WOODY by Keith Gingell

A chilling, crime-biting return from Keith Gingell...

Woody

My name’s Charlie Wills, I’ve been living in the Black Prince nursing home for the last ten years. When I first came to this converted Victorian workhouse on the south coast, I gave myself four years top-whack. I reckoned I’d get bored out of my skull and turn my toes up pretty bloody quickly. That’s what I wanted I suppose.

It didn’t happen like that. For a start, they’ve got a really big library, everything from crime pulp to Shakespeare. Then there’s the gym. They’ve got top-notch trainers specialised in keeping old buggers like me fit without killing us. The grounds are full of shrubs and enormous Beeches in the summer; you can lose yourself in there. It’s like living next to Hyde Park. I’ve never been so busy in my life. If we do get bored, we’re free to go into town unaccompanied whenever we like, providing we can put one foot in front of the other and aren’t wheelers or droolers.

I signed up when I was seventy. It weren’t cheap, but I had a bit put away, left over from an investment I made when I was about thirty-five. I didn’t have any family left and I’d lost touch with all my friends and contacts so I thought, why not? You’ll probably croak soon anyway.

I’m pushing eighty-two now and I’m fitter that I’ve ever been. Strange thing, life. Some of the inmates (we’re not supposed to call them that really) are stuck in wheelchairs or suffering from senile dementia, but most of us are pretty good. And the women – they can be very naughty. I’ve had some interesting walks around the grounds, if you know what I mean. The staff are very understanding – very good at turning a blind eye: keeps us young at heart I suppose.

We get a lot of new arrivals and, naturally, a lot of departures. It’s kind of a rich-geriatric conveyer belt. I know that sounds cruel, but I’ve always had an odd sense of humour. Why worry? I reckon. I could be the next one out of here wrapped in oak. It’s not exactly rocket science to work that one out, is it?

Anyway, about four months ago, we had this new bloke turn up in a wheel chair. He was around the same age as me. Apparently, he’d been sent here because the outfit running his nursing home went bust. Lot of it about I hear. I didn’t take much notice of him at first. He was just another poor sod with more money than time: just like the rest of us.

It’s a funny thing; a man can change dramatically as he gets old. He can go bald, get fat, wrinkled out of recognition, shrunken like a dwarf and loads of other things, but there’s one thing that don’t hardly change: his voice. One afternoon I heard a voice I recognised. A simple, ‘thank you,’ when a nurse gave this new arrival a cup of tea. I couldn’t believe my luck.

I didn’t say anything straight away in case I was wrong. I moved to a chair near him so I could see his face better. I watched him while he tried to drink his tea out of one of those cups with a spout like they give toddlers, trying to see if I recognised anything about his face. He’d had a stroke; all his left side. That made his face sag, twisting his mouth down so it was hard to see his features. I noticed his nose was broken and it bent slightly to the right, and his eyes were very light-blue, like a Husky’s. Yup, it was “Harry-the-Husky” alright. His real name was Harry Jones, he’d got the nickname at school. They called me “Woodbine,” on account of my surname. We were best mates. When we grew up, everybody knew us as, “Woody and Woof.”

I watched him trying to drink his tea. The cup wobbled in his one good hand, the right, and I remembered he’d been left-handed. Life would be doubly hard for him now. He put the cup down when he finished, but as he did, he knocked a little box containing his medication on the floor. I went over to him and picked it up.

‘There you go, mate,’ I said in a hushed voice.

He raised his eyes and looked at me, but there was nothing in them to say he recognised me. ‘Thank you,’ he said. I smiled and returned his gaze, but he looked down at his cup. He seemed to concentrate on it. I went back to my chair, deciding to let it go in case he’d lost his mind to dementia.

During the following week I watched him from a distance. It soon became obvious, although he was severely handicapped, there was nothing wrong with his mind. I listened as he made little jokes with the nurses and some of the more sprightly residents. I could see from his lop-sided smile and his guttural chuckles, he liked the way people fussed around him. I decided to try again.

One morning I offered him my newspaper, but he shook his head. He said he couldn’t hold it upright. ‘It’s alright, mate,’ I said, ‘I’ll hold it for you.’

That’s how we struck up a new friendship. We got into a routine. Every morning, I’d get a newspaper for him and hold it for an hour. He liked to read The Times. Then I’d go to the gym and have a workout. In the afternoons, I’d take him a cup of tea and a cake and I’d hold my newspaper for him to read. I like the Daily Mirror.

We did this for about three weeks, but in all that time he never recognised me. I knew it was over forty years since we last saw each other, but I thought something about me, my gestures or my voice might trigger something. Then it dawned on me: I’ve spent a very long time in foreign countries. I’ve lost my accent and picked up different mannerisms. People often said I seemed a bit foreign, and apart from that, I had more reason to remember him than he did me. I decided it was time to introduce myself.

I chose a Saturday night to pay him a visit. On Saturdays there’s less staff on duty and it’s easy to move around without being noticed. I wanted to speak to him in private so I waited until about two in the morning before I went to his room.

He was asleep and lying on his back when I entered. That made things easier for me. I moved the emergency call remote out of his reach. Then I tied his right arm to the side of the bed with a bandage I’d brought with me. Finally I filled his mouth with a load of compresses and stuck a wide a plaster over it. He woke up. It took him a while to figure out he was tied down and I was in the room. It was pretty dim with just the night-light. He tried to struggle, but he couldn’t do much being almost paralysed from the stroke. It was easy to hold him down with just one hand.

‘Hello, Woof. Remember me? I asked; quiet like. He tried to shake his head, but he could hardly move.

‘Take it easy, you’ll give yourself a heart attack,’ I said. He relaxed or at least stopped moving.

‘Don’t you remember your old pal, Woody?’ His eyes went wide.

‘We got a score to settle, don’t we?’ He tried to shake his head again.

I smiled at him. ‘Thought I was a fool didn’t you, Harry, with me telling my Eileen where I hid my share in case of emergencies while I was inside.’ He started grunting, but the compresses muffled the sound. ‘Yeah, that’s right. Inside taking the rap for the bloke you killed. Remember that?’ He closed he eyes. I felt a tear roll down my face. ‘You didn’t have to work her over like that, Harry. She would never have grassed you up. She knew she’d be alright even if you took my share.

You didn’t know about the diamonds, did you, Harry? I found ‘em tucked away in a drawer inside a pair of silk knickers while you were downstairs beating the shit out of hubby. They were contraband, even the wife didn’t know about ‘em. That’s why I went down for you. Twenty-five years of my life. My investment for the future I called it. I was going to cut you in when I got out. But you had to take my future away from me. All for a measly hundred grand. The money you got from that job weren’t enough for you, was it? You wanted it all so you could start up that property business. I have to hand it to you though. It was clever the way you made it look like you got your stake money by hard work and then bled in the loot to grow the company. Once you got rich, nobody questioned a respectable landowner did they?

She was five-months gone; my Eileen. That’s why she died from her injuries. . . . Complications. Another thing you didn’t know: little Alice saw what you did to her mother. She was hiding on the landing. I suppose you thought she wouldn’t remember, being just turned four. But she did. Scarred her for life it did. Topped herself when she was twenty-six. I only had a couple of years to go before I got out with good behaviour.

I knew the coppers would be watching me, so I sold the house and got out with the jewels as soon as could. Took me nearly twenty years moving from one shit-hole country to another, slowly fencing the ice. I changed my identity I don’t know how many times. Best part of a million I had by the time I could bring it back here. Not that it did me any good; you saw to that.

There I was, a rich single pensioner, all my friends long gone and no family. I never got Eileen and the kid out my head. I couldn’t stand it, so I ended up coming in here. I gave up the idea of finding you years ago. I thought about killing you when I got back, but I didn’t want to die in prison. And now you end up here; delivered to me on a plate. There must be a God. Eh, Harry? I reckon he wants me to finish his job for him.’

I didn’t have anything more to say so I took out the supermarket bag in my pocket – and held it over his nose and mouth. It took him longer to die than I’d expected, given his frail condition: struggled quite a bit too. Those fitness sessions certainly paid off. Ten minutes after removing the bandages and the compresses from his mouth (I checked inside to make sure there was no lint – he had rotten teeth) I was in my bed. Slept like a babe, I did.

____________________________________

Bio: I have been writing fiction for about five years, firstly as a hobby, but now I am getting serious about it. I have stories published in Volumes 3 and 4 of Radgepacket and one in the newly released Volume 5. I also have a couple of stories on the Radgepacket website.

MOTHER'S LOVE by Chad Rohrbacher

It's great to have Chad back with this top notch, hard-boiled tale...


Mother’s Love


Mom always said I would amount to something. 


I amounted to exactly 6 ft,168 pounds and 3 ounces not including clothes. When Willie cut off my digitus mínimus mánus, or commonly referred to as pinky finger, I might have amounted to less, but indiscernibly so. A person really never considers the beauty of a pinky until he no longer possesses it.


Willie was my wife’s brother who earned his nickname, Slacker, by selling dope and living off the girls he fucked. He fucked a lot of girls and lived pretty well. He amounted to about 6’4, 248 pounds of unadulterated muscle. 


Willie was not a nice guy. Cheryl, my wife, said so herself. She said it was the “juice”, but I thought there was more to it. His shocking blue eyes were a little closer together than the average person making him somehow predatory. He could enter a house and you’d never know. Scared us a few times like that. We’d be eating our mashed potatoes or whatever and he’d be standing in the doorway just staring at us like he was an entomologist watching the eating habits of some damn beetles. When we’d notice him and jump, he’d laugh and give Cheryl a hug, his huge paws draped over her shoulders.


Mom, Cheryl’s mom, was the only real mom I ever had. When I was 17, my father killed my mother then put a bullet under his chin with the family’s .38. I found the mess. It was awful. While one detective said she thought it was homicide, all the others assumed murder suicide. Case closed. I asked them why and they said, “shit happens, kid”. After that I was in counselling for about a year; that is, until the counsellor unexpectedly ran off with some newspaper editor from Reidsville. 


I started dating Cheryl in high school and her mom took pity on me and saved me from the foster care system. I was able to finish high school, and Cheryl and I were married right after. I took three years of pre-med at the local state college. Cheryl waited tables at Crawford’s Racks and Ribs where the girls wore pasties while serving cheap beer and bar b-queue to fat townies. I didn’t like her working there, but the money was putting me through school so I couldn’t bitch too much.


Mom said I’d be a doctor from the day I met her. Mom believed in me. She said a psychic in Harrison Village told her in no uncertain terms that her daughter would marry someone special. One of the only reasons mom said yes to the marriage was because I agreed I was going to be that man in the prophecy. If I lived through this, I’d have to find that psychic and give her a piece of my mind. 


I’ll admit it, when Willie took my thumb with his gardening snips, I almost passed out. I know he tried to get between the metacarpus and the palm, and I appreciated that, but it was just too hard to get in there with the thick blades. He put his massive frame down on the handles, his forearm muscles straining, and the snap of bone made my stomach lurch. It was the sound of it more than anything. 


I was probably down about, what, 10 grams. If not, blood loss would definitely put me there. What a mess.
A couple of hours before I found myself tied up in mom’s basement, a guy up at Crawford’s told Cheryl he’d seen me with some “hot little thing wearing a state T-shirt and painted on jeans”. Willie had me downstairs within about 30 minutes. 


“I’m telling you, Willie, I mean, shit, look at me, I didn’t have any hot little thing. Ever.”


Willie was pulling a piece of my flesh that got caught in the snips when he suddenly stopped what he was working on and cocked his head like a dog hearing a door knob rattle. “Ever?” he asked.


“Your sister, I mean, that, that goes without saying. She’s always been really hot.”


Willie was wearing a black mesh wife beater that showed off his sculpted frame, dark jeans, and Wolverine work boots, which made no sense since he didn’t work. Through the mesh I could see his freshly shaven pectorals and wondered just what kind of man actually did that. 


“Come on, man, I didn’t do anything with some other woman. I wouldn’t. Let’s go find the bastard that said this and get it straightened out.”


Willie wasn’t in the mood to talk, that was clear. He bent down and reached under a worn workbench that hadn’t been used since their father died 4 years ago. 


Willie slid a 40-pound bag of fertilizer to the front of the bench and opened it up. A stench like an overflowing factory farm filled the room. Willie reached both hands as if he was a chef, and then he seemed to clasp something inside and hauled it out. He wiped specks of fertilizer off the top of the package, and then set a kilo of coke on the workbench. Turning on the radio, Hank Williams Jr.’s “Family Tradition” emanated from the miniature speakers. 


Willie fished a pocketknife from his pocket then carefully cut a hole in the wrapping. Quickly he produced a gold plated metal straw from his other pocket, dipped it in the powder, and inhaled deeply. There was a half cough, a sniff, and an exuberant “yes”. I could see his neck vein pulsing as he leaned his head back letting whatever was still in his nose drain down the back off his throat.


“Willie, buddy,” I begged, “even if I did cheat, which I didn’t, why all this? It’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?”


Willie opened a rusted toolbox from on top of the bench, grabbed something, and turned toward me.
“You took her years, her money, and more important my sister’s trust. Fuck, Oliver, you took my mama’s trust. How do you imagine the scales of justice would weigh that? A finger? A thumb? Maybe a hand?”


A human hand weighs about 300 grams, give or take. Trust is hard to measure. I knew for a long time scales of justice were not always balanced. That’s when I noticed he had a hatchet in his grip. It was something you would use for kindling or cutting small branches. It was something that could easily go through a man’s wrist. It was something I really didn’t want to see.


“You’re crazy,” I groaned trying to wiggle out of my bindings. Willie strode toward me, a gleam in his eye. A gleam I have recognized in my own at times. I was terrified.  He raised his hand above his head, striking a pose that reminded me of the Indians in the old westerns right before they killed the poor settlers.


“Sit still,” he said, “you don’t want me to miss and take half of your forearm.”


At that moment we heard a women’s commanding voice declare that Willie should drop his weapon. When I opened my eyes, Willie had already turned and was rushing toward the stairs.


Two loud pops didn’t stop him as he lurched forward. A third seemed to stun him and his body jerked back like he was zipped with a jolt of electricity. A fourth caused the hatchet to fall to the floor with a thud and a gasp of air leave his lips. He dropped to his knees, and then sprawled forward onto his face.


In front of him at the bottom of the steps was a beautiful woman, all 5’8 and 120 pounds of her. Her chest was heaving, and sweat dappled her forehead. She took her State T-shirt sleeve and wiped her face. Her hands were shaking.


“I’ve never been so glad to see you, Detective.” Hicks has been on me for years. She doesn’t leave me alone with her theories and bullshit. Even caught up with me earlier today on campus. Completely ruined my morning bagel.


“Looks like I owe you an apology.”


Detective Hicks kicked the hatchet away, and then checked Willie for a pulse. She holstered her weapon. She fumbled with my bindings for a while before getting me free. She smelled like Lilacs. Probably a Lilac scented deodorant; it worked great. 


“I’ve been telling you,” I grimaced holding my bloody hand, “I had nothing to do with my parents’ deaths or the counsellor’s disappearance.”


“I said I was sorry.”


“You said you owed me an apology.”


“We knew he was dealing,” she said looking at Willie’s body on the floor, his blood pooling on the concrete. 


“We just could never get anything on him; but this, we never guessed this.”


“Clearly,” I said looking for my digits hoping that a doctor would be able to sew them back on. “There’s coke over there.” I jutted my chin toward the workbench. My hand was throbbing.


“Why you, Oliver? Why’d he come after you?”


“Could I get an ambulance? Christ?”


Hicks called in for a bus while I tried not to pass out. 


“My guess Hicks, I’m just throwing out ideas here, he was an overprotective big brother. He never liked me, I mean, I practically invaded his house when I was 17, and married his sister, all while his mom went on me about being a doctor in the family. But you know the thing that really set him off?”


I heard sirens in the distance that was good because my adrenaline was dropping and the pain was hitting.
“Someone told him I met this ‘hot thing’ today.”


Her face blanched. “I, I was…”


“I know, trying to get under my skin. See if I would lose my cool, even though I didn’t have anything to lose my cool over. Ah, fuck you very much Detective.”


She looked at Willie’s body, then at my bloody hand.


“I guess I deserve that. For what it’s worth I am truly sorry.”


I nodded. 


For some reason, I really felt bad for Hicks. She looked so vulnerable, so innocent. Strangely it was the first time I ever hoped she’d find the counsellor, all 5’11, 176 pounds of her out in the woods just beyond Harrison Village.    




Bio:
Chad Rohrbacher has had stories published at Powder Burn Flash, The Flash Fiction Offensive, and Pulp Engine. He blogs here: http://rohrbacher.com/

MIRUM PUBERTATEM by Lee Hughes

Are you ready?

Lee Hughes has been away from TKnC for a while, and I for one have been patiently tapping my fingernails, counting the days, cracking my knuckles... And oh! - friend, horror writer extraordinaire and previous Horror Editor at Thrillers Killers 'n' Chillers - is back.

Lee's writing style is unique; Clive Barkeresque with a demonic hard edge. If you're not familiar with Lee's work then I recommend his incredible series The Osseous Box which, by pure coincidence, can be read in entirety here on TKnC, starting with episode 1 - The Jesus People.

Lee has written a disturbing tale especially for you, Mirum Pubertatem - a special, longer length tale to herald the long awaited return of his writing which we just know you're going to enjoy. 



MIRUM PUBERTATEM

“You’ve got to be kidding me? Where’s Aunty Jane? Why can’t you do it?”

“Because, Aunty Jane has an appointment at the hospital today and someone has to sit with GeeGee.”

GeeGee was their name for Thomas’ great-grandmother, she’d been on the television when she’d hit the ton and ten mark, eight years previous.

Tommy had been five when he’d been forced to smile for the camera.

He got nothing from GeeGee, she didn’t even know who he was half of the time. And now he was going to have to sit with her, the human leaky-tap.

Tommy curled a lip. “Again, why can’t you do it?”

“Because I’m driving Aunty Jane, then going to have to wait for her. It’ll only be for a few hours.”

“What if I’ve got plans?”

“What plans?”

It was the summer holidays; the world was his oyster, only now he was at the grit stage.

*

Tommy said hello and plopped down on the sofa. GeeGee didn’t notice him. She was drooped in her chair and gawping at the television.

The news was on. The Prime Minister was jawing about the age that folks could retire, explaining that there wasn’t enough in the pot to let people retire at the current age. They were complaining that people were living longer yet they were coming down heavy on the bad things; less salt in food, fatty food taxes and making cigarettes and booze more expensive. Not doing those things could solve the problem.

“You watching this GeeGee?”

She was nearly deaf but caught some of his noise and looked. She didn’t say anything she just turned away.

*

Tommy wandered into the kitchen.

Food wise, there were Tupperware boxes filled with what looked like regurgitated puke and he lost his appetite.

She’d started drooling. He knew Aunty Jane usually went to work with a bit of bog-roll.

He pretended he hadn’t noticed and went for a piss instead.

Tommy admired his newest pube, it took the tally up to four. Every day less a boy, more of a man he thought. His voice was starting to break; it was the early stages so there weren’t too many words that came out sounding like an old door on rusty hinges.

He stopped in the doorway, GeeGee was sat where he’d left her only now she’d lifted a weathered hand to her mouth and was smearing spit about her face.

“GeeGee, you okay?”

She didn’t reply.

She dribbled some more and put her left hand to work at spreading the saliva about her dial and down her neck.

Tommy got his phone out and rang his mother.

No answer.

She’d turned it off.

“I’ll get you a towel.”

He tried to mop her slippery face but she pushed away his fussing hands.

“Fine, crack on.”

Once her face was fashioned with slobber she took her hair to the same task.

He dialed up his dad’s number instead.

His dad’s was a no go too. His dad was on the golf course and would have his turned off out of courtesy. Tommy was slipping it back into his pocket when it started to ring.

It was Steve.

“Hey, Steve.”

-What-up Dick-Lick, where are you?

“I’m babysitting my great-grandmother.”

-Ditch her, she won’t even know you’re gone.

Tommy watched as she lathered her hair with spittle.

“Can’t.”

-What do you mean, can’t?

“I don’t know she’s acting all weird.”

-She’s like two-hundred years old, of course she’s crazy.

“She’s a hundred and eighteen and I mean she is being proper weird. She’s covering herself in spit.”

-So, my gramps used to shit his pants and pretended he could speak Eskimo.

“This is a bit different.”

-Don’t see how, so you coming out, or not?

“I’ll catch up with you later.”

-Pussy.

Steve hung up.

All thoughts of doing a bunk fled as he re-entered the living-room to find GeeGee topless with everything hanging south and running thick spit about her overly-ripened skin. He looked up fast and wished he hadn’t as he saw where she’d already toiled. The spit had dried a dull white, blurring her features like a veil.

It was too much.

He dashed from the room.

If he couldn’t reach his parents the next best thing was the warden. There was a panic pull-string in the bathroom for if she slipped.

He made for it.

The fear made him clumsy. He tripped over the coat-stand, his landing cushioned by his head.

*

Tommy opened his eyes and felt a throbbing deep in his skull. It took a moment to realize where he was. He touched where it hurt and his fingertips came back wet.

He staggered to the bathroom and dabbed at the spot with a flannel. It was more of a bump with a scrape than a cut proper. The emergency string was beside him. He reached for it before becoming unsure of what he actually saw.

He let go of the string.

*

He hadn’t dreamt it.

It was worse. She was naked with her clothes pooled beside her. Not an inch of skin was visible through the thick mucus sheeting.

Tommy fumbled for his phone, Steve was on speed-dial.

-Ha, knew it. Caved. Where shall I meet you?

“Come over here.”

-To your great-grandmother’s?

“Yeah.”

-Why’d I wanna do that?

“I need you to tell me I’m not going crazy.”

-What you’ve been having a sneaky grope, sicko!

“Just come over, please.”

-This better be worth it.

*

He opened the door to Steve.

“So, what’s the deal? What happened to your head? She hit you when you went for the bad touch?”

“Just come see.”

“This’d better be good.”

“I don’t know what it is.”

He led Steve into the living room.

Steve stopped and stared at the sight, for once lost for words, apart from.

“Fuck.”

Steve edged closer.

Tommy grabbed his arm; Steve shook it loose and moved further.

“She dead in there?” He’d made it to within a few feet of the chair.

“I have no idea, what should I do?”

Steve didn't look back. “You got something I can poke her with?”

“No.”

“You phoned for an ambulance?”

“No.”

Steve looked back and grinned. “You phoned me instead, what the fuck did you think I could do?”

“I dunno.”

“Let me poke her, see if she moves.”

“No.”

“Then how’re we gonna know if she’s still alive?”

Steve had a point.

Tommy went and got the poker from beside the electric fire and handed it over.

Steve prodded her in the side.

The cocooned shape wriggled a little.

Steve summed up that. “She’s not dead.”

“Then what is she?”

Steve poked her again.

The form fidgeted some more.

“Haven’t the foggiest.” He scratched at his head. “This could be like some second puberty thing. Not many people have made it to her age. What if we’re just like the pupae stage, caterpillar like, that’d be sweet, get wings and be like a super-hero.”

“I don’t know why I phoned you. She’s just, just…”

“Wrapped up in a cocoon? Because that happens to everyone? It is cool though.” He gave GeeGee another jab and in return she gave a wriggle.

“What should I do?”

“What can you do? You’ll probably get on the telly, me too because I was here. Mum’s always said I’d get on the telly but she was probably thinking more of Crimewatch, this is just amazing. Mind if I?” He lifted the poker and jabbed the air.

“Yes I do.”

“You know what?”

“What?” Tommy was starting to sweat.

“Maybe you’ve got it too, you know, your grandmother lived to be nearly ninety before the bus thing. You could end up like this.” He prodded again without permission.

“Stop it and just shut up.”

“Then stop asking me questions.” Steve broke into a grin. “Your mum is gonna freak when she sees this…probably blame me too.” He got out his phone and switched the camera on. “This is gonna get so many hits on my YouTube channel, more than the video I put up of you busting your nuts on your handlebars.”

“This is not going on YouTube!”

Steve tooled with his phone for a few seconds. “Too late, uploading now.”

Tommy made for the phone.

Steve hoisted the poker. “Come on, this is huge!”

Tommy stopped trying for the poker, his jaw dropped slowly. “No that is huge!”

Steve turned and watched in awe as the surface of the cocoon shifted as whatever was within pulsated and grew, stretching the exterior like a fat-ass entrapped in lycra. He dropped the poker and started dialing a number.

Tommy nodded. “Good idea, you are calling the police, right?” The question came at the end as Steve had punched in more than three digits.

“Jack, he has to see this…”

“Steve, just call the fucking police, that…” He pointed at the still swelling cocoon. “That’s my GeeGee.”

“Not any…” He raised a forefinger. “Hey Jack, you know where Tommy’s great-grandmother lives?... It’s the old folk’s community…Yeah, just past the cemetery.” Steve laughed. “Just get here as quickly as you can…Remember the dead rabbit we found with the two heads?...Well, yeah, this one beats it hands down…His gram’s made herself a sort of cocoon, it’s freaky and she’s changing inside of it…I don’t know what into…I’m not fuckin’ with you. You’ll be sorry if you miss it…” Steve ended the call and looked to Tommy. “He’s on his way.”

“We need to call an adult.”

“What do you reckon they’d do? They’d probably take her away.”

“And get her some help.”

“Like a bit of bandaging, a course of antibiotics? More likely they’ll go at her with a scalpel and do experiments and shit.”

“Not GeeGee.”

“Yup.”

Tommy scratched his head. He’d seen enough films to know what happens to freaks and oddities. Worst still, they might take him along for the ride for sharing the same D.N.A as her. “Think we should just wait and see what happens? She might be fine soon.”

Steve nodded gravely.

Though inside, he was laughing at talking Tommy into not calling anyone from the authorities.

*

The shrouded form became too big for the chair and spilled drunkenly to the floor. Steve took more footage from as many angles as he could muster.

Tommy felt like crying.

His hopes that GeeGee would emerge as her old self faded into the forgotten as the form became more and more a torment of the misshapen.

Tommy closed his ears to the commentary that Steve was adding to his anomalous documentary as the cocoon began to tear.

“Think we should help free her?” asked Tommy.

“You willing to get close to it?”

“Not very.”

Steve found resolve. “Be right back.” He headed out of the room.

“It’s gonna be okay GeeGee, we’re gonna help you out of there,” said Tommy.

Steve returned with a steak knife roughly taped to a broom handle. “This should do the trick, ready?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Too late now!” Was the war cry as he went to work on the membrane with the precision of an alcoholic surgeon going through the DTs.

Steve rent it open lengthways.

The thing within howled with surprise at its premature birthing.

Both of them took a step back.

Steve kept the makeshift tool leveled at the wailing form. “Don’t think we ought to have done that,” he conceded.

“Me, neither,” said Tommy, bolting for the door. Steve went for retreat in the same manner but a crooked and claw-ended fist reached out and grabbed his ankle with no intention of letting go.

Steve’s mouth contorted to an agape twist of agony.

Tommy spun at the doorway to see the scaled and gnarled hand tightening its grip. “GeeGee,” he ventured, although he knew it was no longer her.

Steve through the tears and the pain realized that the monstrosity wasn’t going to let go of his leg and started to jab at it with the business end of his broom.

The thing didn’t scream.

It tightened its grip until the ankle and the shin bone became more than mere brother and sister and became a mixture of the two.

Steve screeched.

None of the noises worked and he let go of his weapon and surrendered himself to the floor.

The thing sidled its way up Steve’s body, pausing at the knees to crumple them.

“Tommy. Help me Tommy!” Steve managed as the monstrosity's hands climbed higher and higher whilst providing ruination on their travels.

Tommy didn’t have a clue what to do. There was something still inside that tried to convince him that somewhere beneath the misshapen thing still lingered a GeeGee.

The creature’s crooked grip had made it north to Steve’s chest. The talons planted no flags of victory but continued north to the body’s summit.

It became too late for him to decide to go to his friend’s aid. All he could do was gawp at the hunched form and twisted legs. He was sure that there couldn’t be anything left of GeeGee, no little corner where she could have found solace.

A panting came from the creature’s maw, a loud drawing of breath as if it were about to submerge itself. It bit down into Steve’s throat. The sides of its mouth closed around the teeth making the bond air tight.

Any words of horror that Tommy had were left hanging by the vocal-chords on the gallows within his trachea.

The beast drank heartily.

Tommy watched as the rising of Steve’s chest began to slow and then stop. The beast refused to cease with its feeding. It reached down and clawed open Steve’s t-shirt and delved the hand in the front of the ribcage and tore it open revealing an inert heart.

Tommy expected it to rip free the static heart. Instead it almost gently wrapped its corrupt fingers about and around the muscle and began to massage it. Tommy could see from the thing's throat as it began to swallow again that it intended to literally bleed Steve’s body dry.

Tommy pissed himself. The only part of the act that surprised him was that he hadn’t let loose his bodily functions earlier, much earlier.

When there was nothing left to sup on it squeezed the heart until it burst.

It looked up at Tommy, who raised his hands and made begging noises.

It moved over the rug-of-a-body that had been Steve.

It almost looked human-like, yet at the same time, far from it. A creature drawn by the deranged hand of a narcotic-fuelled artist in the latter stages of syphilis showing his hatred for women through his designs.

Tommy found the eyes distracting. Angular and bulging, the pupils a perfect black that showed his own pathetic reflection, one that made him feel ashamed of his cowardice.

The eyes blinked slowly like shutters being drawn closed and opened once more at leisure.

The mouth drooped open, the notched teeth centre-stage. Mumbled words spilled like sewage from its blackened lips.

He recognized the cadence. It was similar to GeeGee's, though the tone was animalistic.

“More…” It moved closer still, hunched over, too tall for the ceiling of the room.

Tommy stood static.

It wanted more. It was asking for more and it was far from Dickensian.

“I haven’t got…”

The doorbell rang.

Tommy looked over towards the door.

It would be Jack.

Tommy looked back at the monster, then back at the door.

*

Papy, NON!

*

Nonna quello che sta succedendo a te?

__________________________________

Bio:

Lee Hughes lives on the Isle of Man and has had short stories published about the web and also in print anthologies. He has a blog, but it’s been seldom used of late but it holds links to past stories and he may start using the blog more. Find the stories and more about him at -

www.LeeHughesWrites@Blogspot.Com

SCHOOL DAZE by Charlie Wade

Charlie's back with an absolute beaut...




School Daze




Jim could remember them all. Most people could. He had no special gift. Mr Clark had taught art. Miss Randall history but she left and the unfortunately named Mr Pratt took over. Mr Bunce taught chemistry, the boil on his nose unforgettable. All of them. He could remember every teacher he’d had.

Jim’s problem was the opposite.

Twenty years he’d been teaching himself. Twenty years. Sixty kids he’d taught each year. Some years he’d get the same classes, other years a different lot. He reckoned he’d taught over five hundred of the little shits altogether. Five hundred.

Problem was, they could remember him, just as he could remember his. But remembering them? No chance.

He remembered the problem kids. Jonny Briggs who head-butted walls and stabbed the younger kids with scissors. Jamie Trim who got the lab assistant pregnant. Sally Traynor who dealt drugs at a school disco. Bill Cessnar who’d thumped him when he marked his homework down. He remembered them.

It was the others.

The quiet ones.

Well, most of the quiet ones. The brainy ones he couldn’t forget. The Molly Parkin’s and Jeff Gringdale’s who sat quietly through lessons, learning instead of dossing. Mark Dingle, the school’s first Oxbridge graduate. He remembered him.

No, it was the others he couldn’t remember. The quiet ones who weren’t intelligent. The one’s who kept their heads down but had little to show for it. Just like the one opposite him now.

Just like him.

“So then, Mr Parkin,” said the man. “Anything you want to say to me yet?”

Jim licked his lips. The rough gag that’d been over his mouth for the past day had left his lips sore. Even though the gag had been removed, he doubted he could speak. He gave up screaming late last night. Only a dull muffled echo came out of the gag. His throat ached. He knew cords had been damaged.

The man chucked a glass of water at his face. Though cold, it burnt his dry and cracked skin. Trickling into his mouth and down his throat, he felt his stomach contort as a few drops hit it.

“Please,” he croaked.

“Mr Parkin, Mr Parkin. I never thought I’d hear you say please.”

Jim reckoned the man was mid-twenties. He’d have taught him ten to fifteen years ago. The face wasn’t familiar. Jim couldn’t even picture what year he’d been in, let alone who he was or what he’d done to deserve this.

“You still don’t remember me, do you?”

Jim nodded his head but knew it wasn’t believable.

“Who am I then?”

The man’s face turn red. Veins poked through his neck. Nostrils flared and eyes became pierced. Years of pent up anger was being released.

His captor turned to cellar’s tap and refilled the cup. Turning, he threw the cup at Jim. The metal cup smashed into his nose and eye. More water trickled down Jim’s face which he sucked in through cut lips.

“You ruined my fucking life and you don’t even remember me?”

His anger was growing. His hands shook as he picked up the bolt croppers that Jim had eyed on the floor. He waved the croppers in front as he walked forwards.

Jim racked his brain over and over. His mind went back to the school registers. If he thought hard enough he might be able to see the names written there. He picked a year, 1998, and tried to see the names.

Opening the bolt croppers, his captor slid the two blades either side of Jim’s little finger.

“Please.” Jim felt his throat cracking as he screamed. “Dave? Dave Westerman?”

“Dave Fucking Westerman. That twat. Is that who you think I am?”

His arms violently brought the cropper’s poles together. He heard the click as the blades met long before he felt the pain of losing his finger.

Blood squirted high as it pumped from his trussed up hands. As his captor picked up the blow torch and lit it. Jim finally realised what its purpose was: to stop the bleeding.

“That’s one wrong. A minus, Mr Parkin. Looks like you’ve got nine more goes. Now, who am I?”


BIO:
Charlie Wade lives in Derbyshire, England and has written two unpublished books, a comedy spy thriller and a post credit crunch dystopia. He's had a few short stories published online places and his story, Pleading and Bleeding, will be in Out Of The Gutter Magazine issue 7. He blogs at www.spiesliesandpies.blogspot.com 
Charlie's also got a couple of eBooks out... here.

SHOOTING STARS by Graham Smith

Our friend Graham's back...

Shooting Stars

I nestled the butt of my Parker Hale M-85 against my shoulder and checked my range once more. I was perhaps half a degree off, so I adjusted the sights and peered once more through the telescopic sights.

Street artists were plying their public trade with gusto and aplomb. I could see jugglers, human statues and street dancers. A mime artist came into view pretending he was stuck behind a glass wall. God this guy was original! I’d never cared for mime artists. All that being stuck in a box or descending imaginary stairs bored me rigid and the stupid expressions on their faces were more nauseous than comical.

I lifted my aim to spot the flag blowing on the cinema’s roof. I used it to gauge the correction necessary for windage.

Some snipers modified their rifles. I had never been in favour of changing something so carefully crafted, so lovingly designed. The only concession I had made to my beloved rifle was the fitting of a sound suppressor which would also reduce muzzle flash.

I wasn’t concerned about the noise as the world would soon hear all about my intended victim’s death. My concern was with the telltale muzzle flash which would betray my position to all the bodyguards and security people at tonight’s première.

To further conceal my position I had retreated to the back of the room and was shooting from a prone position on top of a sturdy kitchen table. The open window I’d be shooting through would afford me two seconds to shoot the Hollywood starlet who’d mocked me all those years ago.

   

Two seconds was all I’d get and would be all I’d need. Second one would be spent identifying the target and drawing a bead on her temple. Second two was when I’d put the extra ounce on the trigger and send my bullet on its murderous way.

   

My rifle was as always loaded with just one bullet. I’d never needed a second shot and as the distance was only one hundred metres I knew I would not miss. Having just one bullet was my secret trademark. If they escaped my single bullet. I let them live.

   

I’d crafted a special bullet for this one. This was an area where I did modify. I trusted no one to make the alterations but myself. I had taken the round apart and had weighed out the powder to my own exact specifications. I wanted the bullet to mushroom on impact with her skull, to do the maximum amount of damage to her brain without coming out of the other side and hurting an innocent bystander.

   

I was always stringent with my preparations and the one rule I had in my career as an assassin was that I would never incur innocent casualties. This trait had nearly got me caught once or twice during high speed getaways but I held my stance rigidly.

I checked my watch. Seeing that she was due to arrive in a further five minutes I went into my pre-shoot routine. Stretching first legs and then arms into suppleness, I then flexed my fingers in the manner of a classical pianist preparing for a virtuoso performance.

   

My breathing was already under control but I used the routine as a way of relaxing my nerves and slowing my heartbeat so that breaths could be taken as shallowly as possible.

   

My apprentice looked across from the other window where he stood. His job was to act as my spotter and give me notice as to what my target was wearing and what colour her hair was today.

   

By the time my days work was done, I could guarantee her hair would be blood red in at least one place.

   

‘She’s here.’ There was an excited shrillness in his tone. I would have to work on that.

   

‘She’s wearing a luminous green dress. Three bodyguards who are all muscle and no skill. Christ, she looks good in that dress!’

    

I brought my eye slowly to the scope, willing him to concentrate and took in the view. Other celebs were making their way towards the red carpet. Waving, laughing and flashing some of the most expensive teeth known to man. The street artists were performing in the background but were largely being ignored by the stars who were more concerned with the paparazzi below me.

   

‘She’ll be in your sights in five, four, three, two, one.’ As the apprentice hit one, I saw Jessica in the flesh for the first time since she had publicly berated me for my impotence.

   

I centred the cross hairs on her head as she moved from left to right and then she stopped dead in her tracks. She waved to the mime artist and beckoned him over. I’d forgotten how she loved those silent freaks.

   

I re-acquired my target as her sudden stop had thrown off my tracking movement. Her bouncers had peeled away and I had a clear view of her. My finger tightened on the trigger and just before the bullet left my gun, her co-star who was also her latest beau leaned towards her so they could kiss for the amassed cameras. My bullet went so close to her that she must have felt its passage.

   

The mime artist was not so lucky. I saw the bullet hit him bang in the sternum. He clutched his chest, blood oozing between his fingers. His knees wobbled, eyes went blank and he fell theatrically. First to his knees and then face first onto the recently swept pavement.

   

And as for Jessica? Well she’d just laughed at the man dying in front of her, thinking it was all part of his act.

   

The irony was not lost on me. I’d just shot a mime artist with a silenced bullet and he got a round of applause as he died.

© Graham Smith 2011

BIO:

Graham Smith is married with a six year old son. He lives at and manages The Mill Forge hotel and wedding venue near Gretna Green. He has been a book reviewer for Crimesquad.com (http://www.crimesquad.com) for the last two years and he has recently been featured At The Bijou (http://at-the-bijou.blogspot.com/2011/11/november-goes-noir-at-bijou-presents_04.html) with his Noir debut.

He has only recently started writing short stories and when not working, reading or writing he enjoys spending time with family and socialising.

DINNER FOR ONE (OR, THE MAD MORTICIAN OF BRINDLE STREET) by J. Bramwell Slater

Hellicious Halloween ends as it began, with the chilling voice of J. Bramwell Slater.

We hope you've enjoyed this outstanding showcase of talent. The horror has been exquisite, divine, glorious... not to mention fun.

Huge thanks to all the writers that have taken part and to everyone that's taken the time to comment. Your feedback is genuinely appreciated by the authors and editors.

With no further ado, prepare your receptors, plump up your pleasure palette - this is...


DINNER FOR ONE (OR, THE MAD MORTICIAN OF BRINDLE STREET) by J. Bramwell Slater

Joshua looked on in horror as Hickson skilfully removed huge slabs of meat from the body lying on the table before him.

"This," he said, "is the best bit," holding up a darkened orb that resembled a heart.

It was the first time that Joshua had seen his employer behave this way but then, it was also his first experience of being an apprentice and being the only funeral directors for many miles meant that Brachs & Barton encountered a steady turnover of customers in that borough. 

Thomas Barton had died a few years earlier and Brachs had sought an apprentice to train up; to assist him with the work needed to prepare the deceased for internment. It wasn't a particularly pleasant job and he had struggled to tempt anyone in spite of the handsome salary he had been offering but Joshua was young, built like an ox and quite poor.

London was buoyant following the coronation of George V earlier that year, but work was still scarce. He was fortunate, in that: the job included a small room at the top of the house where he could live. In the beginning, he had been assigned to lesser duties such as tending the horses and dressing the departeds' faces for those who wished to offer their last respects but after some time, Hickson believed that he was ready to learn the process of presenting the cadavers in the gruesome and professional task that, until now, only he was proficient.

The rich aroma of bacon greeted Joshua as he arrived downstairs for work and he found Hickson merrily frying breakfast in the small kitchen at the back of the parlour where he lived.

"Breakfast lad? We have a busy day ahead of us and you'll need sustenance inside you for the tasks that I have in mind."

Joshua thanked him and sat at the small table in the centre of the room. Being of humble origins had meant that he was used to spending most of his time in a state of hunger so when his employer was offering the bonus of a free meal, how could he resist?

As Joshua devoured the plate before him, he wiped his chin and commented: "I needed that. I was starving."

"What do you know of hunger?" snarled Hickson as he poked at the embers in the fireplace. "Have you ever wished you could sleep just to escape the wringing ache in your gut, day after day?"

Joshua was taken aback by his outburst but thought no more of it and thanked him for the meal and all the while, Ratchet, Hickson's dog, barked around the legs of the table.

"Quiet, you hound! Be silent!" growled Hickson and taking a leash, fixed it to the animal's collar and lifted it a clear six inches from the floor until its barks became a husky yelp.

Joshua felt that he should say something, but his master's manner prevented him.

"I'll bloody teach you to behave like a gentleman's dog, you..." and without finishing, he dragged the animal across the floor and out into the yard beyond, where it returned to barking as he slammed the door behind him. Later that morning, a thin light shone across the tiled walls of the preparation room as Hickson prepared to treat the corpses and Joshua looked on, as his master began to slice away at the grey mass before him.

"First we must drain all the fluids, like this," he said and with a few skilful moves he had begun the lengthy process.

An odour, the likes of which Joshua had never encountered, filled his senses and he covered his nose with his sleeve as he coughed. Hickson laughed and looked back at his work.

"Take great heed lad, for these are the secrets of the craft and I am putting great store in you by imparting them."

However, Joshua was sure that what followed could not be part of the trade as Hickson produced a leather apron filled with butchery tools and began to dissect the various limbs of their muscle, placing the cuts neatly onto a marble slab to one side of the table. Disgust and revulsion bowled through his every vein as he watched this slaughterhouse madness and his mind retched at the anvil memory of his morning meal.

"Aye, It looks like what you are thinking but I am not suggesting you copy this part of the operation. This is for my own purposes," he said as he delved into the gut of the thing and removed first its liver and then the heart. After a while, there was a banquet of fresh meat arrayed on the block and Hickson reached into a store room for a bag of hay that he had taken from the stables. Stuffing it inside the skin, he stitched up the incisions and washed his hands.

"Now it is ready for the embalming fluid," he said, stepping closer to the trembling apprentice and punctuating his words with a blade, "but if you should ever tell of my passion for the 'corpus humanis', I shall find you; kill you and eat you as well. Mark my words well: An eye for an eye."

At the funeral the following day, Joshua single-handedly hauled the coffin from the back of the hearse and heaved it into the waiting arms of the pallbearers; the strongest of the deceased family, who took the casket through the stone arch and along the path. Only Hickson knew that the cabinet was heavy with the bricks that he had secreted in its lining.

"Will you not join me in the chapel Mr Brachs?" said Joshua.

Hickson took a hip flask from his waistcoat pocket and shrugged as he leaned against the coach. Joshua looked back at him downing the cheap gin and spitting at Ratchet who was barking at his feet and went inside the chapel. Sitting at the back of the congregation, he began to reason that the cause of Brachs & Barton's success was that his master, he suspected, was becoming greedy and had begun to murder his clientele - choosing only the ripest victims for his own, as he learned how the deceased had been 'struck down' by a vicious assailant 'at such a young age.'

~

That night, Joshua was awoken by bitterly arguing voices downstairs.

"I'll have my money from you one way or another, if it's the last thing I do," said a woman's voice.

"After what you did to me Gwendolyn? I can scarcely believe your impudence in the matter."

"You owe me alimony stretching back for months now. That child of yours needs shoes and clothes. Just how do you expect me to provide those?"

Ratchet was barking furiously as the two jousted their positions ever closer to conclusion.

"If you hadn't ruined my business, none of this would have happened."

"We all know what happened to Thomas and I'm sure that there are others who would be very keen to learn about your 'business' if I had the inclination to tell them. See that you have that money for me by Friday week," she said and Joshua heard the sound of the front door as she disappeared into the night.

For a long while afterwards, Hickson could be heard clattering about in the kitchen along with Ratchet's incessant barking which eventually came to a husky halt. The incident had troubled Joshua greatly and in the days that followed, the seeds of curiosity took hold and his resentment grew like vine, encircling every corner of his thoughts.

As the two of them rode back from a funeral a week later, he felt compelled to confront a question that had been foremost in his mind.

"What happened to Barton?"

Hickson thrashed the reins, snarling: "Don't ever let me hear you utter the name of that scoundrel in my presence!". Joshua steadied himself as the horses recoiled from the chastisement.

"Why?" bellowed Hickson into the wind, "Because he stole my wife whilst she was still heavy with my child and I will not speak of it again."

The following afternoon, Joshua was surprised to receive a visit from Gwendolyn who arrived without announcement when Hickson was out, having gone up to London on business.

"I'm afraid the master is not in, Ma'am."

"I know," she said, "it is you that I wish to speak with." Joshua showed her into the sitting room and sat, facing her.

"I suspect that you know of Hickson's practices, but before you deny it, let me say that: I am well aware of the extent of what happens between these walls." Joshua was stunned but she continued- "I have been extracting money from him for my silence but now I want more and I am prepared to pay you handsomely if you can assist me in …disposing of him, so that I may inherit his fortune."

Gwendolyn's empowering words echoed through the haunted corridors of Joshua's mind from that moment forward and as he went about his daily work the next day, he became resolute in the allegiance that her conspiracy had offered him. He didn't join Hickson for breakfast that morning, or any other that followed, as he had already begun to cook his own wicked recipe.

Having access to the bodies now provided him with the perfect opportunity to inject them with the embalming fluid before Hickson's intervention and this he did with furious intent. Each day he watched him devour the poisoned steak and he recalled Gwendolyn's carefully detailed instructions - His death would never be detected as it would be seen as a hazard of the job following his demise, she had told him - it seemed the perfect murder.

In the weeks that followed, Joshua saw the master descend from being an imposing and incumbent force within the household to being a frail and pathetic shadow and how he relished every passing signifier until the day that he finally died, without struggle, as he slept. Joshua was elated to discover him lying in his pit and was particularly energised after he had informed the authorities and began the process of preparation for the funeral but he had a final act of defiance to complete, for his own sanity.

As the body was lain on the table, he used the skills which had been imparted to him in removing the most select tissue which he later prepared as a feast for Ratchet. The dog gobbled the fresh meat with adoring enthusiasm as Joshua stood proudly in the kitchen feeling freed at last from the horrors he had learned to endure. Little did he know: the true implication of this pedantry gesture.

~

The minister spoke quietly in the autumnally muted cemetery the next day and his voice hung heavily on the pitiful few who were gathered there. Reciting the words of Job from his crow-black leather book, he gazed emptily at the darkened sky.

"Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery..."

"I need to speak with you Joshua," whispered Gwendolyn so slightly that her words were almost unspoken beneath her veil as she leaned toward him.

"Oh?" he mouthed. His hands clasped before him, tightened their grip.

"In the midst of life we are in death..."

"You have served me well, master Hepton, but I have a final task for you. My underwriters have attended to matters in my favour, as it is the building that is quite clearly the true extent of Hickson's wealth.

"...earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust..."

"Therefore, I need you to be absent for a few days. Consider it a compassionate sabbatical. Further, I would suggest that you find suitable lodgings as there might well be a significant 'accident' to the building."

Joshua's mind reeled like a sailor, freshly landed in port - such was the intoxication of her implications.

"Don't worry," she said, "I shall provide for you, for you have more than provided for me" and Joshua was sure that the vaguest smile played about her lips.

"...and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost, be with us all evermore. Amen."

That evening, in the still darkness of a cheap lodging house not far from the parlour, Joshua looked out across the rooftops and saw the crimson glow of flames engulfing the building. As the smell of the blaze was thick in the air, he felt the weight lifting from his heart into the night sky and the torment of such terrible deeds (and his own part in it all) peeled from his soul and drifted out to join the rank stench of evil. As he watched in the stillness of his contempt, Ratchet - the innocent animal he had saved from the catastrophe, with the taste for human flesh still on its tongue, snarled with him in its sight.

__________________________

BIO: Scoot back to the very first story in the Hellicious Halloween showcase to read all about J. Bramwell Slater, in the bio that follows An Unquiet Slumber