Decomposing Head
Frighteningly Funny Tales That Will Rot Your Brain
By Vincent V. Cava & S.R. Tooms
Copyright © 2014 by Vincent V. Cava & S.R. Tooms
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below.
[email protected]
The Author s
Vincent V. Cava
His tales have been known to induce seizures in small children. Merely skimming through one of his stories can lead to anxiety, nausea, and internal bleeding. You should not read anything written by him if you are currently pregnant or nursing (including this author’s bio…although it’s probably too late by now). He’s a man whose mind is so dark, not even the World-Wide-Web could contain his horrific imagination.
He is Vincent V. Cava!
Vincent V. Cava’s writing has quickly amassed a following over the Internet. His stories have been translated and read in multiple languages all over the world. This spring he will be releasing his first solo title, Human Flavored Dreams & Pastel Colored Nightmares. You can find out more about him by following him on Facebook or Twitter.
S.R. Tooms
S.R. Tooms… The maniacal man of madness, the moonlit masterpiece, the merry melodist… and every other exaggerated superlative heaped upon his unbefitting, yet terribly endearing and modest mind.
Author by day, unapologetic dimwit at all hours, and megalomaniacal scribbler when the full moon rises. As a child, his school principal characterized him as a boy “complacently stupid and absurdly overweight.” Not much has changed since then.
S.R. Tooms graduated with honors from the esteemed, world renowned Picayune University. He holds a degree in idling, a master’s in procrastination, and is currently attempting to establish himself as a fulltime loafer. Mr. Tooms fancies the thrilling, psychological things of this world. He has been labeled a master of the mental workings (despite his own meager intelligence). It’s said S.R. has also been known to utter an insightful thought now and then (his mother has always passionately denied this claim).
An irreverent author of the lowest order is Mr. Tooms. He lives his life according to a single maxim, “And remember children, the goofier your hair is the better you’ll write.”
If you enjoyed this collection, you might also find his book of short stories titled: CRAPLET The Abbreviated Tales of S.R. Tooms to be rather entertaining. Or perhaps his subpar novel: CLANK: A Book of Madness – a humorous psychological thriller (yes, the genre does exist) chronicling the escapades of one very unsavory social misfit who possesses an unhealthy bent for the macabre.
You may view his future announcements and continue your journey together at his current blog: http://srtooms.wordpress.com/
Table of Contents
Gas Station Bathroom
It’s A Small Road
Home Sick
The Returning Nightmare
The Cannibal
Giver
The African Bowana Spider
Vibrations
The Job
The Horror Of Knowing
The Paranormal Investigators
Typo
Rice Pudding
The Dweller
The Crime Scene
The Witching Hour
A Favor For A Favor
The Looker
Thoughts Of A Modest Murderer
Foreword
Fear is truly the human mind’s most interesting emotion. I find it absolutely fascinating, myself. There are so many different ways we can experience the sensation. A shadowy figure trailing you down a dark empty street may conjure up feelings of paranoia. Now, if that same shadowy figure begins to sprint after you while waving a machete over his head like a raving lunatic, terror will most likely take over. Both paranoia and terror are very different ways to experience fear, but they’re not the only ways…
When I write horror, my goal is to manipulate my reader’s emotions enough to evoke a sense of dread that not only frightens, but clings to them, burying itself inside their brain like a parasite. This book was an exercise in a different type of fear. I wanted to see if I could still make my readers tremble under their blankets at night, but laugh while they were doing it. On the surface, it sounds counterintuitive to write a comedy/horror book, but when you stop to take the time and really think about it, you may realize the two genres compliment each other quite nicely.
My hope is that this book will get a chuckle or two out of you. The stories you’ll be reading are preposterous, outlandish, and downright stupid! I want you to shake your head and laugh at the goofy characters and the absurd situations they find themselves in. Just don’t be surprised if after you put the book down for the evening, you find yourself looking over your shoulder all night…
- Vincent V. Cava
Not all horrors leave us cowering in a corner, too terrified to move, let alone breathe or cry for help. Some, and perhaps the most frightening of all, do something much more alarming to the fragile human mind. The stories and moments so dreadful, so ghastly, so gruesome that we can do nothing but… smile.
Like that awesome scene from Gladiator where Maximus Decimus Meridius is quoting his old geezer pal: “Death smiles at us all; all a man can do is smile back.”
And make no mistake about it, as you venture forward in this book, death and terror and horror will be smiling upon you. Have a nightlight handy, make sure mommy stays in the room to tuck you into beddypie, double check the doors, barricade your closet, lift up your sister’s skirt to make sure it still really is her… Whatever futile ritual you need to find comfort in this world – do it. For in this tome of brain rotting tales (for those of you who actually have one), you will be granted no solace, no reprieve, no respite. Horror will assail you from every angle, every crevice, every dark corner and even those warm and welcoming illuminated areas of your cozy little home. Don’t open the door if you hear a knocking. No one will be there… just look behind you. Can’t you feel that warm air on the back of your neck? The cold on your skin? The tickling of your ear? So now, the question becomes: do you have the courage to smile back?
- S.R. Tooms
Gas Station Bathroom
Vincent V. Cava
The gas station bathroom was one of the filthiest, most disgusting places Shelly had ever seen. The nauseating smell that permeated the air, wafted into her face, violating her nostrils as soon as she opened the door, invading her mouth and nose before settling on the back of her tongue. Used toilet paper, bloody tampons, and cigarette butts littered the ground like repulsive land mines waiting for some poor unsuspecting sap only slightly more careless than she to trudge through the cesspool in a rush and smear their revolting contents even further across the tiled floor. One of the fluorescent lights above flickered randomly with a sinister inconsistency as if it had a mind of its own. For a moment, Shelly contemplated testing her body’s demands for reprieve until she could find another gas station with a cleaner restroom, but remembered the sign she read on the interstate just before taking the rest stop’s exit.
NEXT GAS 60 MILES
Besides, nature had been urgently calling for a while and it wasn’t dialing number one…
Carefully, Shelly stepped around the nasty obstacles strewn along the ground and made her way towards the bathroom stalls. Another hot wave of noxious odor smacked her across the face when she opened
the door to reveal an abhorrent porcelain grotesquery. Vomit began creeping its way up her throat when she took sight of the crap covered commode, where only dull bits of white and grime were exposed here and there, like the last remaining survivors of some horrific catastrophe; having been caught in this volcanic explosion of feces which now cascaded down in all directions, billowing in and out of the toilet, bubbling like toxic sludge. Quickly shutting the door, she turned away while holding her breath in a futile attempt to prevent anymore of Mt. Evershit’s fecal fumes from reaching her already defiled lungs.
The second stall was far less repugnant and aside from the syringe that had sunk to the bottom of the toilet bowl’s dirty water, it seemed almost sanitary. Almost. Shelly decided it would have to do, partly because of the pressure building in her bowels and partly because she feared that checking behind door number three might be pushing her luck. Summoning every ounce of courage in her body, she pulled down her panties and squatted over the seat making sure not to touch her skin to the vile porcelain throne.
The young lady had barely even begun to relieve her self when the bathroom erupted in a series of clattering and clanging so loud that it nearly caused her to fall backwards into the water out of shock. Someone had burst through the bathroom door in a flurry and knocked over the metal waste bin that had been standing next to the sink. Shelly remained silent, hoping that whoever had barged in wouldn’t notice her. It was the middle of the night and as far as she was concerned, anyone causing such a ruckus in a dirty bathroom on the side of the highway was either addicted to smack or a raging lunatic. Either way, she wasn’t about to let her presence be known if she could avoid it so she clenched her cheeks and grimaced, fighting off the backend rebellion.
Loud groans were now emanating from the other side of her stall’s door. It was a woman’s voice, which only slightly alleviated Shelly’s feelings about the predicament she had now found herself in. From under the door she could see the strange woman’s legs stumble closer in the direction of the stalls. With a crash and a bang, the woman exploded through door number three, raucously toppling down to the toilet.
The moans turned to cries and suddenly the trepidation Shelly had been feeling melted away only to be replaced by panic as the woman just one stall over from her shrieked at the top of her lungs. She wanted to speak up, ask if everything was all right, but the noises coming from the other side of the flimsy metal barricade between them paralyzed her vocal cords.
The woman began choking, her gags only briefly interrupted by the sounds of screams. A rank potent stench swelled from the third stall and saturated the air in the room, even overcoming the vomit inducing aroma Mt. Evershit had been cultivating in the first stall. The woman’s shadow, casted by the one good fluorescent light in the bathroom, jerked violently on the grimy floor under Shelly’s feet. Shelly tried desperately to drown out the horrific noises taking place behind door number three, but they had gotten so loud that covering her ears barely muffled the woman’s sobs.
A symphony of sickening cries burst forth from the strange woman’s stall. Shelly began to wonder how much more she could take before the mind numbingly awful sounds and smells would drive her mad. No longer capable of withstanding the war being waged on her senses she tried to work up the nerve to make a break for the door, but before she had a chance to run, the noises abruptly halted – and with a splish and a splash, the room fell silent.
Shelly squatted over the toilet, for what felt like minutes, doing her best to remain as quiet as possible. The woman in the third stall’s shadow slowly started shifting again across the dingy bathroom floor. Shelly prepared for the screams to begin anew, but instead of filling the room with more of her ear piercing shrieks the woman fell off the toilet and rolled halfway underneath the divider between the two stalls. She lay there motionless, cheek flush against the urine stained floor and wide-eyes looking up to the frightened young lady still squatting over the toilet with her thong around her ankles. Thick black fluid began to discharge from the woman’s mouth and nose, dribbling down her face like chocolate syrup on a sundae. With her final few breaths, she forced a couple of tiny grunts out of her oozing mouth in attempt to speak.
“You- you have to get out of here.”
Following these words, the last little bits of life faded from her body. Shelly watched on in terror while the woman’s eyes rolled back into her head and the same black ooze started to trickle from her tear ducts.
Something began splashing around in the toilet bowl inside the woman’s stall. A cocktail of confusion, anxiety, shock, and dread swirled around inside the young lady’s head as she tried desperately to process what was taking place. From under the divider between the two stalls Shelly watched a pair of feet, covered in the very same black muck that was still seeping its way out of every orifice in the woman’s face, step down from the toilet and onto the bathroom floor. The rusty hinges fastened to door number three squealed as whatever was inside slowly began to push the door open. Shelly covered her mouth with both hands trying not to even breath audibly, hoping to God that the thing on the other side of the wobbly tin divider between was not aware of her presence. The slimy feet shuffled clumsily out of the stall and across the scum covered flooring as if their owner was using them for the first time. Shelly bit down on her tongue, struggling to fight off the urge to scream as the sludge coated feet stopped and turned towards her stall. A hush reigned over the room for what felt like an eternity. Finally a gravelly cracked voice broke the silence, emerging from the other side of Shelly’s door.
“I’m terribly sorry miss, but could you spare some toilet paper? I seem to be fresh out.”
It’s A Small Road
S.R. Tooms
I spot a fellow standing on the side of road, slightly obscured by the low-lying fog. He’s got his thumb stuck out – kind of gruff and dirty looking. It’s late… Hell, why not. I pull the car over and the man opens the door; he hops in without saying a word.
“It’s your lucky night,” I state, “normally I don’t pick up any thumbers.”
Despite the night being dark, I notice some bright yellow teeth in my rearview mirror. I guess the man is smiling at my comment.
“Must be. I never thumb much myself anymore,” he chuckles. The voice is strangely kind and normal. Not the kind you expect to hear this time of night.
“Oh?” I ask. “You used to, eh?”
“Oh, sure! I did a fair bit back in my day. But…” the thumber halts.
“Dangerous world we live in?” I joke.
Those yellow teeth again… “You might say that. Come to think of it, I haven’t thumbed much in years… Not since what happened.”
“Oh?” I look in the mirror, searching for his eyes. Nothing. “What happened?”
The man in my backseat pauses for a moment, sucking in a breath of air, but with a shrug of his shoulders he commences the tale.
“It were some years ago. Late at night as you might imagine. I was out hitchhiking when a man comes along and picks me up. Sounds good, huh?”
He hesitates here but when I give a grunt of approval, the story continues. Some people just need to know you’re listening.
“Well this man who picked me asks ‘Dangerous isn’t it?’ What is? I asked him. He says ‘Thumbing,’ and before I can even speak the man pulls a big ol’ knife on me. He says ‘Yep, dangerous alright.’ Then stabs at me. I didn’t even have time to react! It was all so sudden and fast. Would you even suspect such a thing?! The car is swerving all over and he’s stabbing and stabbing. I’m screaming my head off.” A whir of yellow teeth flash in and out of the mirror as he speaks, motioning wildly with his arms.
I grunt again, becoming interested. “Well, what did you do?”
“I’ll tell ya!” the man yells. And out of nowhere he thrusts his arm forward, right up against my cheek. The skin feels cold from being outside. I look down at it. The hand is gone. Nothing but a stub. He pulls the limb back. “Gone! This guy cut it right off
! Hacked away like a madman until he had it clean sheared!”
“Woah… Psychos…” I whisper. “How’d you escape?”
More bright yellow teeth in the mirror. “Well, I got hold of his hand and instinct kicked in, ya know? I—I uhh, I bit his fingers, got two of ‘em. Thought he deserved a little of his own medicine. No one goes around cutting my hand off without me raising a fuss! Car hit a tree and I made a run for it.”
“What happened to the guy?” I ask.
“Hell if I know!” the man says as those yellow teeth come into full view, growing larger in the mirror as the fellow leans close to me. His warm, rank breath is blowing across my shoulder. “He’s probably still out there driving around!” He laughs to himself.
I grunt again, gripping the steering wheel with my bad hand – the one missing the two little fingers.
Home Sick
Vincent V. Cava
From the moment she opened her eyes, Rose was met with an excruciatingly bright light. Blinded by its brilliance, her other senses began working overtime to compensate for her disabled vision. A plethora of alien smells and sounds bombarded her from all directions. She was disoriented, confused, and afraid, but even amongst the chaos she knew she had to get back – somewhere she could be safe again.
She had to get home.
A few terrible moments later and her eyes had regained their focus. Finally able to see, she surveyed the room in an attempt to get her bearings, but nearly vomited when she looked down at herself to find her body covered in blood. Rose’s stomach began to twist and turn. Everything had happened so quickly. Just minutes earlier she felt comfortable and protected. Now she was panicky, cold, and frightened, but even through her angst, she knew what she had to do in order to put an end to it all.
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