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Sunday, April 17, 2016

Comb's Dear Nightmare

Another flash fiction challenge from the warped mind of Chuck Wendig at terribleminds.com

Pick a title, write a story. I chose:


Comb’s Dear Nightmare



 

     Please excuse my penmanship and grammar as I hastily write this entry, but I fear that it is best that I transcribe this incident as soon as possible, while these sequences of events are still relatively clear in my mind’s eye. An eye that grows more clouded by the hour.

     Harold Comb has been a psychiatric patient of mine for the last two weeks. This writing concerns him, or should I say concerns what has happened in his regard. Comb became my patient through recommendation of a colleague, who shall remain nameless, for his protection. My colleague had sent Comb to me with what he said was some reluctance, and I should’ve read more into the waiver in his voice as he relayed the patient’s situation to me. It seems Harold Comb stumbled upon my colleague through pure chance, having wandered, delirious, no less, into a garden party at said colleague’s home. The lady of the house as well as the guests were frightened to the point of near terror, but my colleague was intrigued with Comb’s story and against his better judgement, calmed the poor fellow and even went so far as in offering to take the gentleman home, upon which Comb stated, “I have none!” and consequently fell unconscious. Comb was rushed to hospital and soon after became lucid once again.

     This is when Comb, with my colleague and the attending nurse by his side, told his queer tale in further curious detail. Comb stated that he was from the city of Ashtonworth, in the provence of Rhiley, in the country of Saldesta, a country that obviously doesn’t exist. He had no memory of how he came to be in our city. Comb, confused, didn’t recognize the names of any of the countries the good Doctor related to him either, although saying there was a country like “Germany” yet spelled “Jermeny” in his imagined world. Comb became agitated by the Doctor’s inquiries and refused to answer any more questions until his story was heard. The patient became physical and orderlies were summoned to restrain him. Once given a powerful sedative, he began to ramble.

     He claimed he was not a man, but a ten year old boy, saying he awoke in this hideous city in the body of a man. Baffled by his whereabouts and repulsed by his anatomy, Comb stumbled through the lamp post lit city streets until, in desperation, followed the sounds of laughter and music, lurching into the garden of the Doctor. At this point in the patient’s story, the Doctor asked what came before… could he remember? Comb lay silent on the bed, eyes closed. Just as the Doctor expected no answer, Comb’s eyes sprung open. He fought and strained against the restraints, clawing at the bed linens. Veins stood out in his neck, Comb gnashed his teeth, grimacing.

“That’s when they came! The ceiling! The melting…!”

At this point, the Doctor felt it best to sedate Comb, and the patient slept through the night with no further incident. The following day, Comb remembered nothing of the previous night. He gave my colleague his address, and even provided identification, which was verified. The Doctor explained his unusual behavior from the night before to Comb, who showed legitimate concern for his actions. He even admitted to suffering blackouts, but being a bachelor and living alone, had no realization of ever leaving his flat. The Doctor calmed him, saying this may have been the first time, but he recommended that Comb should see a sleep specialist, which you already know, I am. The Doctor also explained that he felt my studies and practice of hypnotism may be beneficial. Comb became my patient the following day.

     My first session with Harold Comb was uneventful. I simply related what I knew of him and his situation, explaining that through experimental hypnosis techniques I intended to eliminate the blackouts, sleep walking and hypnogogic delusions he was experiencing. Delusions that remained buried in his subconscious; Harold Comb, in his concern for his mental health, agreed, signing the necessary forms of treatment and release. I scheduled Comb as the last patient to be seen today, excusing my receptionist an hour prior to his arrival. Unbeknownst to my receptionist or Comb, my treatment was anything but sanctioned, and the fewer who knew, the better.

     Comb showed precisely at 5:30, although he seemed different than he did in our initial meeting. He diverted his eyes and shuffled to his seat across from me, with no greeting. I did get a greeting upon forwarding one myself, however. I quickly went over the procedure that would include a mild sedative. I held back that I would also be administering a dose of a drug that causes temporary paralysis of the limbs. As I stated, this technique was unorthodox, but not without warrant in my studies. Comb took the pills, first putting the pills in his mouth from his right hand, then taking the glass of water from me with his right also, swallowing with one gulp. Comb’s left hand was clenched tight, and must’ve been since entering my office. I proceeded to put him into a hypnotic trance, using a series of suggestions and mannerisms I’ve perfected over the years. Soon he was under my influence. I grabbed my pen and pad.

“Harold, can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“I need you tell me where you are.”

“In your office.”

“Tell me about you. About the boy.”

“Oh my God. I don’t belong here. They brought me. What? Why are you here? I want to go home! This isn’t me! Mommy, this isn’t me! Don’t! Take me home! OH MY GOD THEY’RE HERE!”

     Comb sat across from me, trembling, staring passed and above me, frozen stiff in that chair. I turned, instinctively, I turned and looked! I shouldn’t have! I shouldn’t have looked! God help me, a black cloud was forming in the corner of the room. I watched incredulous as slim, smoke like tentacles sprouted from that sickening black mass, tendrils stretching out… I threw myself to the floor, covering my head with clasped hands as I heard the bloodcurdling shrieks of poor Comb! Comb, unable to move, unable to avert or even close his eyes! Seeing it all! Then came the sounds, the guttural sounds of a man drowning, air being forced from lungs… then silence.

     I came to sitting in my chair just moments ago, the chair that sat across from where Comb had been sitting, Comb's chair now empty. My shirt soaked through with sweat. My hands gripping the arms so tightly, my knuckles ached upon loosening my grip. I’d fallen asleep. Comb had never been here. It had been a dream, a nightmare, I told myself. Comb had shrugged off the appointment. I felt a rush of relief course through me. Then I noticed something. Lying beside the chair across from me. A small object. I picked it up. A small toy, a little metal car, but unlike any metal I’d felt before. It was ice cold to the touch. Then, in realization, I looked into the corner of the room behind me. There, a small black cloud, the size of a walnut, pulsing.

     I still sit here as I write this. The cloud grows ever so slightly by the hour. I feel I should leave, but will that stop the inevitable? No.




TRAILER PARK FROM HELL  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BAKU8IS



 



LIFE'S A BITCH. A WEREBITCH. http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BFCMNMU


Check out my new book, TEN LITTLE TERRORS, now on Amazon:






Friday, January 15, 2016

The River's Mask





     I remember my Dad and I going fishing. We did a few times before the divorce. Probably when I was around eight. We fished in the river not far from our house. The Cherry River. We didn’t live in the country, but didn’t have to. That river cut a swath right through my home town. God, I hated that place. Lived in the not so great part of a not so great Midwestern industrial town. I remember fishing. Baiting the hook with something alive, watching it squirm; wondering if it could feel pain. I’d hoped so. I hated fishing more than I hated that town. Don’t really remember much of what my old man said in our few short years of acquaintance, but I do remember that day, and what he said that day. Probably because I was hot, sweaty, bored and miserable and would rather have been anywhere else.


“Boy, see the water there?”


“The river?” I asked. I cringed a little, expecting a slap to the back of the head.


“Yeah. That. But the water itself. See how the sun reflects? Sparkles all inviting like? Saying, ‘you know boy, it’s a hot day. Bet you’d like to cool off. Bet you’d love to jump in right now, wouldn’t you, boy?’ There’s more to that river than the water, boy. The river is what’s underneath that water. It’s the current that’ll grip you, hold you down, drown you without a care. The broken beer bottles that’ll slice your foot wide open. You’d bleed to death before you ever made it home to your Mama. It might be the tree branch you can’t see, just below the surface, that’ll spear you like a bullfrog when you belly flop. You see, the water ain’t the river; it’s the river’s mask. People wear them masks, too.”


     I probably remember that because that’s the most he’d ever said to me that wasn’t a direct order.


 


      I really think we were made for each other. I first saw her in the dorm cafeteria. She was very pretty, beautiful in an awkward way. Thin, maybe she thought too thin, jet black hair and pale skin. A crooked nose and a slight gap in her front teeth. Glasses with black rims. She gave me a quick half smile. So quick that I almost didn’t see it. She cast her gaze to the floor, her fragile hands in her lap. I knew her hair smelled of strawberries. It was love at first sight. Corny, I know. Hey, she wasn’t my first.


     That was weeks ago. Man, hard to believe. Now we traveled the highway together, to an unknown destination. How mysterious. The place we were going didn’t matter. All that mattered is that we were going there together. We’d be together.


     She was studying pre-med. That made me proud, I guess. And why shouldn’t I be?


     I’d dropped out last month. She didn’t know that, and I tried not to think about it. Does it matter? She slowed the car down as it began to sprinkle. Brake lights flashed briefly ahead. How long would we drive on before she revealed where we were going? I should’ve been tired, since I’d been with her since dawn, but the anticipation of where we might stop had me wired. I talked about everything and anything, until it started to feel a little weird, so I just shut up. Why did I always do that? All those regrets and failings, wants and desires. They shouldn’t matter now. Not now that I have Diane.


     Dusk turned to darkness and we drove on. I turned on the radio. After a half-dozen silly love songs and a few embarrassing songs filled with sexual innuendo, I turned it off. If only I knew where we were off to, just me and Diane. Even though I’d only known her a short time, I felt as if I’d known her forever. Like since we were kids, or something. I’d watched her with children at the clinic she interned at. She loved those kids like they were hers. I’d see that half smile as she lifted a toddler and held him in her arms, the kid giggling. She had pets, too. Two cats. I saw the first one, a big fat tabby right away. The second, a Siamese, was shy or maybe aloof is more like it. She loved them equally. I hated the thought of them dying before her, breaking her heart.


    Headlights streamed in streaks across the windshield. Now I was getting tired. It was late. We were still driving. She hadn’t stopped for anything; food, gas even a restroom break. I supposed I could hold on. How much longer could it be? I’m sure she was getting tired, too. We’d both been going since early morning. I guess I’d bear with it all, I’d come this far.


    I thought to myself how pretty she’d looked getting into the car. I guess wearing what you’d call a conservative light-weight coat, khaki, tied at the waist, covering what I knew was underneath: a silky lavender blouse with a “v” neck, just barely exposing her cleavage. The blouse covering the lace push-up bra that only she and I knew she was wearing. A short black skirt exposed her long slender legs from mid-thigh, her feet styling black low heeled wedges. Yes, I know about ladies shoes. Whatever.


     My mind wandered to places I’d never been as the miles ticked on. Diane and I, in bed together, her in her coat, blouse and skirt, me naked, excited. Then alone… but then I snapped out of my reverie. We were taking an exit. Finally! She pulled into a motel.


     I kept still as she went in, not wanting to do anything dumb to spoil the moment. It wasn’t long before she came out and walked ahead. I followed in the car. I parked and stepped into the cold, wet night. I couldn’t believe my luck as she slipped the card key through the slot… before she could close the door, I pushed my way in. She tried to scream, but I was quick. I hit her hard over the head and knocked her out.


     I would be with her tonight.


    I carried her out around two in the morning, putting her in the trunk of my car. I just left her car in the parking lot. I drove until I got to Cherry River, on the outskirts of town. It was nearly dawn by the time I had her body weighted down. I sweated as I dragged her to the edge. I was too tired to carry her. I gave Diane one last kiss, and then rolled her into the murky water, the lazy current reflecting the moonlight. The river’s mask looked so calm. But I knew what lay under the surface. Detective, she hadn’t been my first.












Check out my collection of short stories: "Ten Little Terrors"
 
 




Sunday, December 6, 2015

The Rochdale Poltergeist


     Rochdale is a town about 10 miles northeast of the city of Manchester in England. In 1995 there were strange phenomena typical for what is considered a poltergeist, but it is actually primarily a case of mysterious appearance of water in the form of drips, rains and gushes. It also had phenomena that also show up with stone showers, like the repeated showers, suddenly stopping and starting elsewhere. Strange smells. Objects moving around, or disappearing and appearing. Although they try to connect the observed smells and the hearing of a voice with a dead relative, these are probably energy impressions in the local aetheric field that they are picking up. Energies of people are often imprinted into objects but also in places like homes. Psychics can read these energies and thus obtain information. When an earth's energetic field is particularly intense at a house, even ordinary people can pickup up on information that is stored in these houses.
     Manchester Anomalous Phenomena Investigation Team decided to investigate the case.
For about a year the Garner family had to deal with repeated outpourings of water inside their house, soaking beds, carpet and furniture. Workmen and housing officers inspected the building and could not find a cause for the appearance of water.
     “Sometimes the water breaks out in the form of huge droplets covering large areas of the ceilings and will disappear as quickly as it comes” Vera said. The water would also appear as heavy rain, apparently through the ceiling, but nothing was found that could explain it.
     Mr. Gardner explained: “ It started about ten months ago when we noticed a damp patch on the wall in the back bedroom, which started to leak. We got the council in and they searched all through the loft but could not find anything leaking. We left it to see how it went and at first it stopped. Then we had what we thought was condensation on the ceiling. It started at one place, then it shot right across the ceiling from corner to corner and even seemed to curve around the ceiling light. It would happen in the bedroom and then stop, only to start in the kitchen. I rang the council again, and two men went in our loft while an electrician dismantled the ceiling lights whilst I was sat underneath an umbrella in the kitchen, that’s how bad it was. The whole kitchen was wet through as if it were raining. The council men had no idea what was causing it and in the heat of desperation they decided to fit a fan in the kitchen window.......Some good that did.
     It finally stopped in the kitchen and started in Jeans front bedroom. It stayed there for four to five months. It happened every day and was causing a lot of upset in the home. When we decided to move Jeans bedroom to another room, it followed as if it knew. The council workmen came again and brought some detectors. They were looking for condensation. Of course, all prefabs will have some condensation, especially during the hot weather, but this was ridiculous.......
     Then all of a sudden it stopped for about a week. We thought the ordeal was over. We moved the furniture back and lay the carpets again, and within ten minutes it was back with a vengeance. We daren’t put the stuff back down. Apart from the water, I was sitting here one night when the handle on the hall door turned and the door opened on its own. I was expecting someone to be their but we all knew there was no-one as we were all sat in the living room watching TV. Last Friday night we had decided to send Jean and her daughter to stay at a friends house as they were finding it difficult to sleep at night. Myself and Vera were the only ones in the house. We lay in bed and could both clearly hear someone coughing from the corner of the room. Even though a little scared I did thoroughly check the house and found nothing unusual. We’ve also smelt tobacco smoke in our bedroom and the smell of liquorice as if it was a flavoured cigarette paper.
     Last night the hairdryer flew off the drawers and hit my grad-daughters friend on the back of the head. It seems to be more concentrated around Jean and her daughter when they’re here. The council first said it was a mystery, then said it was condensation, and when they accused us of throwing buckets of water on the ceiling, it was the last straw. We turned to the newspapers in hope of getting it sorted out. The family has lived here for 13 years and we didn’t really want to move out but what else can we do? The council official suggested we shouldn’t cook, shower or bathe due to our condensation problem. How are we to live under such circumstances ? Alison was found crying yesterday. She said she had felt a cold presence over her whilst lying on her bed and now its started banging things around at night and keeps us awake. We have even seen things fly off the wall for no reason and things that go missing and turn up in the oddest of places some days later when your not looking for it.”
     ...the most unusual thing was that we heard a radio working and when we went in to the front room, it turned itself off. When we checked it, we found hat it wasn’t even plugged in. Strange buzzing sound can sometimes be heard at night yet we are always unable to locate the origin.
When the mapit team stayed for an overnight vigil, they also encountered strange phenomena.

     Eventually the Gardner family moved out because of the extreme stress they had to endure. The new family that moved into the bungalow were Asian and did not report any unusual experiences. However the Gardner's on the other hand went through similar experiences for two months in their new home. After which it suddenly ceased and never returned. Just as with stone showers, the energy fields sometimes locks onto a person, and when the person moves the fields stays with that person, until it suddenly disconnects and moves on.


Check out my two short stories, now published on Amazon Kindle:

 



TRAILER PARK FROM HELL  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BAKU8IS



 



LIFE'S A BITCH. A WEREBITCH. http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BFCMNMU

Monday, August 3, 2015

Drew this while listening to "Powerman 5000" tracks

Powerman 5000 really hit their stride with their album "Tonight the Stars Revolt," IMHO. A great band from the beginning of the 21st century... almost as great as White Zombie, which is no surprise, as Spider One, the band's founder, is the younger brother of Rob Zombie. That's all I've got to say on that subject. So there.

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

"Grave Digger" from "Ten Little Terrors" by Timothy Whitcher, Kindle Edition


Daniel pulled the near-new Ford pickup into the drive of the modest ranch style home and waited. He didn’t bother tooting the horn. His brother Gabriel would know he was there, like every workday morning. He surveyed the front lawn in mild disgust. Plastic toys lay abandoned for days by Gabe’s two girls. The yard more weeds than grass, needed mowing. It was embarrassing. At least Gabe’s wife June kept the house neat and the girls behaved. Just as Daniel was about to lose his temper, Gabriel made his appearance. With one hand holding open the aluminum screen door and the other holding the knob of the front door, Gabriel obediently took instructions from June; his pudgy six-foot frame towering over her petite stature. Just as Daniel was about to toot the horn out of impatience, Gabriel leaned in for the kiss. Daniel shook his head as he read his brother’s lips: ‘I love you.’ This scenario played out the same nearly every day, but this morning it annoyed him more than usual.

Gabriel lumbered around the back of the pickup, opened the passenger side and hoisted himself into the cloying warmth of the cab. Daniel looked at him hard, and though not the first time, thought of looking into a funhouse mirror. Gabriel was Daniel’s identical twin, however, where Daniel was fit and trim, somewhere along the line in thirty years Gabriel had put on an additional fifty pounds. Where Daniel still had his hair, Gabriel’s had decided to recede with a vengeance a la Richard Nixon. Gabe’s wardrobe was a mix of old and new: old blue-jeans stained near black in spots from hydraulic fluid, plaid shirt repaired with patches at the elbows, brand new tan leather high-top work boots bought by Daniel himself as a belated birthday gift; as opposed to Daniel’s neatly matching denim work shirt, pants and jacket, finished off with new work boots, kin to the ones his brother wore, the second half of a two for one sale. To top it off, Daniel thought, Gabriel wore a dirty, blue nylon down vest.

“Morning, Danny.”

“Sure is.”

Daniel powered down the window despite the cool damp air, letting the rush of the wind fill in for idle conversation. He was put off this morning and really didn’t give a damn to hear what his brother had to say, which usually wasn’t much anyway. Within minutes they were pulling into the gated drive of Pine Woods Cemetery, the largest cemetery in their sleepy little town. Daniel was careful to stay on the narrow asphalt path that wended its way through the myriad of grave markers, many well over a century old, as the ground was as wet as a sponge from the heavy spring rains. Daniel sighed as Gabriel droned on about nothing; Daniel guessed just satisfied to hear himself talk.

Gabriel’s diatribe of last night’s reality TV show came to an abrupt halt as the tranquil view yielded to chaos. At least a dozen headstones had been toppled in the oldest section of the graveyard. Daniel cursed, Gabriel gaped in silence as they looked over the carnage. This was the third time in so many months that vandals had struck. It had been Daniel’s fantasy to catch them in the act and beat them to a bloody pulp and he felt he’d been denied the opportunity once again.

“Damn, brother. This is all we need. It’ll take a good day’s work to reset these. At least it’s not the newer ones. People get real up in arms when it’s the newer ones. As if the poor bastards in the old graves aren’t just as dead,” said Daniel.

“Geez o’ Pete, they’re all worthy of respect, Danny,” said Gabriel, quietly.

“Respect. Respect’s for the living, Gabe. And few of the living get my respect.”

Gabriel kept silent. He could feel his brother’s anger simmering just below the surface.

“So, we’re finishing up the Winkler plot, right?” Gabriel said, as if his brother needed reminding.

“Yeah, genius. Better get to it. Calls for rain this afternoon. Goddamn, ground’s wet enough already. Rained nearly every frigging day the last two weeks. River gets much higher, it’ll be pulling vaults from the bank.”

It had happened before. Burial vaults pulled out from the eroding shoreline. Some graves so old that their caskets had rotted to nothing, earth stained skulls and bones having to be retrieved from the Pine River, and then cremated. That was a job that Daniel knew he’d assign to Gabe, when or if the time came.

     Daniel brought the lumbering pick up to a stop just past a stand of pine trees, which revealed the plot they would be digging. The day before they’d had just enough time to measure the plot, lay out plywood sheeting, remove sod, cover the sod with tarp and move the Cat backhoe into place before the sky let loose; a torrential rain driving them from the site. Daniel had stewed all the way to Gabe’s, while Gabe spoke with pride about attending his twin daughter’s dance recital that evening, totally oblivious to his brother’s agitated state. Daniel had spent the night drinking in his extravagant yet lonely home set deep in the countryside, cursing the weather. Well, today wasn’t going to be a pleasant day either, Daniel thought, but damn it all to hell, he was going to get the job done. The deceased in the cement vault sat waiting for its internment on plywood sheeting, the family already deprived of a proper funeral. If that wasn’t bad enough, the vault was vulnerable to vandalism and they’d been lucky that the vandals hadn’t noticed it last night. Daniel guessed that the stand of pines must’ve hid the vault from sight. It would’ve been pretty hard dealing with the City Commisioner if they’d found it desecrated this morning.

Daniel fired up the Cat and began digging as Gabe stood to the side, shovel at the ready to keep the growing pile of earth spread neatly on the plywood, as always. He never ran the backhoe. Danny had always been too impatient to show him how. Gabe was glad. He knew if anything were to go wrong with it, he’d be blamed, somehow. Daniel hollered at Gabe every so often, with increasing agitation, for Gabe to stay off the grass; Gabe’s boots damaging the muddy turf. Gabe was doing all he could not to. He could never understand why his brother always had to be so critical of him, to lose his temper. The weather wasn’t his fault, and he wanted the job done as much as Danny did. Gabe hoped that no one from the deceased’s family would show up. He knew it would be up to him to be the level-headed one. The diplomatic one. If they were to show up, Gabe hoped Danny could control his anger. At least Danny was sober today.

“Gabe! Don’t make me tell you again! Keep off that goddamned grass!” bellowed Daniel from the backhoe.

Gabe gave him a weary look.

“Let me measure Danny,” called Gabe.

He measured the hole for depth. Two feet to go. Now came the hard part. Gabe knew they’d need to dig the rest by hand. If they tried to dig further with the Cat, it was possible that the lip of the hole would collapse due to the dampness of the soil.

“Four feet,” said Gabe.

“Measure it over. I’m not getting back on this thing again.”

“Four feet, four inches, okay?”

Without another word, Daniel jumped off the backhoe, slipping and tearing a deep three-foot-long gouge into the muddy lawn.

Gabe watched with neutral expression as Danny’s face became redder and redder; Gabe looking away as his twin brother flew into a rage, expletives flying thick as mosquitos in July. He’d heard it all before and was just grateful that it wasn’t aimed at him. Gabe was just as grateful that his twin girls weren’t here for the barrage, like they had been Easter Sunday. After five minutes of tirade, Danny suddenly stopped, took a deep breath and began unloading the equipment they’d need from the back of the truck, as if nothing had happened. Gabe wanted to shake his head in amazement and disgust, but feared to. Gabriel just pretended nothing had transpired as well.

They went to task. Gabe retrieved the step ladder from the bed of the pick up after Daniel’s prompting, Daniel setting up the gas powered generator and sump pump to pump out the five or so inches of water that had seeped into the four foot hole. He set the ladder in, and with Daniel’s reminder, stepped off well from the edge of the hole as not to cause the wall to cave-in. He was about to ask Danny why they weren’t shoring up the walls of the grave with plywood, but thought better of it. He knew that Danny would either berate him for the idea, or would take off in the truck in anger to retrieve the boards. Gabe just wanted to be done with it.

Gabe’s boots sank into the sodden earth up to the laces; muddy water nearly at the tops. The sump pump ran noisily. He grabbed the hose from Danny and fed it into the water, careful not to let mud clog the line.

“Don’t let mud clog that hose again,” said Daniel, supervising from a squat, balancing with the dirt caked shovel.

Gabe had let it clog the first time he’d used it. That was a good dozen times ago, Gabe thought. Danny couldn’t let anything go. He kept silent, concentrating on the job.

“It’s Friday. You and Sandra got plans?” Gabe realized his misstep as soon as the words escaped his lips.

     “Trying to be funny, Gabe? You know I dumped that bitch. Is that your idea of a joke, Mr. Family Man? You’re a real piece of work. Then, I didn’t marry the first piece that bothered to look my way, did I? Nope. My dumbass brother threw it all away right out of High School. Bet you wish you were me every night, don’t you? Tied to the old apron strings, just like our ol’ man,” Danny ranted.

“Geez, I forgot she left, okay?” said Gabe, concentrating harder on the end of the hose, unable to move, his feet cast in thick mud like wet cement.

“Left? Holy fuck. Is that what that wife of yours said?”

“No,” said Gabe, trying to think of something to say, something that would diffuse the situation, but instead, he blurted out what was running through his mind in a loop.

“How’d she get that broken arm, then?”

     With all the courage he could muster, Gabe turned to look Danny dead in the eye. Daniel’s face was deep red, veins bulging from his forehead, lips tight as a stretched rubber band, nostrils flared; Gabe could hear the rush of Danny’s breath in and out. Then deep from Danny’s gut rose a bellow of rage that even through all his years of torment Gabe had never heard from his twin brother before, shattering the quiet of the cemetery air; Daniel still in a squat, both hands now gripping the shovel handle which rested across his knees. In one swift, savage motion, Daniel swung the shovel with all his might, the blade connecting with the side of Gabe’s head. Gabe’s whole body torqued from the force, his head twisting on his neck then recoiling back as if spring loaded. A pain like the sting of a dozen hornets blossomed in his brain. A fierce buzzing like a giant tuning fork had been struck, just like the times Danny used to throw him hard onto the cement slab kitchen floor when they were just kids. Gabe bounced off the far wall of the grave, hitting the muck face first.

     Daniel stood, shovel still in hand, his chest heaving, and looked down at his twin. He watched as Gabe tried to sit up, grasping at the air. Gabe shook his head. Blood splattered against the aluminum ladder. He grabbed hold of the ladder and brought himself up to a kneeling position, then sat back on his calves. Danny watched as blood flowed onto Gabe’s mud covered down vest. The blood looked surreal, almost fake on the bright blue material.

“Kripes almighty! What was that?” said Gabe, incredulous. Stunned.

Within seconds, Gabe knew what had happened. He looked up at his brother with an expression of disbelief.

“Help me out, Danny. Think I’m hurt bad,” said Gabe, attempting to stand.

Daniel stood still, silent, a cold hard look on his face. He knew he’d fucked up royally. He was screwed. Gabe wouldn’t lie for him this time. This wasn’t a punch in the gut, or a bruised or cracked rib. Shit, Gabe might even die, thought Daniel. He’d lose it all. The business. His house. Hell, if Gabe died, his freedom. His brother had held him back all these years. He’d have made twice the money if he hadn’t had to split everything with Gabe. He’d been cornered into that agreement by his Father’s will. If he wanted to inherit the business, Gabriel would be in it for half. Without another thought, Daniel raised the shovel, and with machine like precision, brought the shovel blade down again and again, the shovel ringing with every blow. He didn’t know how many times. It was the lightning strike and roll of thunder that brought him back to reality.

Gabe lay crumpled at the bottom of the grave. Daniel had a lot of work ahead of him. Dark work.

 

Daniel tossed the shovel into the hole and climbed down the step ladder. He gazed up into the sky, watching the storm clouds in the distance. Another flash and peel of thunder made him jump. He stepped back onto his brother’s hand. A hand that looked identical to his own. Danny gingerly repositioned his feet, trying hard not to touch his brother. He was determined to not look at the body, but it was impossible not to. Even his peripheral vision betrayed him. He realized he was hyperventilating. He knew he needed to get a grip if he were to get through this. He took in long deep breaths; the first through his nostrils, the sharp tang of fresh blood made him gag. He counted. Fifty deep breaths. He felt better. His mind clearer. He looked at his watch. How long had he been in the hole? A cold realization flowed through him like ice water. The longer this took, the more likely he’d be caught. Gabe’s wife could show up. A visitor to the cemetery. Hell, even a cop. He began to dig. Danny dug and dug. The brown muddy earth didn’t give up easily. Muddy clay and water sucked at the shovel and his boots. Pushing himself harder, he struggled with each sodden shovel full, which he had to pitch out of the grave and onto the pile above. At first he was careful not to sling the mud haphazardly on the grass, but as each scoop became more difficult, each sling more frantic, the turf above was splattered with a thick layer of clay.

It started to rain. Just a light drizzle. Daniel welcomed the cool comfort of the water on his red, hot face. He looked skyward for the first time in what his watch said had been over an hour. He’d made some progress. A two foot deep by four foot wide hole lay before him. He’d need to go a bit deeper, since he’d decided to bury his brother’s corpse in the fetal position. That would mean another six inches deep. Daniel discarded his jacket. It couldn’t have been more than sixty degrees out, yet he was burning up from the exertion; also it gave him the excuse of using it to cover his brother’s body. He turned and while looking aside, cast the jacket over Gabe’s bludgeoned head. He watched as blood blossomed through the material. The jacket couldn’t disguise the unnatural shape of Gabe’s head, but at least his eyes were covered. His blind, staring, accusing eyes. Danny wiped the sweat and rain from his brow with the back of his gritty hand. An image of how he must look flashed through his mind. Face greasy, dirty and wet; eyes watering and wide. He had to get out of here, get home and clean up. Get home and figure out his next step. He realized he’d been gripping the shovel handle so hard that his hand had begun to ache.

Daniel turned back to the task, driving the shovel into the murky mess. A sound like a cannon hit him. Brightest day exploded bringing the blackest of shadows. Shocked, he stumbled backwards. For a millisecond he thought he’d been shot. Danny tripped on his brother’s legs and fell back, sitting hard into Gabe’s lap. He groped for a handhold to slow his momentum but only found the fabric of his discarded jacket, yanking the bloodied denim from his brother’s ruined face. Danny hit the back wall of the grave, chunks of gray-brown earth rained down on him. He sputtered and blinked as the soil invaded his mouth and eyes. He could feel the soft yielding flesh of Gabe’s legs underneath him. He could smell blood like raw meat, could smell sour sweat, feces. More lightning, followed almost instantly by booming thunder, ripped the sky. Purple-black clouds boiled overhead. Danny tried to scramble to his feet, the slick clay slewing under his boots. His tired muscles struggled. He was panicking. Flailing arms, his grasping hands finding no purchase, fingers clawing clumps of sticky muck from the walls. He gave in. Gave up. Fell back against the earthen wall, panting, shaking. The sky opened up. Hard driving rain hit him like silver nails, stinging his cheeks, the backs of his hands. Rain pelted Gabe’s nylon vest with a manic rattle. The aluminum ladder shook with the force. Danny watched helplessly as the hole he’d dug began to skim over with water, rain shattering the surface like a hammer on a mirror.

Danny fought to get back on his feet but in his reclined position, his back angled against the wall, thighs hiked up over the flabby thighs of his brother’s corpse, it seemed an impossibility. He would have to turn on his side and get one leg under him. Closing his eyes against the onslaught of rain, Danny reached for a hand-hold on anything within reach and reluctantly grasped his brother’s jeans pocket. He pulled hard while pushing his other hand under him into the watery grave. Danny felt hard bone and cold flesh press against his forehead. Opening his eyes, his gaze was met by Gabe’s empty stare, his limp fleshy lips pushed against Danny’s mouth in an obscene kiss. Danny could smell the bile on the corpse’s breath as the last gasp of putrid air was forced from lungs and stomach. Danny screamed, frantically trying to push the weight of his twin’s body off of him, the dead weight driving him down, pinning him. He twisted on his side, sliding from under the smothering weight, bringing himself to an upright position. The relentless rain pounded on. Despite the rain, Daniel sat unblinking at the realization that the grave was quickly filling with water. At least six inches of opaque brown water nearly hid his calves from view. He needed to get out. Get up the ladder. He knew what he’d do. The Cat. He’d get out, drive it into the hole, and make up a story how it was all an accident. It could work. He’d be done with Gabe. He’d come out of this okay.

It was as if God or the devil had read his mind. Daniel crawled forward and just as he pulled himself up on the ladder, the earth gave way in front of the backhoe. Daniel watched incredulously as the three ton piece of equipment tottered on the edge of the grave, chunks of dirt flowing in around the ladder in an avalanche. There was nothing he could do, no room to move. He watched in horror as the steel toothed bucket, grinning its shiny earth polished grin like some mechanical T-rex, slid inevitably toward him. The backhoe tilted ever so slowly forward, the heavy bucket effortlessly took the ladder from his hands and crushed it like a foil gum wrapper into the side of the grave. But like a dissatisfied, spoiled child it slid on, wanting more than the lifeless metal. Danny stumbled back once again, grabbing up the shovel and leveraging it between the bucket head and the dirt wall. The handle snapped, exposing white splinters like fractured bone. The bucket kept on course. Danny sat hard beside his twin with an explosion of mud. The mud dripped from the steel teeth of the bucket like blood. Its idiot grin pushed on. Danny watched helpless as the inevitable took place. He felt the rigid metal press into him, the bucket driving into his chest. The backhoe groaned as the front wheel slid on the slope of earth now burying his legs. He pushed himself back against Gabe’s body, in an attempt to escape being crushed alive. The bucket bit into him. He felt and heard a rib snap. A groan that should have been a scream escaped him. He could barely breathe in or out. Then it stopped. He was pinned, but the bucket had stopped. The backhoe had settled into place.

 

The rain pissed on and on. Daniel’s teeth chattered from the cold and wet. He’d lost track of time. He couldn’t look at his watch; his right arm was pinned beneath him. The rising water was at his armpits. In a couple of hours, it would be at his chin. He prayed to God for the rain to stop. He prayed to God that he be rescued. He prayed to God for forgiveness. The rain kept on. He swore at God and prayed to the devil. He reluctantly rested his head against Gabe’s. His fatigued neck muscles could no longer support the weight of his head. Gabe’s teeth scraped against his ear. Danny’s labored breathing was like a metronome; the only sound other than the continuous rush of rain.

 

Daniel awoke, startled. His predicament came flooding back to the forefront of his consciousness. His jaw ached, teeth chattering like a wind up monkey. Skin on his face raw from the beating deluge. The rest of his body was numb. Water lapped at his neck. Hypothermia would soon be upon him. The sky was near dark. Evening had crept in like a feral black cat. Gabe’s body had actually floated up a few inches beside him. Ripped flesh now bloodless and deep pink, water streaming over teeth, gums and slack lips.

Just as Danny thought all was lost, he saw lights swing above his head, illuminating the towering pines with a bright amber glow, reflecting off the sheeting rain. A car. They’d realize something was wrong.  It must be June, he thought, looking for Gabe. Wondering why he wasn’t home. She’d come to find Gabe! Please God, I’ll tell her everything… but why should he? There’d been an accident, that’s all. The bucket had crushed Gabe’s head, then pinned him in place. He’d make her believe him. He heard a car door open and close. Then another.

 

The boys got out of the old Camaro, leaving it running. Johnny wasn’t born yesterday. His Momma didn’t raise no fool. He and Ray headed for the new Ford pickup.

“Shit, Johnny! The dumbass left the keys in it!”

They both brayed laughter as Ray jumped in and fired up the truck.

“Mother fucker! Let me drive!” whined Johnny.

“Finders keepers bitch,” said Ray with a toothy grin, “follow me.”

Ray took off in the truck down the cemetery path as fast as he could, swiping three headstones as he went, followed closely behind by Johnny’s Camaro. This beat the shit out of tipping gravestones, thought Johnny, elated.

 

Daniel could barely make out voices. He tried to shout, but could do nothing but wheeze out a croak. He heard his truck start, followed by nothing but the sound of pouring rain. It hadn’t been June. Someone just stole his truck! Fury boiled Daniel’s brain, his face growing hot with rage. A jagged pain ripped through his chest. He forced himself to calm down. Survival was all that mattered. More time passed. Daniel didn’t know how much. He slipped in and out of consciousness. He could feel little but the aching throb in his chest. In a moment of lucidity, he noticed that the rain was tapering off. He truly thought he was going to drown, but now that the rain was stopping, he felt there may be hope after all. Hope was all he had. Even his face was numb now. He had to keep his head leaned back as far as possible to keep the brackish water out of his mouth. He was afraid to close his eyes, watching for headlights, since he was sure that his only salvation was that June would eventually come looking for Gabe. Gabe, who’s battered and torn face loomed over him, backlit by a field of stars in the clearing sky.

“Have to give it to you, Gabe. You just may have beaten me,” Danny thought. Gabe didn’t answer. The silence was galling to Danny. “You always were a pain in my ass. You’ll be one to the very end…”

Danny’s thoughts were interrupted as once again the tree line was illuminated by headlights. Danny knew it had to be June.

 
 
June had waited as long as she was willing to. She hated to dog Gabe like some worried old hen. It wasn’t like Gabe not to call if he were to be late, nor was it like him to not answer his cell. She supposed he could’ve forgotten to charge it, but where was he? And now here she was in the cemetery. There was the backhoe. She saw that it was at an odd angle. Danny, probably pushing too hard as usual, must’ve gotten too close to the edge. She never could figure out why Gabe didn’t drive it; he was much more responsible. Well, Danny’s truck wasn’t here. Damn Danny. He must’ve convinced Gabe to quit for the day, and then sit out the storm at the Barley House Tavern, or some other God-forsaken dive. If she didn’t have such good news for them, she’d probably be angry. She’d drive over to the bar and surprise them there. They’d be ecstatic once they heard that their lottery number had finally hit. She couldn’t believe their good fortune.

 

The beams paused for three or so minutes as Danny waited to hear the car door, then June’s frantic call for Gabe, followed by her shocked expression as she gazed over the edge of the grave. But he didn’t hear anything but the idle of the old Buick. Didn’t hear the desperate call. Didn’t see the shocked expression. Instead, the headlights swung away, the sound of the motor faded. Danny watched as the stars winked out. Heard the rain, felt the rain.
 
"Ten Little Terrors"
 
 
 

Saturday, July 12, 2014

The Thing in the Cellar by David H. Keller





It was a large cellar, entirely out of proportion to the house above it. The owner admitted that it was probably built for a distinctly different kind of structure from the one which rose above it. Probably the first house had been burned, and poverty had caused a diminution of the dwelling erected to take its place.
     A winding stone stairway connected the cellar with the kitchen. Around the base of this series of steps successive owners of the house had placed their firewood, winter vegetables and junk. The junk had gradually been pushed back till it rose, head high, in a barricade of uselessness. What was back of that barricade no one knew and no one cared. For some hundreds of years no one had crossed it to penetrate to the black reaches of the cellar behind it.
     At the top of the steps, separating the kitchen from the cellar, was a stout oaken door. This door was, in a way, as peculiar and out of relation to the rest of the house as the cellar. It was a strange kind of door to find in a modern house, and certainly a most unusual door to find in the inside of the house—thick, stoutly built, dexterously rabbeted together with huge wrought-iron hinges, and a lock that looked as though it came from Castle Despair. Separating a house from the outside world, such a door would be excusable; swinging between kitchen and cellar it seemed peculiarly inappropriate.
     From the earliest months of his life Tommy Tucker seemed unhappy in the kitchen. In the front parlor, in the formal dining-room, and especially on the second floor of the house he acted like a normal, healthy child; but carry him to the kitchen, he at once began to cry. His parents, being plain people, ate in the kitchen save when they had company. Being poor, Mrs. Tucker did most of her work, though occasionally she had a charwoman in to do the extra Saturday cleaning, and thus much of her time was spent in the kitchen. And Tommy stayed with her, at least as long as he was unable to walk. Much of the time he was decidedly unhappy.
     When Tommy learned to creep, he lost no time in leaving the kitchen. No sooner was his mother's back turned than the little fellow crawled as fast as he could for the doorway opening into the front of the house, the dining-room and the front parlor. Once away from the kitchen, he seemed happy; at least, he ceased to cry. On being returned to the kitchen his howls so thoroughly convinced the neighbors that he had colic that more than one bowl of catnip and sage tea was brought to his assistance.
     It was not until the boy learned to talk that the Tuckers had any idea as to what made the boy cry so hard when he was in the kitchen. In other words, the baby had to suffer for many months till he obtained at least a little relief, and even when he told his parents what was the mattet, they were absolutely unable to comprehend. This is not to be wondered at because they were both hard-working, rather simple-minded persons.
     What they finally learned from their little son was this: that if the cellar door was shut and securely fastened with the heavy iron Tommy could at least eat a meal in peace; if the door was simply closed and not locked, he shivered with fear, but kept quiet; but if the door was open, if even the slightest streak of black showed that it was not tightly shut, then the little three-year-old would scream himself to the point of exhaustion, especially if his tired father would refuse him permission to leave the kitchen.
     Playing in the kitchen, the child developed two interesting habits. Rags, scraps of paper and splinters of wood were continually being shoved under the thick oak door to fill the space between the door and the sill. Whenever Mrs. Tucker opened the door there was always some trash there, placed by her son. It annoyed her, and more than once the little fellow was thrashed for this conduct, but punishment acted in no way as a deterrent. The other habit was as singular. Once the door was closed and locked, he would rather boldly walk over to it and caress the old lock. Even when he was so small that he had to stand on tiptoe to touch it with the tips of his fingers he would touch it with slow caressing strokes; later on, as he grew, he used to kiss it.
     His father, who only saw the boy at the end of the day, decided that there was no sense in such conduct, and in his masculine way tried to break the lad of his foolishness. There was, of necessity, no effort on the part of the hard-working man to understand the psychology back of his son's conduct. All that the man knew was that his little son was acting in a way that was decidedly queer.
     Tommy loved his mother and was willing to do anything he could to help her in the household chores, but one thing he would not do, and never did do, and that was to fetch and carry between the house and the cellar. If his mother opened the door, he would run screaming from the room, and he never returned voluntarily till he was assured that the door was closed.
     He never explained just why he acted as he did. In fact, he refused to talk about it, at least to his parents, and that was just as well, because had he done so, they would simply have been more positive than ever that there was something wrong with their only child. They tried, in their own ways, to break the child of his unusual habits; failing to change him at all, they decided to ignore his peculiarities.
     That is, they ignored them till he became six years old and the time came for him to go to school. He was a sturdy little chap by that time, and more intelligent than the usual boys beginning in the primer class. Mr. Tucker was, at times, proud of him; the child's attitude toward the cellar door was the one thing most disturbing to the father's pride. Finally nothing would do but that the Tucker family call on the neighborhood physician. It was an important event in the life of the Tuckers, so important that it demanded the wearing of Sunday clothes, and all that sort of thing.
     "The matter is just this, Doctor Hawthorn," said Mr. Tucker, in a somewhat embarrassed manner. "Our little Tommy is old enough to start to school, but he behaves childish in regard to our cellar, and the missus and I thought you could tell us what to do about it. It must be his nerves."
     Ever since he was a baby," continued Mrs. Tucker, taking up the thread of conversation where her husband had paused, "Tommy has had a great fear of the cellar. Even now, big boy that he is, he does not love me enough to fetch and carry for me through that door and down those steps. It is not natural for a child to act like he does, and what with chinking the cracks with rags and kissing the lock, he drives me to the point where I fear he may become daft-like as he grows older."
     The doctor, eager to satisfy new customers, and dimly remembering some lectures on the nervous system received when he was a medical student, asked some general questions, listened to the boy's heart, examined his lungs and looked at his eyes and fingernails. At last he commented:
     "Looks like a fine, healthy boy to me."
     "Yes, all except the cellar door," replied the father.
     "Has he ever been sick?"
     "Naught but fits once or twice when he cried himself blue in the face," answered the mother.
     "Frightened?"
     "Perhaps. It was always in the kitchen."
     "Suppose you go out and let me talk to Tommy by myself?"
     And there sat the doctor very much at his ease and the little six-year-old boy very uneasy.
     "Tommy, what is there in the cellar you are afraid of?"
     "I don't know."
     "Have you ever seen it?"
     "No, sir."
     "Ever heard it? smelt it?"
     "No, sir."
     "Then how do you know there is something there?"
     "Because."
     "Because what?"
     "Because there is."
     That was as far as Tommy would go, and at last his seeming obstinacy annoyed the physician even as it had for several years annoyed Mr. Tucker. He went to the door and called the parents into the office.
     "He thinks there is something down in the cellar," he stated.
     The Tuckers simply looked at each other.
     "That's foolish," commented Mr. Tucker.
     " 'Tis just a plain cellar with junk and firewood and cider barrels in it," added Mrs. Tucker. "Since we moved into that house, I have not missed a day without going down those stone steps and I know there is nothing there. But the lad has always screamed when the door was open. I recall now that since he was a child in arms he has always screamed when the door was open."
     "He thinks there is something there," said the doctor.
     "That is why we brought him to you," replied the father. "It's the child's nerves. Perhaps foetida, or something, will calm him."
     "I tell you what to do," advised the doctor. "He thinks there is something there. Just as soon as he finds that he is wrong and that there is nothing there, he will forget about it. He has been humored too much. What you want to do is to open that cellar door and make him stay by himself in the kitchen. Nail the door open so he can not close it. Leave him alone there for an hour and then go and laugh at him and show him how silly it was for him to be afraid of an empty cellar. I will give you some nerve and blood tonic and that will help, but the big thing is to show him that there is nothing to be afraid of."
     On the way back to the Tucker home Tommy broke away from his parents. They caught him after an exciting chase and kept him between them the rest of the way home. Once in the house he disappeared and was found in the guest room under the bed. The afternoon being already spoiled for Mr. Tucker, he determined to keep the child under observation for the rest of the day. Tommy ate no supper, in spite of the urgings of the unhappy mother. The dishes were washed, the evening paper read, the evening pipe smoked; and then, and only then, did Mr. Tucker take down his tool box and get out a hammer and some long nails.
     "And I am going to nail the door open, Tommy, so you can not close it, as that was what the doctor said. Tommy, and you are to be a man and stay here in the kitchen alone for an hour, and we will leave the lamp a-burning, and then when you find there is naught to be afraid of, you will be well and a real man and not something for a man to be ashamed of being the father of."
     But at the last Mrs. Tucker kissed Tommy and cried and whispered to her husband not to do it, and to wait till the boy was larger; but nothing was to do except to nail the thick door open so it could not be shut and leave the boy there alone with the lamp burning and the dark open space of the doorway to look at with eyes that grew as hot and burning as the flame of the lamp.
     That same day Doctor Hawthorn took supper with a classmate of his, a man who specialized in psychiatry and who was particularly interested in children. Hawthorn told Johnson about his newest case, the little Tucker boy, and asked him for his opinion, lohnson frowned.
     "Children are odd, Hawthorn. Perhaps they are like dogs. It may be their nervous system is more acute than in the adult. We know that our eyesight is limited, also our hearing and smell. I firmly believe that there are forms of life which exist in such a form that we can neither see, hear nor smell them. Fondly we delude ourselves into the fallacy of believing that they do not exist because we can not prove their existence. This Tucker lad may have a nervous system that is peculiarly acute. He may dimly appreciate the existence of something in the cellar which is unappreciable to his parents. Evidently there is some basis to this fear of his. Now, I am not saying that there is anything in the cellar. In fact, I suppose that it is just an ordinary cellar, but this boy, since he was a baby, has thought that there was something there, and that is just as bad as though there actually were. What I would like to know is what makes him think so. Give me the address, and I will call tomorrow and have a talk with the little fellow."
     "What do you think of my advice?"
     "Sorry, old man, but I think it was perfectly rotten. If I were you, I would stop around there on my way home and prevent them from following it. The little fellow may be badly frightened. You see, he evidently thinks there is something there."
     "But there isn't."
     "Perhaps not. No doubt, he is wrong, but he thinks so."
     It all worried Doctor Hawthorn so much that he decided to take his friend's advice. It was a cold night, a foggy night, and the physician felt cold as he tramped along the London streets. At last he came to the Tucker house. He remembered now that he had been there once before, long ago, when little Tommy Tucker came Into the world. There was a light in the front window, and in no time at all Mr. Tucker came to the door.
     "I have come to see Tommy," said the doctor.
     "He is back in the kitchen," replied the father.
     "He gave one cry, but since then he has been quiet," sobbed the wife.
     "If I had let her have her way, she would have opened the door, but I said to her, 'Mother, now is the time to make a man out of our Tommy.' And I guess he knows by now that there was naught to be afraid of. Well, the hour is up. Suppose we go and get him and put him to bed?"
     "It has been a hard time for the little child," whispered the wife.
     Carrying the candle, the man walked ahead of the woman and the doctor, and at last opened the kitchen door. The room was dark.
     "Lamp has gone out," said the man. "Wait till I light it."
     "Tommy! Tommy!" called Mrs. Tucker.
     But the doctor ran to where a white form was stretched on the floor. Sharply he called for more light. Trembling, he examined all that was left of little Tommy. Twitching, he looked into the open space down into the cellar. At last he looked at Tucker and Tucker's wife.
     "Tommy—Tommy has been hurt—I guess he is dead!" he stammered.
     The mother threw herself on the floor and picked up the torn, mutilated thing that had been, only a little while ago, her little Tommy.
     The man took his hammer and drew out the nails and closed the door and locked it and then drove in a long spike to reinforce the lock. Then he took hold of the doctor's shoulders and shook him.
     "What killed him, Doctor? What killed him?" he shouted into Hawthorn's ear.
     The doctor looked at him bravely in spite of the fear in his throat.
     "How do I know, Tucker?" he replied. "How do I know? Didn't you tell me that there was nothing there? Nothing down there? In the cellar?"




Check out my two short stories, now published on Amazon Kindle:

TRAILER PARK FROM HELL


LIFE'S A BITCH. A WEREBITCH.