash the party, and shock the hell out of those late-night party animals with my hideous looking self! I wouldn’t mind a beer at all after all of this excitement! Sounds like fun. There they are, punks thrashing about, probably on some kind of drug trip. Wow, are they gonna freak! [TAP, TAP, TAP on my shoulder] I turn to see a cop with a flashlight. He screams when he sees my face. I lunge toward his face, grab hold, and rip his jaw. Half of his neck comes right off. Blood is pumping everywhere. Without hesitation, I jump on it and suck down as much as I can. It’s great! I love it! Better than any food or drink, and it’s so easy! Wait, what the heck am I doing? This is, or was, a cop! Now he’s just leftovers! Have I gone mad? Suddenly I get cold chills ripping down my spine. Rubbing my arm, I notice my skin is normal. No chunks are missing, no rash... Finally, at home, I grab a beer and sit back. This is some kind of weird stuff happening. What is going on? Man, oh man, what am I going to do? [CLICK] The TV comes on. Some commercial… “Do you need help?” croaks the TV. “Call 1-800-Wee-Care. Dr. Demonster is here to help.” I scream, but no sound comes out. It’s him, the demon from my dream, looking right back at me from the TV screen!

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RICHARD L. YORK, JR.

“Are you confused,” he asks. “Unsure of what’s real? On the edge of a nervous breakdown? Ripping the throat out of a nice policeman and sucking down his body fluids? Come see me, come see me now!” [CLICK] The TV goes black. Footsteps shatter the eerie silence. Closer and closer, louder and louder. They stop! Total silence. Damp cold air surrounds my sweaty body. A blinding white light appears with a screaming loud roar. Wind blows from all directions. I can’t move. Suddenly everything stops. I sit in total darkness. I can’t move! [CLICK, CLICK, CLICK] Footsteps again draw closer, and then stop. “Yes, doctor, our newest arrival awaits you,” giggles the voice. It can’t be! The door creaks open. NO! I scream, but no sound escapes at all. He enters the room and walks slowly toward me. I am paralyzed. I feel tied down. He looks down on me in a sickeningly disgusted way. “You’re weak!” he mutters as he drools on my face. “Only the strongest survive to spread terror, fear, and dread to the minds who let go of reality while they sleep. Only the strong welcome the challenge of an alternate dimension.

Why can’t you get up?

Nothing’s holding you down but your own delicious gut-wrenching fear... of me. When you wake up, will you be safe at home in your own bed? Will you be home with your wife and family, or will you

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DEADLY DREAMER

be here with me? Can you get up? Are you a player or a victim? Get up!” He roars. I jerk straight up in my chair, frantically searching the room with my eyes. Nothing? I focus on the TV; it’s me on the screen, sitting up in my chair. The picture quickly turns to static snow as the howls of his sadistic laughter fade into the night.

29

30

 The entire village converged together to put an end to the evil that had plagued them for as long as the oldest living one could remember. This would not be the first try at ending the darkness in which the town had been submersed. First, the villagers had tried hanging the evil one who had killed and maimed several villagers.

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RICHARD L. YORK, JR.

The villagers did not have to wait long for the next victim to be snatched from their midst. Following the screams of the terrified woman, they came upon a cave on the side of a mountain where the sun never shines. Armed with spears, bows, and swords, a group of the strongest and bravest hunters gathered at the mouth of the black hole. A large net made of the finest and strongest ropes would slow the beast down long enough for it to be shackled and put to death. Shrill sounds from the dark crevice ran shivers up and down the goose-pimpled skin of the brave hunters. None would risk entering the darkness in fear of becoming the next victim. They waited, gripped in guilt and terror, until the screams turned to whimpers, then slowly faded away to an eerie silence. They knew that their worst nightmares were about to come out of that hole. Two men were perched over the mouth of the cave, ready with an outstretched net. The others formed a semi-circle twenty feet from the opening with spears, swords, and bows at the ready. They knew it would not be long before the demon came out in search of the next victim to torture and kill. The monster seems to feed on the pain of its prey. Victims are

found

mutilated,

skinned,

burned,

and

ripped

apart.

Occasionally some parts are missing; most likely a snack to replenish the beast during his labor of draining every ounce of terror and agony from a body.

Suddenly the demon sprang from the

darkness, pouncing on a sword-wielding villager so quickly he had no time to swing his two-foot blade. Grabbing him with a finger in

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DEMON OF PAIN

one eye and thumb in the other, he dragged him back toward the black crevice. The bowmen fired, hitting their mark. They were met with an intense eye-to-eye lock, instantly overcome by an agonizing pain in the head. Screaming and bleeding from the eyes and ears, they dropped to their knees. Another villager with a spear lunged forward with his weapon, which was grabbed as it contacted the demon. Instantly the spear was pushed back. The blunt end popped through the villager’s torso. The impact forced a final grunt from his stomach. Holding the sharp end of the spear in one hand the demon let out a roar while ramming the spear into the hard ground, leaving the villager suspended, flailing on the end of his once-beloved handmade weapon. The two men with the net waited for the creature to come into range, as it dragged their friend back to the cave. They knew there would be only one chance as the demon came closer. The two men looked at each other to reassure one another that they were ready. They nodded and leaped from their perch. The net fell perfectly, encompassing the demon and their friend.

The beast

stood straight up from his crouched position and twisted quickly, wrapping the net around him and pulling the two men closer toward him. Both men tried to release the net, but one became entangled. As the beast drew him close enough to get a grip, the air was filled with popping and crackling sounds, followed immediately by

33

RICHARD L. YORK, JR.

agonizing screams of the latest victim, who was being broken and ripped apart. Working as quickly as possible, the remaining men circled the creature with ropes and chains until it could no longer move. The men loaded the twisted mess onto a wagon and headed for town with their two unlucky friends pleading for help. They begged to be killed to end their suffering.

Seeing the hopelessness of the

situation, four archers aimed and fired, striking the two with fatal blows. Once the group returned to town, news of their success spread rapidly. People heard the creature had been captured. They gathered in the center of the village. A heavy rope was placed over a large tree limb twenty feet high. A noose at one end was placed around the neck of the beast. The other end was tied to a team of oxen to lift the massive weight of this creature who stood seven feet tall and weighed as much as a young bull. The village religious leader said a prayer of thanks for enabling the hunters to be victorious in their quest, and for giving them the opportunity to destroy the demon that walked the earth. With this said he slapped the hindquarters of the oxen. With a snort, they began a forward pull, which lifted the horrible one high in the air. The creature did not twitch or snort as expected. He glared down with burning red eyes at the spectators to its would-be execution as though they were a succulent buffet spread out before him.

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DEMON OF PAIN

One archer shouted out, “Let’s make a pincushion out of the demon!” A roar came over the crowd and a dozen archers took aim and fired their pointed wooden shafts into the hanging target. Without so much as a flinch, the beast curled its lips and released a deep, guttural growl. A sword-wielding villager screamed, “Lower the beast! I’ll cut its black heart out.” The animal’s handler urged the oxen back, lowering the demon within inches of the ground. Holding his sword with both hands, he plunged it into the center of the demon’s chest, twisted the blade, and ripped it out-- only to see maggots pouring from the hole. The demon sneered as if to mock the futile attempt. A deep growl emanated from the belly of the beast while it belched flames, engulfing the swordsmen standing before it. Another swordsman approached the demon from behind. With one powerful swing, he dropped the creature’s lower legs and clawed feet to the ground. With two more mighty chops, the upper thighs joined the other dismembered pieces. Almost as quickly as they hit the earth, they were transformed into hideous creatures of their own, resembling huge scorpions and tarantulas with bright red eyes. Rearing up on their hind legs, they sprayed a burning green venom toward the crowd, hitting a group of villagers. The goo set them on fire. While the other villagers frantically tried to put out the flames, the creatures scurried up the tree, down the rope, and back to their original places on the demon. Fused together, the demon was whole.

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RICHARD L. YORK, JR.

“What now?” rumbled through the crowd. “Burn it, send it back to hell by fire, fire, fire,” they chanted. Gathering all the brush they could find, they mounded it all around the demon until it almost covered him. Just his head and those burning red eyes were left uncovered. “Burn him. Burn the Demon,” they shouted. An archer aimed a flaming arrow and shot the base of the brush. The brush quickly turned to an inferno. The villagers watched as the flames engulfed the demon, melting the flesh off its bones. Still, the pits in the skull where the eyes once were glowed a bright, brilliant red. Finally, the charred remains crumbled into the glowing embers. The crowd roared, “The Demon is no more!” Early the next morning, before the sun rose, the ashes stirred a little. Out popped the head of a pitch-black viper with fire red eyes. Slithering into the darkness, it found a hole to crawl into which was already occupied by a large rattlesnake.

The viper

devoured it instantly without a struggle. That evening the viper emerged from the hole, reached back with precision, and bit off its own tail. Again it struck, cutting three larger pieces off. Finally, it reached close to the back of its own head and snipped it free from the last and largest body part.

All parts were twitching out of

control. Once again, they transformed into hideous creatures of their own as legs, pinchers and heads with glowing eyes sprang from the chunks.

They attacked the woods, devouring every living

creature they encountered. Doubling and tripling in size again and

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DEMON OF PAIN

again until the six separate entities were satisfied at their size, they formed together. The smaller ones became arms as the larger ones became legs. They joined the largest as the torso. Finally, the headpart attached itself by biting a firm grip on the largest part. In one liquid motion, the six parts jelled into one nasty Demon of Pain. Later that evening, just past midnight, the villagers are once again awakened by shrill screams off in the distance of the cold, black, night.

37

38

)!)$*( It’s a calm, boring day on the East Coast. A group of teenage kids contemplates what to do. “Nothing’s going on,” one says. “No parties, no nothing.” “I know, let’s go out to the old Lighthouse and scare the bums,” suggests Bud. “No, man, that place is dangerous. You could fall through that rotten floor or something,” the one they call Weasel says. “Come on, no one I know ever got hurt out there. It’ll be fun,” prods Bud. “I don’t know man, what about that kid that got fried?” asks Jo-Jo. “Don’t grab any bare wires, and you’ll be fine,” insists Bud. “That place gives me the creeps. People say it’s haunted by

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RICHARD L. YORK, JR.

that kid who got fried out there.

It sure looks haunted, all

dilapidated with cobwebs everywhere.…” Weasel hesitates. “All the better to scare the hell outta the drunks. We’ll wait until it gets real dark out, put on our Halloween masks, and freak them out! They’ll be so scared, they’ll probably run into the walls screaming for their lives,” giggles Bud. “Man, you’re crazy!” insists Jo-Jo. “Well, I’m going. I ain’t gonna sit around here again all night wishing I was doing something,” states Bud. “Yeah, I’ll go. It sounds like fun. We can get some beer first. I’ve been dying to wear that killer mask I got on sale after Halloween,” Jo-Jo ventures. “What about you, Weasel?” he asks. “I still don’t know, man.

I heard a big thunderstorm is

supposed to come in over the bay tonight,” Weasel warns. “You afraid you might get wet, Weasel? The stormier the better I say. It’ll add to the fear factor. Come on, man,” needles Bud. “All right, all right, but if it starts getting real nasty, I’m outta there, okay?” Weasel agrees. “Okay, Weasel, it’s a deal. It gets dark about 7:00. We’ll meet at the jetty at 8:00 sharp.” The boys meet at 8:00 at the jetty. “Where’s Weasel? He’s always late. Give me another beer. If he ain’t here when I’m done with it, I say we go in without him,” complains Bud. “He’ll be here. Don’t worry. Look, here he comes now.

40

THE LIGHTHOUSE

Hey, Weze. We didn’t think you were gonna make it,” taunts Jo-Jo. “Cool down, man, I was just watching the storm move in on the radar on the news. I came out here to tell you guys it looks bad. They said it should hit any time,” advises Weasel. “Come on. I didn’t come all the way out here just to go back. Besides, look at the sky. It’s fine.” “Yeah, I don’t see any storm. Let’s go look around. Come on!” “Yeah, come on Weasel. If the storm gets close, I’ll go back with you,” Jo-Jo suggested. “Aw, isn’t that sweet. You two gonna hold hands while you run away from the big, bad stormy warmy? You two worry me. Let’s have some fun!” “Damn, the big old pile looks worse than ever. I doubt anyone would be caught dead in there.” “Ha, maybe someone is dead in there. WOOOOOOOOO!” Bud taunted the other two boys. “Shut up, man, that ain’t funny,” said Weasel. “Easy, Weasel. We’re here to do the scaring, remember?” “Man, it’s dark in there.” “Yeah, how do we know there’s even a floor in there?” “Just go slow guys, like you’re out hunting, slow and quiet. Get your masks on. I’ll go first, little girls,” Bud laughs. “Man, it stinks in here.” “SHHHHHH”

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RICHARD L. YORK, JR.

The old floor creaks with the weight of the young group. They hear the sounds of small, clawed feet scurrying, and the wind outside beginning to pick up.… A shutter is rattling upstairs with the breeze. “What’s that?” “SHHHH.

Just some rats.

But I hear something in the

tower. If I was a bum, that’s where I’d be.” “You are a bum, man.” “Shut up!” “There’s so much dust in here I can hardly breathe.” The tapping upstairs turns to banging. “Man, that’s just a storm shutter slamming around up there. I’m telling you guys for the last time, SHUT UP!” Just then, an incredible flash of light illuminates the structure through the gaps and cracks between the old boards. All at once, the group lets out a collective screech of terror as they clearly see their surroundings-- the skeletal remains of three unlucky visitors. One is nailed to the wall with his feet not quite touching the floor. Another hangs from the ceiling held in place by a six-foot piece of steel jammed up through his rib cage under the jawbone and out the top of his skull, into the floorboards of the next level of the old Lighthouse. The third is lying on the floor in several pieces. Pulling out their flashlights, the kids examine their surroundings. “Man, what happened here?” asks Jo-Jo. “I dunno, but I’m outta here!”

42

THE LIGHTHOUSE

“Wait a minute, Weze!” They see another blinding bolt of lightning just outside, followed by a deafening crack of thunder slowly rumbling off into the distance. “Look at this! The bones on this thing are cut in half Iike with a saw or something. These poor guys were killed by some maniac, man.” “Yeah, well, I’m not going to be the next one nailed to the wall. See ya later.” “Come on, man, these guys have been dead for a long time. Whoever did this is long gone.” “I say we call the cops.” “Oh, yeah, Weze, you call the cops and you’ll be the one in jail!” “Okay, okay, man.” The wind outside is getting stronger. It begins to howl through the structure. “Come on guys, let’s go before it gets worse out there.” “All right, Weasel, we can come back in the morning.” “You can do what you want, but when I leave here, I ain’t coming back.” The boys open the door. It’s raining outside. Another bolt of lightning hits, momentarily lighting up the landscape. The kids are stopped dead by what they see in that moment of light. Silhouetted shapes of two or three creatures, something resembling dog-sized cows with long horns, walking on two legs, kind of crouched over. Looking at each other with eyes open as wide as

43

RICHARD L. YORK, JR.

possible, the kids are left speechless. “What the hell was that, man?” asks Jo-Jo. “I don’t know, but it’s not good.” “Come on man, it’s probably some goats or something.” “Goats? Are you nuts, walking on two feet in the middle of a horrific thunderstorm?” “Yeah, well, what do you think they are?” “I don’t know man.” “Hey, look out the window. This is really strange. The shadows are moving.” “Yeah, that’s called the wind, Weasel. When the trees and clouds move, their shadows move.” “Not like this, man, look! Oh, my God!” The shadows take on the horrific twisted shapes of demons, monsters, deformed creatures of all shapes and sizes, halfway hiding behind rocks and trees. “They’re looking at us, man!” “Your mind’s playing tricks on you, whatever’s left of it. I don’t see anything,” says Bud. Another bolt of lightning hits and for a second it looks like high noon outside, with no signs of any creatures. “See, there ain’t nothing out there!” says Bud. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Jo-Jo answers hesitantly. The air fills with sounds of boards cracking and steel bending, like the old building is twisting from the wind outside.

44

THE LIGHTHOUSE

“What’s that?” croaks Weasel. “It sounds like it’s coming from over here,” Jo-Jo stammers. Rounding the corner, they see a huge gap ripped into the wall with piles of concrete and wood scattered about the ground. Rebar is poking up through the rubble. “Look at the ends of those steel bars! They look burned and chewed through!” There are deep claw marks on the side of the hole. “What do you think did this?” “I think someone is trying to scare us.” “Well, it’s working, man, it’s working.” “Shut up, Weasel.” “Come on, let’s get out of here!” “Yeah, let’s go,” Jo-Jo says. As they rush outside to their bikes, the sky is again illuminated and the kids get a full view of several creatures dancing in the storm, holding long pieces of rebar, poking them up toward the sky as if to taunt the storm itself, daring the next bolt to find their steel rod and send its voltage crackling through their very beings. A moment later, the storm accommodates the creatures, mocking their power by striking the end of a rod; a creature thrashes about in an electric glow. Usually, lightning flashes and then it’s gone. This time it seems to be sucked from the sky into the rod and the creature wielding it. “Can you hear that thing buzzing?” “Yeah, man, intense!” The energized creature looks directly at the kids, hovering

45

RICHARD L. YORK, JR.

off the ground with a cushion of electricity zapping between its feet and the now-smoking ground. Pointing at the kid farthest from the lighthouse with its glowing rebar, and with a hideous cackle, it instantly rips across the ground, leaving a blazing trail of flames. Before any one can move, the creature scurries away with Jo-Jo and takes flight up the side of the lighthouse. When it reaches the top, it jams the rod into the peak of the tower with Jo-Jo still suspended in the air on the end of the smoldering rebar. The creature leaps off the opposite side of the tower, out of sight. The fire on the ground begins to spread to shrubs and small trees. The other creatures start moving toward the two friends. “What now man?’’ “Back inside, Weasel.” Opening the door, they are greeted by the same electrified creature holding two old circular saws screaming in its clawed hands, running off the power captured by the creature. “It thrusts the saws in front of itself with a crisscross motion, lopping off Bud’s arms. Bud screams in horror. Just as quickly, the creature drops to one knee, swinging the saws back, and hits Bud above the knees, severing his legs. Still screaming, Bud drops to the floor. The creature looks at me, obviously pleased with itself. It raises its eyebrows twice, quickly, then cackles wildly and runs the saws side by side up Bud’s torso to his head, cutting him in half. Red and blue lights flashing, and the sound of a car pulling up and a door closing, cause the creature to scurry off into the shadows. As I

46

THE LIGHTHOUSE

run out of the door, a cop draws his revolver and points it at me.” “FREEZE!” he says. “We gotta get out of here, man,” I say. “You make one move and I’ll blow you away, punk,” shouts the cop. “Get down on the ground. NOW! Face down, arms in the air!” “Okay, but, but, sir,” I stammer. “Now, you scumbag, move it!” “But sir, the creature’s behind you,” I try to warn him. “Yeah, sure, kid, good try….” “THUD was probably all the officer heard as one little monster busted him over the head with a steel pole. Then the others took his handcuffs and stabbed two long pieces of rebar into the ground, one at his feet and another at arm’s length from his head. They cuffed his feet together around one and his hands around the other. A creature shimmied up each piece of steel. When they reached the top, they hung onto their pole and swung their legs out toward each other; their feet gripped one another’s. A third creature scurried up a rebar pole and out onto the platform its clan had made for it. Standing with one foot on the back of each creature, it raised a third steel pole into the air. When the next bolt of lightning cracked from the sky, it found its mark at the end of the rebar spear. The electricity ripped through the creatures, arcing from one piece of rebar to the other, down to the policeman, who was recovering consciousness when the power surged through his body. He arched

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RICHARD L. YORK, JR.

up until it seemed as though his spine would surely snap. Moments later a blue light was pulled from his arched body by the current, arcing now in an upward motion. As soon as the light left his body, he fell limp on the ground, wet and smoldering. The sound of several sirens filled the air, followed by bright flashing lights. I looked back toward the lifeless officer wishing this were only a dream.” “The demons? Where are they?” “Nowhere in sight. The many police cars and fire trucks surround me. I try to tell them what happened but all they see is me and three dead guys. After they got tired of beating me senseless, they tossed my body into a cruiser and...” “Yeah, yeah, that’s a nice story 1-1-0-4-9. I can’t imagine why it didn’t work for you in court.” “My name’s Weasel.” “Yeah, it’s time to fry, you little Weasel.” Two large guards pull the kicking and screaming Weasel from his cell, down into a dark corridor to a room barren except for a worn, dirty looking heavy wooden chair. The chair has thick leather straps for the ankles and wrists. A shiny steel band affixed at the top of the head of the chair is connected to thick wires running back to a switch box. “You’re gonna fry, after all these years 1-1-0-4-9, for what you did to those kids and the cop. You make me sick.” “I didn’t do nothing, man, it was those damn demons, I tell

48

THE LIGHTHOUSE

ya” “Yeah, we know 1-1-0-4-9, we know.” “Strap him in.” “Come on guys, I didn’t do it! I didn’t do nothing! You gotta believe me!” “Any last words 1-1-0-4-9, I mean, WEEEEEEEZel?” “Yeah, help me, please help meeeee!” “That’s it. Fry him.” A hooded man dressed in black grasps the switch holding back thousands of volts of electricity and snaps it to the open position. The Weasel shakes violently as the lights flicker on and off. The warden, executioner, and spectators watch in horror as two shapes flicker with the light, one on each shoulder of the now smoking Weasel. They seem to reach into the top of his head, straining to pull out something. A loud scream of anguish is all the burning body has left as the demon creatures pull a bluish light, shaped much like themselves, from the lifeless corpse. Now threequarters of the way out, it lifts itself from the charred body with its clawed hands, pushing away from the top of the skull.

Once

removed, it lets out a bloodcurdling, long, cackling laugh as it looks over the petrified spectators. The three creatures dive into the power lines going back to the switch box.

Surging through the lines,

awaiting the next thunderstorm to strike a power source and release them once again, they leave the spectators, executioner, and warden in SHOCK!

49

50

The fog is thick this morning, as it is most mornings in this place. Things are moving slowly and sluggishly. Everything is still and quiet. I watch as creatures large and small begin milling about. I don’t sleep much, so I get to see more than most folks do. Something tells me that today will be exciting. I feel drawn toward the rising brightness of the morning sun. I could resist the urge and hang around here for another day or two, but it’s been uneventful around here so far. I live for adventure, so it’s time to move on and see what else is out there in the great unknown. It’s cool now, but warming steadily. I’m feeling more and more alert, almost anxious.

I’m also hungry.

Very hungry!

Something’s going on up ahead. There’s a crowd gathered and lots of commotion.

A gang of young punks is attacking a helpless

victim. Their only strength seems to be in their number. Alone they are weak. They take turns punching the runner who made a wrong turn and ended up intruding in the gang’s territory. Growing weak from the attack, the runner can hardly move to protect herself. I’m growing tired of watching these amateurs practice. It’s time they

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RICHARD L. YORK, JR.

learn a lesson from the Master of Darkness. They are so intent on dominating their victim that they fail to notice me.

I come up

behind the first one, grabbing him by the head with a quick twist. He’s history! The crack of his head ripping off gets me pumped! The next one will suffer.

I slice his stomach open wide.

His

intestines flow out as he writhes in pain. Soon he will join his partner. But first, he will watch as I rip the rest of his gang apart. They prove to be no match for me. A couple of the quicker ones take off in different directions. They are cowards; lucky to be alive for another day to harass another victim and spread further the tale of a powerful fearless force in the darkness you hope never to run across. The original victim again catches my attention, lucky to have survived the gang’s attack. She won’t be so lucky this time. The blood is pouring from several cuts on her glistening, athletic body. The sight excites me. I move as fast as possible to the nearly dead runner. The fear in her eyes drives me to her. Again grabbing with a vigorous twist, I violently rip the head from her body. She is still twitching. I’ll leave her body as proof that I was here, to spread terror to all who realize I have returned! He who strikes fear in the hearts of the fierce as well as the needy; the strong, and the weak, the innocents as well as the other killers out there all rightfully fear me! A heartless killer. It is so easy and the rewards are so great! Blood, as much as possible, I love to roll in its ecstasy. I live for the

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MASTER OF DARKNESS

salty taste. Blood is the only thing that satisfies me. It takes the edge off staying in one place too long. If there is no action, I move on. It’s getting dark now. Soon the only light will be from the moon above.

I like the blackness of night.

I thrive on the

knowledge that no one can see me until it is too late. I usually attack from behind, yet there’s something especially satisfying about ripping the heart out of someone trying his best to escape me. What’s this? Fools venturing out into the night? Good! Suddenly they stop. Did they catch a glimpse of me in the shadows or did they obey a primal sense that something is waiting for them up ahead? They turn and move steadily and slowly away into the night. I follow at a distance, slow and steady. As I close in, I can sense the panic beginning to overtake them. They speed up, but with a quick spring, I have them in my grip. They struggle uselessly. No one can escape me! Wait, something’s wrong.

I don’t feel right.…

[Pow!]

Some force hits me on the side of my head. [Pow! Pow! Again...] (Shit!) I don’t see anything. If I could, I would kill it. Something has a grip on me. I’m not dead. Where is it? Show yourself, you coward, and die! It keeps pulling me in one direction, dragging me, and thrashing about. I can’t imagine what has a hold of my head. Have I gone mad?

Is my mind fighting my body?

NOOOO!

Something has me, pulling me to the world above and blinding

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RICHARD L. YORK, JR.

white light. Loud noises engulf me as I break the surface. I hear the creature cry out, “Shark, shark! We got a monster here. Shoot him!” A deafening crack of thunder and burning punch to my head is all that I feel. I know that it’s my blood I’m bathing in now, but still, I love the taste... [Fade to black...]

54

55

56

0\)ULHQG7KH9DPSLUH" Very strange... Crazy? Or is it? Since the beginning of time, the stories of human/animal like creatures are plentiful. Every town or village, large or small, shares a fable or two about some type of horrible creature. The creature has always been witnessed by a number of residents. Passed down through the generations, perhaps the creature has been seen storming through the thick forest, or stalking its victim in the late-night fog. Some potential victims live to tell of the event. Most people ridicule and pass them off as a hoax or the product of an overactive imagination. Others will never be seen or heard from again: kidnapped, lost in the city or deep woods, a victim of unfortunate circumstances, perhaps lunch for a voracious foe. How could all the folklore passed down through the centuries around the world be discounted? It tends to include one or more of the following: ghosts, zombies, werewolves, bloodsuckers, or shape-shifters. Based on a very strange sequence of events, I believe I have figured out the mystery. One night I awoke, terrified and shivering, from a terrible nightmare.

My heart was pounding.

I was relieved that the

nightmare had ended and that I still had my head. I had been stalked in what seemed to be an abandoned parking garage with several different levels, dark and full of shadows. I sensed that I was not alone, and that I would have been better off if I was. My first thought was of some crazy bastard trying to scare the hell out of 57

RICHARD L. YORK, JR.

someone alone in the night-- me. A person who is out for the thrill of catching someone in the wrong place at the wrong time. The reality of the situation was much worse. Appearing from a large shadow just ahead of me was one twisted looking individual staring at me with piercing black eyes. I stopped, staring back, awaiting the creature’s next move.

He

reached into the shadows and pulled out a person, petrified with fear.

I could see his body shaking out of control, but I was

paralyzed, I could not even scream. The psychopath slowly and calmly produced a large straight razor and deeply sliced the throat of the victim. He pulled the head straight back, snapped the neck and started sucking the fountain of blood that was pumping out of this extremely unfortunate victim. I was sure that I was going to be next on the list and had a sickeningly empty feeling in the pit of my stomach, along with the realization that I had been surrounded by others for a while. I was petrified with fear, while I witnessed the horrible fate of this stranger. The creature released the limp corpse and began walking toward me. All I could think about was the knife given to me by my wife for Christmas. I love to cook, and truly enjoy using high quality cookware. When I opened my gift on Christmas morn and saw the beautiful long and extremely sharp blade of my new carving knife and the long slender prongs on the matching fork, I knew that this set would come in handy. I had no idea how handy! Wishing with every fiber of my being that I had the knife with me now, I reached down to my side and was

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MY FRIEND – THE VAMPIRE?…

extremely amazed to find the knife hanging on my belt. I quickly pulled it from its sheath and suddenly had an exhilarating feeling that all was not lost. I might just have a chance. Smiling as he closed in on me, the creature seemed to be unconcerned about the inevitable consequences of attacking someone at least equally as armed as he. As soon as he was in reach, I slashed at him, slicing his throat deeply. He grabbed the cut with one hand and sneered glaringly at me. He fell to one knee. With all of my might, I kicked the side of his head as though I was kicking a field goal for the winning score with one second left in the game. His head flew off with a nasty crack, and rolled into the shadows.

I spun quickly around and saw three equally ugly

creatures beginning to give chase. I ripped my blade across the middle of the nearest one, spilling his entrails onto the floor. I took off running as fast as I could. The floor was at a constant slope down. All the shadows seemed to be moving; seemed to reach out to me. I saw shapes and faces in them, none of them friendly. The harder I ran, the steeper the floor seemed. I awoke, terrified from the nightmare, gasping for air. As my eyes frantically searched the room, I realized with relief that the event had ended and I still had my head. I felt a sense of accomplishment, as though I had really done something good. Scored one for the good guys. It sounds kind of crazy, but the whole experience seemed so real!

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A few days went by with no dreams, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the last one. It was Friday night, late... good friends of ours had dinner with us and watched some movies, and were now asleep, except for my friend and me. We sat up sharing a bottle of whiskey. In our conversation, he told me of a dream he had a few nights ago. He couldn’t forget. It freaked him out, totally. He was alone in the dark, confused, and hungry. Very hungry... for blood! He recalled ripping the head off a body and drinking a fountain of blood pumping from the warm corpse. Freaked out, I told him about my dream. We sat in the living room at 3:00 A.M. drinking whiskey, looking at each other in a different way. What is reality? How could two people have such similar dreams? From two different perspectives?

We talked about the dreams/nightmares until the

bottle was empty and we both passed out. Over the course of the next few days, I thought about our talk. I was so blown away by the similarity and timing of our experiences that I found it hard to concentrate on anything else. Good versus evil? It seemed so clear to me but I found it hard to picture my friend in the dream. Not the ripping-the-head off thing so much as that he didn’t resemble the creature I saw at all. Could it be the same force at work with both of us, merely suggesting the material we sifted though our subconscious mind, allowing us to find and use the tools in which to battle each other by “THEIR” rules?

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In this “dream,” my friend and I shared an event equally disturbing for both of us. It seemed as though we were placed in an arena built for the battle between good and evil. Round one was over and the bell was ringing for the second to begin. We visited each other’s houses often over the next few weeks, and after analyzing our dreams, our personal differences became more and more apparent. He likes to sleep late and keeps the blinds closed until late in the afternoon watching TV, mostly sporting events. I wake up early and love to fish or work in the garden as the sun rises. Watching the predawn sun turn the sky to a brilliant array of colors over the calm water, while finessing a shiny lure in, fills me with an inner peace. He can’t imagine how anyone in their right mind could drag their ass out of bed to stand outside before the sun is out. We began looking at each other differently, almost suspiciously. One afternoon I went to his lair, blinds drawn, of course. I knocked and noticed many flies on the window. Flies? Yes, flies. A dozen or so between the blinds and pane of glass separating the bright breezy outside from the dark calm inner sanctum. As I wait for the blinds to crack open for the occupant to see who is invading his space, I watch the flies struggling to escape. Beating themselves against the glass, I think, “What’s going on here... Flies usually try to get in houses, not out...” Glancing at the other windows, I see more and more flies slamming their bodies against the pane of glass. Several lifeless bodies litter the windowsill. The blinds crack open

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and closed. I hear the sound of three locks unbolting. Finally, the knob turns, and the door slowly creaks open. Instantly I am slapped in the face by a foul stench. I asked, “Hey man, have you taken the garbage out lately?” He explained, “Those darn kids usually take out the garbage.” I asked him where the children were. Usually, you see, they were glued to the television playing video games. “They were bad so I put them in their room,” he said, with a satisfied gleam in his eye. I asked, “You put them in their room, or did you send them to the room.” The difference seemed to me to be important. “Why don’t you ask them?” growled my friend. “The last time I saw them, they weren’t saying very much.” I get a sick feeling deep in my gut, and decide somebody has to check on those kids. I opened their bedroom door and saw blood splattered all over the walls. I stepped into the room in horror. I saw the kid’s arms and legs were near them, but were no longer connected to their bodies. Their mother was hanging in the corner with her arms and legs removed. She also had an axe stuck in her chest. A sickly laugh came from behind me. As I turned, I was shocked to see my friend looking like the psychopath I saw in my dream. My eyes opened wide as he swung a machete at my neck. Instinctively I jumped back, tripping over the kids’ lifeless bodies. I

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hit the blood soaked carpet. He swung again toward me. I moved to one side as the machete cut deep into the floor.

Panic rushed

through me. I jumped up and to the side, pulling the axe from his wife’s chest. As he struggled to free his weapon from the floor, I swung the axe, hit the side of his head, and sliced the top half off. He stood up, cackled, and ran toward me. I stepped to one side, allowing him to run by, slamming into the wall. Still holding the axe, I buried it in the middle of his back. He tensed and shook violently, then slumped to the floor. I felt a sense of relief for about three seconds until I realized that I was in a house holding the axe that was used to kill all of the occupants. The cops would have to believe me when they saw the face of this thing that used to be a friend of mine. I looked down to reassure myself that I was not crazy.

Instead,

shivers ripped through my body. I saw him not as a monster, but looking just like my friend, only missing half of his head.

I

suddenly felt violently ill. I knew I was going to puke my guts out. “HONEY! WAKE UP! You’re having a bad dream,” I heard my wife’s voice from somewhere out in the fuzzy shadows. I shook my head and rubbed my eyes. “Wow, that was intense!” I said, “This is weird.” “What were you dreaming about, honey?” asked my wife. “I’ll tell you about it after I get out of the shower,” I answered. I walked into the bathroom and the door slammed shut behind me. As I turned to see why the door had closed on its own, I

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was grabbed and hurled into the tub with a heavy weight upon me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him, my “friend.” He was tearing at my throat with his sharp teeth. The tub began to fill with my blood. I tried to fight him, but felt very weak. My wife opened the door and screamed hysterically.

She jumped on his back.

Grabbing him by the chin and one ear, she twisted his head with a loud crack. He fell limply on top of me. “Thanks, baby,” I gurgled before passing out. Waking up in the recovery room at the hospital, I saw my beautiful wife. She told me how the police found my friend’s family dismembered and how lucky we were not to share their fate. I smiled with a secure feeling that there will be no Round 3. It would appear that ordinary people who are exposed to the power of suggestion, be it good or evil, are capable of the most unbelievable, incredible acts.

The weaker the character of an

individual, the more likely a person is to be swayed to the dark side. A person’s deep hatred, regrets, or jealousies can change that person’s appearance for the worst.

A person can appear to be

something other than human, and in fact may be.

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65

66

&! ,+/,+ It’s a warm muggy night after a long, hot day. All I want to do is sleep and put this day behind me.

[Tossing and turning,

sticking to the sheets.] The sound of that fan humming is driving me crazy! That incessant screaming downstairs. Man, that couple loves to hate each other. Oh well, it’ll take my mind off of my miserable existence long enough for me to doze off... Ummm.

Someone’s cooking.

I hope.

It can’t be morning already!

Probably those crazies down stairs. [COUGH, COUGH] What the hell are they burning down there? [Fumbling for the light switch] Where is it? [CLICK, CLICK, CLICK!] A faint glow appears around the bulb. My eyes and throat are burning. There is smoke everywhere.

“Fire!”

[COUGH, COUGH, COUGH!]

“Fire!!!

Help! Help! Someone, please help!” Where’s the door? I know it should be right here somewhere!

Ouch!

Shit!!

The knob’s

smokin’. I step back and slam into the door. [WOOOOMM!!!] The door flies open. Flames engulf the apartment, hurling me back to the center of the room. A massive hole rips in the floor between the door and me with flames screaming from the void. I know I’m a dead man. “Help! Somebody, help meeee!” Suddenly, a huge, black shadow appears in the mass of flames ripping out of the floor and walks toward me. It’s on fire, and it likes it! Oh, God, no. Its eyes blaze with hatred. It looks down on me. I feel small, sick, and weak. God, please help meeeee.

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With a deafening WHOOSH, a flash of light swoops down at me. Before I can flinch, it hits me with the force of a train. It grabs

me and we blast through the ceiling, up through the next three floors. Looking down, I see the black creature looking up at us with those eyes. Raising his arms in the air, he opens his mouth wide and

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with a roar blasts flames at us a mile long through the hole we just made. Quickly, almost effortlessly, we dart to one side allowing the flames to rip by, flying into the night. “Hey, who are you?” “You don’t know?” the light asks without a sound. “Are you an angel?” I ask. “Without you I am not,” the creature retorts. “Is that a yes?” I venture. “We are one. Three spirit parts. Blessed trinity,” the light explains. “Three?

What three?

You, me, and what?”

I reply

tremulously. “You’ve made a nasty negative side,” the creature replies. “Wait, you’re telling me that you and that thing are a part of me?” I ask in disgust. “No, we are you! Remember the smell of something burning that first awakened you?” the spirit questions. “Yes.” I reply. “The sleep you arose from was your human reality. When the smoke from the fire overtook you, you relaxed until the smell of your body burning snapped you into this reality,” answered the spirit. “This reality? My body burning? What do you mean? I’m fine.” I answer indignantly. “Try clapping your hands together,” the light suggests.

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I pause for a moment, pondering why a small talking light hurling me through the night sky wants me to clap my hands. Unable to come up with a good reason not to, I slap my hands together. They pass right through each other. “Whoa!” I shout out, shattering the silent night air, startling the light and myself. It jolts up and to the side quickly and then levels back out. “Intense,” I think, realizing that we had not been communicating with words up till now. Not out loud anyway. “Where am I? What am I?” I ask in an increasing panic. “You are in transition. Neither here nor there. As is the dark one, searching for you. He is consumed with the burning desire to take you back with him. I was able to get to you before he turned us into toast. The battle for you is just beginning.” answers the light. “What do you mean, just beginning? We’re okay. You saved me,” I say, looking for some reassuring thoughts from my new friend. “I am your key to a better situation. If the dark one gets to you, I’m not sure what’s in store for you and me. I will do all I can to make sure we don’t find out.

He and I have very different

abilities; yet share the same goal-- to retrieve you. I was able to get to you first. It was close, and it’s not over yet. He’s limited to ground travel, but be assured he’s following us as quickly as possible. You still have a pull to the ground that has used up my

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strength. We must land. He won’t be far from us at any time.” the light calmly explains. “Where are we headed?” I ask. “Of course, that’s up to you. If your good side is stronger, we will win and be off to new adventures.…” “If we don’t?” “I’m sure it will not be pleasant. I know he cannot travel by air. Only on and below the ground. I am limited to air and ground travel, so if he gets you and goes under, we may never meet again. Here’s a small island. We’ll rest for a while.” Slowly, we drift downward to the sandy shore. Should we hide or something? I ponder. No, I decide, he knows where we are. “What are we going to do?” “We are going to wait!” Wait for what, I think? For him to find us and take me away? No way, I think...let’s go! “You still don’t understand,” my companion insists. “The weaker I get, the stronger, faster, and larger he grows. We must rest. It won’t be long now.” “No, I understand. He wants to take me to hell and you’re too weak to take me to heaven. I understand perfectly!” “You do have another choice,” my companion suggests. “What? I’ll do anything.” “You could return to the world you know for another chance. You would have the opportunity to be a better person, which would

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give me a greater chance next time I’m in this situation. Of course, you’d be starting over and you would forget all of this in a short time. Your other choice is to stay with me and fight.” “You are weak,” I suggest. “What’s our chance? Well? What will happen to you if I go back?” “He could take me.” “No way!” I say, “ You could fly without me.” “I’m still too weak, and he is very close.” the light answers. “Then we fight! I’ve done the things in my life that made that hideous thing a part of our life. I’m not going to risk you suffering for me. I ignored your input and made the choices that put us into this situation. Together we can win!” “You just did! The fire was in your imagination. You knew you were traveling down the wrong road even though you have a decent spirit. The friction between the two sparked the flame. Now close your eyes. You will awake in your own home, in your own room, in your own comfortable bed. What you will remember of this horrible experience will appear as a fading dream. Concentrate now on all that you have learned, and know that he is out there waiting for every chance that you give him to grow stronger. I will always be here for you. Now rest. You have a busy day about to start.”

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&$&+"!

Friday, around 6:30

A.M.

- somewhere in North or South

Carolina, I’m not sure. I’ve been driving for three days, making a delivery, and now I’m heading home. Should be another ten or twelve hours, I guess, depending on how bad this fog gets. The sun should burn it off soon, but it gets pretty thick in the valleys. I’m making good time so far. Not many cops to get the paranoia started. I wonder if radar works in thick fog. I know I don’t want to find out the hard way; just want to get home. The fog is getting thicker and thicker. The road seems like a tight rope stretched across a neverending void.

All I can see is soft fuzzy edges dead ahead.

Everything else fades together into a blur. I don’t remember these hills being so steep or seeming so never- ending. Oh, great! Red lights flashing in the rearview. I was only going five miles over the speed limit at the very most! That’s all this bored, backward, piece of crap cop needs, apparently. Pulling 75

RICHARD L. YORK, JR.

over, all I can think of is what a jerk this guy must be. [TAP-TAP-TAP on the window]

“What’s the problem,

officer?” I say. “Get out of the car boy,” the police officer retorts. “Why?” I ask. “Get out of the car, now! Don’t give me any crap, boy. I’m not havin’ a good day. Do you know how fast you were goin’?” the officer answers. “Yeah, seventy miles per hour.” I answer calmly. “What’s the limit, boy?” “Sixty-five miles per hour.” “Do you know what limit means, boy?” barks the officer. “Yes sir, but--” before I can finish answering… [CRACK]

He slaps his thigh hard with his nightstick.

“You’re looking for trouble, ain’t ya, boy? You found it, a heaping pile, didn’t ya, boy?” How do you answer a maniac like this? “Yes sir, a pile,” a hot, steamy, pile, I think, while I ponder the situation I have found myself in. He’s no bigger than me. I could take him if it came down to it. “Get that stupid look off of your face, boy! I asked you a question!” the officer bellowed. “No sir, just trying to get home.” I answer carefully. “Ain’t we all, boy! To some of us this is home…Ya don’t like me much, do ya, boy?” the officer taunts. “Does it matter?” I wonder aloud. 76

THE REALITY POLICE

“Your damn right it does!” the officer replied. “I’m sure you’re one peach of a guy. Can I go now... sir?” I add, after a brief pause. “You don’t like callin’ me Sir, do ya, boy? If I weren’t a cop, you’d knock the shit out of me, wouldn’t ya, boy?” the officer taunted. “Are you going to write me a ticket,” I asked, with more calm than I was feeling, “Or can I go now?” “If you can make it to your truck…and attempt to get away, I’ll have no choice other than arresting you!

For fleeing and

eluding, boy! It’s been awhile since I took anybody down. Hey you, I’m talkin’ to you, boy! Let’s see if I still got it,” the officer bullied. “Relax, man--” I started. The officer interrupted before I could go any further. “Are you telling me what to do? Are YOU the chief? You don’t look like the chief to me. No. You look like some sissy boy lookin’ for trouble. Someone who might take a swing at a respected officer. Yeah! Long hair, big guy with an attitude, takes a swing.... Sounds good to me…” he trails off. His eyes become wild and crazy. His smirk has changed to a twisted grin as he crouches down and springs backward. He rolls like a maniac into a ditch, laughing hysterically the entire time and muttering, “You did it this time, boy! You did it this time!” This guy is sick! I’m outta here! All I can think about is escaping as quickly as possible. As I jump into my truck, I can hear 77

RICHARD L. YORK, JR.

his demented laughter carrying across the expanse between us. Going as fast as I can to get out of this God-forsaken hole, I look in the rearview mirror for his lights. Red lights? Most cops have blue lights these days. No lights, just fog. Hopefully his car is stuck. He is weird! He never asked for my license or registration.

He’s

probably not even a cop, I think. I still faintly hear his demented laughter. Is it getting louder? I dimly perceive the shape of his car appearing through the fog ahead. I’m coming on it too fast to stop. As I barrel toward him, I see he’s out of the car. He’s standing with one foot on his bumper, ticket book in his hands, red lights flashing, and a satisfied grin on his face. I slam my foot on the brakes, start sliding, let off, and try again. Hitting the horn, I brace for the impact. I know he will be crushed. Not that the he doesn’t deserve it, but how am I going to explain it? Oh, crap! […VOOOOOOOOOMMMMMM…like the sound a jet makes breaking the sound barrier] A strong vibration rips through the truck, but no bone-shattering, metal-twisting, flame-throwing CRASH! Just the sound of his laughter fading in the distance. Oh, man! What just happened? Hey, what’s this? A ticket? On my windshield, under the wiper? It says something. “Do you know what your limit is, boy? The limit of your imagination. You crossed the line! Unfortunately for me, that’s not illegal.” The letter blows off as soon as I finish reading. Should I stop and get it? Yeah, right. I’m getting outta here as quick as possible, without going over the limit!

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79

80

7+(6(/),6+&+,/' The selfish child admits his single surviving parent into a cheap, no caring nursing home. The parent, recovering from an unfortunate slipping accident, suffered cracked and broken ribs, cuts, scrapes, and bruises. The hospital recommends a stay in a nursing home for rehabilitation. Faced with the responsibility of choosing a suitable dwelling for the parent, the child picks one near some local hot spots. The old home sits in a run-down part of town. In its prime, the building was the centerpiece of what was once a booming downtown. That was way back then. Now it’s where you hope your car doesn’t break down. The new downtown is a few short blocks away-- bright lights, nightclubs, and good restaurants-everything the young, up-and-coming crowd could want. A selfish child’s paradise. The old nursing home is not too far out of the way for the child between home and party central. Home is actually the parents’ beautifully furnished, paid-for house that the child was willing to keep an eye on while the parent recovers. The child also took on the responsibility of paying the few bills (water, food, electricity, etc.) with the limited investment and social security checks of the now-institutionalized parent. Of course, the nursing home takes a large chunk of the income, but not as much as one of those overpriced “good-retirement establishments” would. The selfish child visits the parent once or twice a month, bringing the checks for the parent to endorse.

As the neglect

continues, the parent’s unconditional love for the child gradually

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turns to hatred. The only things keeping the parent alive are the hate welling within for the selfish child and the dream of a second chance to live the events leading to the present situation. The parent slowly collects the small scraps of paper, lint, hair, and whatever else he finds stuck to the food tray or under the sink in the nasty bathroom. With nothing but time on his hands, the parent spends seemingly endless hours in the dark little room working tediously on a gift. Day by day the project begins to take form, fueled by jealousy, regret, and hatred, forging a creation so hideous that he can hardly wait to share it with his child. (His only child, the child who left him here to rot.) His child, too busy spending the money he didn’t earn, living a life of luxury he doesn’t deserve, too busy figuring out new ways to suck the parent financially dry. Too busy thinking of himself to even care. Finally, the temperature starts cooling off after months of stifling heat; the parent may actually be able to sleep at night. The small room had been a veritable inferno, roasting in the summer sun. The one small window in the dark room had been painted shut years ago, blocking the breeze, sounds, and smells of the outside world. The parent tried imagining what beautiful colors the leaves must be outside the gray paint on the window and wished he could be out there sitting on a park bench, feeding the birds, petting dogs out for a walk, and smiling at children without a care in the world. Some goo dripping from the a/c vent in the ceiling splats on the floor, snapping the parent back from the park in his head, to this reality. This unfair reality. The a/c vent blows warm, wet air in the 82

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summer and cool, wet air in the winter. As the seasons change, some reaction occurs, causing a buildup of slimy mold. Something that the residents refer to as goo. The parent carefully scrapes up the goo for use on the nearly finished gift. The nights became increasingly cool, tempting the parent to rest. The parent couldn’t bear the thought of not having the gift complete and ready for Halloween. The perfect holiday for this gift. Fitting, very fitting, the parent thought, laughing to himself. The child would undoubtedly receive the checks and be in to see him briefly by the end of the month; Halloween. The child wakes up late and stumbles to the refrigerator. Opening the door, he saw what he knew he would see. Nothing. It’s been more than two weeks since the last checks came in the mail. The first week was bliss: going out to parties, eating every meal in good restaurants, buying a few new outfits. Then “voila.” No money left. The last crumpled bills went for a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread. Not quite paradise, but today should be the day everything changes-- mail day. Opening the heavy front door, allowing the bright outside in, the selfish child squints, stumbling to the curb.

Finding the mailbox, the child shuffles

through the assorted bills and advertisements, dropping them to the ground, until... Yes, yes it’s here, an investment check. Almost dancing back into the kitchen, the child tosses the half full jar of peanut butter into the trash, quickly joined by what’s left of the bread. Yes,

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life is good. Now all that’s left is to get a signature on the back of the check and it’s party time again. At the nursing home, the parent sits in the dark room alone. A single candle flickers on an old table where the completed gift sits neatly wrapped in shiny black wrapping paper. As the parent makes a final wish for a second chance to make things right, a loud crack of thunder rumbles outside. Dark black clouds begin gathering over the old building. The selfish child pulls into the parking lot at the nursing home, noticing the dark sky, and ponders for a moment whether to go in or come back later. It’ll just take a second to get a signature and get back to the car before it starts raining, the child thinks, walking quickly. About halfway to the door, it starts raining hard. The child stops suddenly and turns back toward the car to see how far away it is. The child takes one step back to the car and is frozen solid by the biggest, brightest bolt of lightning he has ever seen. The lightning strikes the ground between the child and the car, sending electricity surging in the water on the asphalt in a large, bluish circle, stopping inches from the child’s feet. The child slowly turns back, facing the old home, with his heart almost pounding out of his chest.

He begins walking cautiously to the large double

doors, as the huge raindrops pelt down on him.

Entering the

dwelling, the child makes his way down the dark hallway, leaving a trail of muddy water to the parent’s room. The parent, sensing the child is near, mutters “come in” simultaneously with the knock on the door. As the child enters the room, his eyes open wide at the sight of the parent’s dark silhouette 84

THE SELFISH CHILD

between the child and the flickering candle. “Come in… come in,” the parent croaks with a shaky voice. The child enters the room, stunned from the near-death experience with the lightning and now faced with this scene. The parent again speaks, this time slower and less shaky. “Come in… come in.” As the child approaches the parent from behind, he sees a box wrapped in shiny black paper on the rickety, worn-out, old wooden table next to the candle. “What the hell is this?” the child whines. “A gift. I made it just for you,” answers the parent. “No, I mean what the hell are you doing in this dark room with a candle smoking up the place and your back to the door? Is the power out from the storm or something?” the child demands. “No, no, the powers fine,” the parent says as a loud crack of thunder outside shakes the walls and window. “I like candles, they remind me of when I was younger.” “Well a lot has changed since then,” retorts the child. “Not storms,” replies the parent. “Storms have the power to renew life when it rains, and the power to destroy with strong winds and lightning.” The child, with a confused look, says, “Whatever! The storm outside is getting pretty scary, I need to get going.” “You just got here, sit down. I’ll tell you what’s really scary. Sitting here in this room day after day, hearing screams down the hall of terrified people left behind to rot by the families who say they love them. Trying to choke down a dozen pills with whatever crap they bring you for food. Hoping you don’t live long enough for 85

RICHARD L. YORK, JR.

this to drive you insane. That’s scary! I see storms as beautiful, stripping the weak branches from the trees, enabling new sprouts to grow, strengthening old trees. I believe--” the parent begins, but is cut off by the child. “Yeah, yeah that’s great, storms are wonderful, fantastic, beautiful. I love ‘em, but I really don’t have the time to keep going over this meaningless stuff. Can you sign the checks now?” “Yes, yes of course. You are very busy, I’m sure. You should do all you can before you end up in a place like this.” With a sour look the child says, “I’m never going to--” he stops short, the sour look turning into a fake smile. “I can’t wait ‘til all I have to do is rest and relax, with nice people doing everything for me, making my bed, cleaning up after me, and the food doesn’t look that bad to me. Hell, you don’t even have to wear yourself out chewing the stuff. Sounds great to me.” “Well then, why don’t you stay for dinner,” the parent asks, knowing a rehearsed alibi will follow immediately. “It’s Halloween. You don’t expect me to hang out here all night, do ya? I have parties to go to, I have a life outside of visiting you.” “Oh yes, of course, you have a life. I know it’s a lot for you to stop by once or twice a month for ten minutes, impatiently waiting for me to sign my money over to you. How selfish of me.” “Listen this has been a lot of fun, but I really need to get going.

Could you sign the check now,” the child asks with

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“If you open your present first,” states the parent. “You want me to open this... this... what is this anyway?” “It’s for you, for everything you do. Open it,” the parent says, sliding the package to the child. “Okay, okay, fine, I’ll open it. Here’s a pen and the check,” says the child, ripping open the box, letting the scraps of paper fall freely onto the floor. When the child lifts the lid to the gift, a blank expression comes

over

the

child’s ashen face. Lifting it by the few sparse hairs sticking out of the top of the old-looking, rubbery mask, he sees it resembles a decrepit, witch like

version of the

parent. “Where in the hell did you get this nasty old thing?” “I made it just for you,” the parent answered, looking quite proud. “Put it on, lets see how it fits.” “Are you crazy, I’m not wearing this hideous thing.” “Then I’m not signing the check. You want my money, don’t you,” asks the parent with a stern look. “I can wait all night. All I ever do is wait.” 87

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“All right, you sign the check and I’ll try it on,” the child exclaims. The parent slowly shakes his head saying, “No, you first.” As the child slips on the mask, a deafening crash of thunder explodes outside. The candle flickers, darkening the room. A foul odor permeates the air. “Man this thing stinks.

Are you happy now?” the child

whines in a somewhat shaky voice. “Look in the mirror,” the parent says. “I like it.” Turning toward the mirror on the dresser, the child lets out a shrill, muffled screech. “I’m not wearing this thing, it’s hideous.” A clear voice rings out from behind the child, “What in the world are you talking about?” “This... this mask!

It’s hideous and it seems stuck or

something. Help me get it off!” The child’s voice quakes as he tugs on the mask. Turning back toward the parent, the child’s attention is suddenly grabbed by a reflection in the mirror. On the bed behind him, sits what appears to be the child before adorning the mask, where the parent had been a moment ago. “What the hell...” the child’s feeble voice fades. “ Help me get this mask off! Please?” “Mask? Are you sure you’re feeling okay? Maybe you should lie down for awhile,” questions the now-strong voice of the parent. “What are you talking about, help me!”

88

THE SELFISH CHILD

“Okay, okay I’ll help you. Lie down, you don’t look so good, and stop messing with your face. I’m late for the party. Can you sign the check now?” “I’m not signing anything, now get this mask off me,” the child’s old voice trembles. Leaning over the frail figure lying on the bed, the rejuvenated parent says, “That’s okay, I’ve got it covered.” He pulls the sheets up on the bed before turning toward the door and says, “Fitting, very fitting indeed!” As the parent skips out of the door, from down the hall we hear, “Maybe, just maybe I’ll see you next month!” followed by cackling laughter, echoing throughout the old structure. As the large doors latch shut, a twisted grin comes over the very wrinkled face of another resident in a dark room down the hall, hearing the pleas for help, while he admire his own handiwork, a gift for another selfish child. Again, laughter echoes through the halls, louder and louder.…

89

90

7KH6XEWHUUDQHDQV Seeing the slow, rhythmic, pulsating of their heads, I knew I was in deep shit! Dozens of them, almost clones, appeared before me... male and female. Some, larger than others. All shared deeply deranged expressions on their muscular faces. The pale white skin accentuated their sleek, athletic forms, and those shiny, pitch-black eyes.

The eyes are unforgettable, to say the least, expressing

everything and nothing at the same time. I’m sure nothing that has seen these eyes lived long enough to tell others of the experience. Intent on only one thing… blood. It flows freely down the walls of their subterranean dwelling.

A constant flow trickling

down the rough, rocky walls of the cavern. Where does all the blood come from? Good question! The answer is why I’m here, crouched behind a large rock in the dark, witnessing these strange creatures. I am a weekend shark fisherman who hasn’t had much luck for some time now. I looked in the phone book for butcher shops. After a few calls, I understood I needed to pay a visit to the main slaughterhouse. I wanted at least two or three five-gallon buckets of fresh blood and scraps to help attract the sharks. The workers, however, informed me all the blood is washed down the large drains in the floor, into the sewer system. The workers gave me all the scraps I could carry, but what I really wanted was the blood. Much like the idiots you see in horror movies walking into a dark corridor

91

RICHARD L. YORK, JR.

you just know a maniac killer’s hiding in, I entered the sewer. That’s Hollywood, though. Right? Well, I found the makings for the ultimate vampire flick. These strange creatures are real life vampires! Not as you might imagine. Not a bat. Not a suave count in a long black cape. Instead, these creatures are more like the transitional point when the count changes into the bat. In the movies, there’s usually one main character with a handful of weaker followers. Here in this black hole none of them seems to be in charge. They share the blood, taking turns lapping at the warm wet walls. Some press their bodies against the wall, allowing the blood to run over themselves to be enjoyed by the others. Some of the larger males begin pacing or rocking in a more aggravated way.

The females are sleek and

appear aroused, anticipating something. Suddenly all eyes turn toward the entrance of the cavern. A large male appears carrying what looks like a big sack of potatoes under his arm. As he comes closer toward the group, I see it’s a man, or what is left of a man. His throat is torn out; one arm hangs from a few tendons, swinging back and forth with each step of the creature. Everything else has been crumpled up into a neat, easy-tocarry package.

I can now see the victim’s face, distraught and

dripping a dark, thick ooze. Yet, he’s familiar. Yes. I know! It’s the man I saw on the street corner; the one I gave my loose change to just this morning. A lonely drunk no one will miss. They’ll all just assume he moved on to another corner. I wonder how many people, and animals for that matter, have met the same fate. Anyone 92

THE SUBTERRANEANS

who might notice they’re gone will pass it off as no big deal. So, he found a new corner to hangout on. How many people come up missing each year, kidnapped for no apparent reason? Run a ways, maybe. Never to be seen again. It seems to be getting darker in here. I can hardly see to write. The smell of this place is getting stronger and the air hotter. I think I’ll get out of here as quietly as possible while I still... “Go on man, read the rest! Read the rest!” begged Darryl. “That’s all Darryl. There ain’t no mo’. That’s it. End of the story. By the looks of this here paper, it’s been through hell. It’s dirty, ripped and got these dark spots all over. If there are any more pages, they could be anywhere,” answered Mel. “Mel, that one weird story, man. That one weird story. I wonder why whoever wrote this left it here in the ditch?” asked Darryl. “I bet they didn’t leave it here Darryl. The sewer feeds into this here ditch. Maybe someone scratched down on this here paper what he accidentally stumbled across, and ended up being dinner. Maybe, eventually it blew into the water and floated into our ditch. What you think about that, Darryl?” asked Mel. “Mel, come on, man, there ain’t no underground vampires!” Darryl stated. “Oh yeah? How you know that for sure?” asked Mel. “MAN Mel, you as crazy as the bastard who wrote this note,” said Darryl. “All right Darryl, you wanna be that way, let’s go see for 93

RICHARD L. YORK, JR.

ourselves. You know where the slaughterhouse is, about a mile down the road. This note came outta this here drainpipe. I bet if we followed it toward the slaughterhouse, we’ll find an answer to all this. Come on Darryl, what you got to loose...”

94

Acknowledgments

My nightmares would be tormenting only me, if not for the incredible efforts of my most ghoulish fiends: Stef, Eric, Angela, Shane, Jeremy, Karen, Rory, Adam, and Chainsaw Chuck. Thank you so very much for your never-ending support.

Executive Producer Rory Williams Killer Artwork “Chainsaw” Chuck Majewski R.L. York, Jr. Copy Editors Karen Carver Angela Schimenek Rory Williams Creative Oversight Eric Schimenek Cover Design R.L. York, Jr. Rory Williams Interior Design R.L. York, Jr. Rory Williams Proofreader Trudie Martineau

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If you enjoyed th ese T W E L V E S H O R T H O R R IB L E S T O R IE S , you w ill b e in ecsta sy w ith V olu m e II - 13 T E R R IF Y IN G ST O R IE S. I ha ve gath ered m y la test collection of N igh tM ares, a long m y never-ending journey throu gh th e dark w orld, w h ere fe ar is free to terrorize all w h o visit. O f course, “ C hainsa w C hu ck” ha s carved m ore im a ges fro m h is gra y m atter, for your tw isted pleasure. I w elco m e th e cha llenges fear is m ore tha n w illing to share, th us, delving deeper into its e m bra ce. It is h ere I tend m y garden of h orror. M y 1 3 T E R R IF Y IN G ST O R IE S are bloa ted w ith the fru its fe ar a nd terro r ha ve ena bled m e to cultiva te

RICHARD L. YORK, JR.

5ichard L. York, Jr. is quickly becoming the most popular author of young adult horror. His short stories are fun, fastpaced, interesting and of course, horrible. He has firmly wedged a strong foothold with his books into the gap left between child and adult horror.

5ichard L. York, Jr.’s writing style, mixing humor and horror, will more than satisfy the appetite of the most avid fiction reader. Each of the 12 stories is as different from the others as it is fun to read.

$lso available in intense-audio that will captivate you and all near you. Here is a hint from the producer, Rory Williams, “Get comfortable, slip on a pair of headphones, and prepare yourself for the ride of your life!”

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