“Africa is full of natural abundance and beauty. The Goedereede arrived in a paradise. A paradise to be corrupted,” Thabiso said. “Due to the lack of an established government, they went wild—slaughtering and massacring to their hearts’ content. They made no secret of their existence and freely killed and savaged in human and animal form. As time progressed and the first regime was established, the government realised it needed a solution to protect its ‘primary’ citizens. At first, the regime offered its slaves as sacrificial lambs. In the centre of the town the people would tie up their slaves and leave them there. The witches would come and take them away in the middle of the night. Sometimes, the slaves would be found . . . in pieces. For years it was a silent understanding between the regime and the Goedereede. It seemed to work out well . . . Well, until slavery was abolished in the 1800s.”
A crackling sound in the bushes prickled Lauren’s senses. “Can we perhaps sit inside the building?” she asked, her nerves getting the best of her. “These rats are creeping me out.”
“I don’t think that will be a good idea.”
“Just in the reception area. We don’t need to go any further.” Lauren flashed a smile in hope that it would sway Thabiso. However, the sizeable gap between her front teeth ensured that any smile would look far goofier than charming.
It must’ve swayed Thabiso, who simply nodded his head in agreement and said, “Okay.”
Lauren high-fived Justine. “You see? If Heino wasn’t being such an idiot, he could’ve gone into the building, too.”
Thabiso lifted himself up and limped to the glass doors. He dug around in his jacket pocket, shuffling around a rattle of keys. Once he’d settled on a key, he placed it into the keyhole and unlocked the door. With a heave-ho, he managed to slide the door to the right just enough to let out what was inside. A wisp of dirt shrouded the air and polluted Thabiso’s lungs. Hastily, he buried his mouth and nose into his jacket sleeve, coughing and gagging, yet still managing to widen the doorway.
The girls ran up the stairs, coughing and waving away the dust storm. “This place needs a real spring clean,” Justine said to Lauren. They cupped their hands over their face and stepped through the doorway into the abandoned hospital’s reception area—and right into 1996.
The lights from the parking lot lit up patches of the reception, most noticeably the dusty You Magazine, which featured Jerry Maguire star Tom Cruise—with his eyes scratched out—on the front cover. It lay on the floor next to a brick-shaped Motorola Startac. In the corner of the room, dead orchids sprawled out of the pots, putrid and as inviting as a rancid meal. On the reception desk stood another forgotten relic: a white Packard Bell desktop computer.
“This looks like Uncle Koos’ house.” Lauren giggled.
Thabiso dusted off one of the green plastic benches and made himself comfortable. The girls followed his lead, but decided to cover the seats with their jerseys before sitting down.
He took in the moment, staring at the abandoned room and its untold stories.
“Once slavery was abolished, the tensions arose between the Goedereede and the people of the land. With no more sacrifices, the witches went back to their old ways. The governments didn’t know what to do; their people were suffering from the torture and violence—particularly in the isolated farmlands of the country. Years went by, governments came and went, but the Goedereede stayed. South Africa was their home and hunting ground.”
Justine’s eyes began to wander around the room, scanning the dust-laden wheelchairs and peeled walls. A murky-looking jar, situated on a table across the room, really piqued her curiosity.
“It was the Apartheid government that finally took action, realising it was mostly the Boers who were suffering at the time. Taking a page out of their ancestors’ book, they devised a diabolical scheme: a public hospital was to be opened near an infamous township area. A hospital in no man’s land. The Goedereede were handed the keys to this hospital and told that it was their piece of hell to do with as they please.”
“But how was this possible?” Lauren asked. “I mean, during Apartheid, other countries were aware of all the wrong going on here. I don’t see a hospital being run by witches as something that can be overlooked.”
Thabiso looked annoyed. “Real nurses and doctors were hired to appease any inquisition, and prevent international parties from asking too many questions.”
With her eyes still firmly on the suspicious object, Justine quietly lifted herself up from her seat and gravitated towards the mysterious jar.
“As a result of this very hospital, the Goedereede always had more than enough meat walking in through those doors. Plus, the hospital seemed legitimate in everyone else’s eyes. They tortured, abused, tested . . . and cannibalised their ‘patients’. It wasn’t too long when the news of what was going on spread. But when the questions were asked aloud, the inquisitors disappeared quickly. While the real doctors and nurses treated patients as they would any hospital, they were well aware of what was going on. However, they decided to remain quiet, fearing for themselves and their family’s safety.”
Lauren’s blue eyes lit up as she realised she had something valuable to contribute. “My mother once told me that she had a friend who had her baby in this hospital. On the same day when she gave birth, she saw a doctor take away another lady’s baby, which apparently didn’t look human at all. It looked like a jackal,” she whispered. “I always thought it was a ridiculous story, because why wouldn’t a doctor report something like that?”
A hellacious scream erupted in the reception area.
Justine sprinted back to her seat and wrapped her arms around Lauren. She repeatedly uttered, “Oh my God.”
“What’s wrong, maatjie?” Lauren asked, while she stroked her friend’s hair.
“T-t-that j-j-jar . . . ”
“What about the jar?”
“It’s a tiny b-b-baby. W-w-with h-h-hooves. It has hooves instead of hands!”
Lauren’s tweezed eyebrows shot up. She measured Thabiso with a concerned look.
He shrugged. “I told you they experimented. For them, it became much more than just death or sex; it was about toying with people. You should see the first floor—that is far scarier than a mutant foetus in a jar.” The white of his eyes gleamed as he described it.
“I want to see,” Lauren said.
“Are you mad?” Justine barked and shook her friend. “Look, I know I’m the one who likes the gory stuff, but even I’m freaked out by that bloody jar.”
Thabiso stood up and began to tread further into the darkness of the building. “Are you coming?”
Lauren looked at Justine, who furiously shook her head from side-to-side, then back at Thabiso. “Yes, we are.” She stood up and extended her hand to her friend. Justine dropped her head into her sweaty hands and took a deep breath. She stood up, sighed and reluctantly followed.
A slight opening between the elevator’s doors invited them, but the patchy yellow tape offered a word of caution. They choose to use the stairs instead. Thabiso held onto the grubby railings and gingerly lifted himself up the staircase.
Sticking close together, the girls blindly followed.
Concentration and caution remained at optimal levels, as each foot was carefully placed on the next step, in order to avoid a humiliating tumble in the dark.
Similar to the ground floor, the dust and night’s darkness wrapped around them, but the passage and shut doors suffocated the space, making it feel more like a tunnel. Thabiso pushed open the second door on the right, which creaked with a sound synonymous to a cat’s mating call. The girls nervously peeked over their shoulders, into the pitch black staircase, before they rushed after him. Once in the room, the cold reflection of the silver panels showed them exactly what the room had been.
“Is this what I think it is?” Justine asked.
“What do you think it is?” Thabiso responded. He grabbed his flashlight and shone it around the room, revealing the splatters
of crimson on the operating table and hand smears down the cabinets.
The sense of disbelief choked out the already tense atmosphere.
“What happened in here?” Lauren asked.
Thabiso flicked his flashlight over a soiled plate with a gnawed bone. “Dinner.”
“I think we should go and find Heino and Darren,” Lauren said, glancing at Justine who nodded in agreement. “Thank you for taking the time to tell us the story, but it’s getting late and this is getting a bit too freaky for us.”
“But don’t you want to know why the hospital was abandoned in 1996?”
“No, it’s okay,” Lauren said. “I’m sure as a security guard you probably have to do your patrols soon.”
“I never said I was a security guard . . . ”
A harrowed shade of white coloured Lauren’s face. “Excuse me? But don’t you work here?”
“No.”
“So why are you here then?” Lauren and Justine had slowly started to backtrack in the door’s direction.
“To enjoy a little piece of paradise.”
The time for politeness ended.
The girls rushed to the entrance, leaving the stranger behind.
“I wouldn’t run if I were you. It’ll be less painful if you stay,” he said.
They didn’t heed Thabiso’s warning.
Instead, they ran straight to where I wanted them.
My sharp nails sunk deep into their throats and suffocated the hope out of them before they could set foot out of the door. I squeezed a little bit tighter just to see them squirm, to make me quiver with glee.
I whistled and my brother heeded. Gael scurried through the parking lot, dragging the remains of Heino and Darren’s bloody carcasses with him, crunching and gnawing away on loose bones like the hungry dog he was. The bastard hadn’t waited for me, again.
“Your performance tonight was incredible. I really like this Thabiso alias, Carn. It kind of suits you,” I said, biting my bottom lip and gazing into my prey’s petrified gaze. “I’ll be sure to leave some for you, too.”
“I’m displeased that Gael has practically finished the ugly, bald one. The big mouths are always juicier.”
Lauren mouthed “Heino”.
“But can I at least finish the story first, Angel?” Carn asked with a hint of disappointment in his voice. “They always come here to find out the truth, but ultimately die before I get to the good parts.”
I tightened my grip even tighter on Lauren and smiled. “Does it really matter?”
BIOGRAPHY: Self-described as a creativist, Sergio Pereira works as an editor and writer by day and writes fiction and other nonsense at night. He is the author of Fixation, The Smile, Tom Wilson, Don’t Steal from the Devil, Tidal Wave and other stories that you (should) love. He also enjoys writing about himself in third-person narrative and reading it back to others in Christopher Lee’s voice.
THE REAPER’S FIRE
Kenneth W. Cain
As a child, Dana watched her father die. He’d saved her first. Then, after assuring her he’d be okay, he ran back into the blazing cornfield to try to extinguish the fire. She’d been alone when he started screaming and she realized he wouldn’t be keeping his promise.
Five years later her friend Fran became the third to die in that same cornfield. Dana remembered every detail: the way the sparse clouds drifted across the night sky, the smell of burning stalks, how the charcoal black smoke slithered up into the sky like an ominous snake, and the crackle and pop of corn beneath fiery husks. Dana had barely made it out alive.
All three fires occurred on a night children shouldn’t have to worry about such crimes. Their only concern should have been stuffing their bellies with sugary delights. But, living in Rustin came with a price, and that meant one could not just ignore what went on in the cornfield. It was part of them, every last one of them.
As a high school senior, candy didn’t have the same allure it had on children. By then Dana had enough money to buy whatever treats she desired. She got good grades, was the head of the cheerleading squad, and had been voted into the homecoming court in both her junior and senior years. Being both attractive and tough, she’d been popular and would attend a prominent university soon enough. As such, she deserved a break now and then, and what better night for mischief than Halloween?
She’d come to this field each year to honor the dead. It comforted her, thinking this hallowed ground was the lone place she could connect with her deceased father. Not some silly stone, but the precise place he’d died. Maybe, given the right circumstances, her dead father might be capable of conveying some message to her.
Noticing Jesse’s smile, she suspected he came for other reasons. It’s all he thinks about.
She twisted her father’s wedding ring on her thumb. Mom would be upset if she found out, but the ring relaxed Dana, enough so that she could drink the peach schnapps Jesse brought along.
She took a long hard swig, the liquor sweet and sour all at once. Wincing, she handed the bottle back. Too bad the schnapps couldn’t keep her warm. Not even Jesse’s jacket offered much relief. But none of that mattered because her thoughts were a mile away, thinking of her dad and how he’d given her the ring to hold before running into that fire.
A noise alerted her, pulling her out of her thoughts. She stared off through the many rows of stalks surrounding this small clearing and saw nothing. But she heard the squelch of a radio and knew what it had been.
The police patrolled the perimeter of this cornfield throughout the night. Constant patrols on foot and by car were vigilant of anything unusual. But they rarely entered the field itself, and likely couldn’t see her even if they did a fly over.
“You don’t really think they’ll come back, do you?” he said after a long while. “It’s been a long time.
The blond hair hanging in his face made her grin. He could be so cute.
“Who, the police?”
“No,” he said. “The killer. Or killers for all we know.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know.” She picked up the wooden bat he’d brought along, feeling its weight. “I hope so.”
“You’ve come out here every year since Fran died. And the times I came along I’ve never seen anything the least bit suspicious. Heck, the most action we saw was that year the cops chased us.”
She remembered that time.
Frustration came out in her words. “That doesn’t mean they won’t come.”
“Well, you know what they say.” He smiled, leaned over and took the bottle. “Three strikes and you’re out.”
She loathed his persistent baseball references. It was a dreadful game with far too little strategy for her tastes. She preferred a good game of chess or Risk or maybe even Dungeons & Dragons. A game that forced you to think, strategize beyond the occasional bunt or shifting your infield.
She dabbed at her lips with his jacket sleeve. “I hardly think another baseball reference is apropos.”
His Adam’s apple bounced as he swallowed. When he finished, he handed the bottle back and she drank. Already she felt woozy. She would need to slow down if she meant to keep her wits about her.
“What the hell does apt pro po mean?”
She shook her head. “Never mind. Jeez, jocks. Do you ever listen to the things you say?”
“What I’m trying to say is why would they come back with all these cops around?” He paused, his expression somber. “Besides, aren’t we kinda crazy just for being out here?”
Disappointment filled her. “Why do you think that?”
“Come on, if a fire starts, we’re goners.”
Her eyes went to the sky as her thoughts drifted back. “I made it out okay.”
When she looked back, his expression had softened.
“I’m sorry. I know Fran was your friend and all, but sometimes I think we should avoid this place like the plague. Especially on Halloween.”
She stared at him long and hard, her thoughts interrupted by a ch
ainsaw buzzing followed by the piercing screams of children. This would be in response to the Tanner’s, who always put on the best amateur haunted house for as far back as she could remember. Mr. Tanner would no doubt be wearing an old hockey mask and tattered clothes, running around chasing kids with an old chainsaw that no longer had a chain. Not that the kids ever picked up on this last detail.
Somewhere to her right, a larger group of kids sauntered along the outer perimeter. She reminisced how the older kids used to dare the younger ones to venture into the fields. Some of the kids she hung out with still succumbed to that sort of pressure. It had been the reason she’d been out here the night Fran died.
She recalled the way Fran stared back at her, the fear apparent. Fran cried, unable to reel in her emotions. Dana tried to calm her with a story, but as the details intensified, so did Fran’s unease. Soon after, the fire had separated them. Both she and Fran ran, but only Dana’s route led to safety.
A vivid image of Fran bursting out from the fire remained etched in Dana’s memory. The flames consumed a staggering Fran. The girl fell dead on the ground a few yards from where Dana stood, the smell of death still fresh in her memories.
When the police arrived, Dana hadn’t been able to stop crying long enough to explain. But the police were patient, much more so than Fran’s parents. Thankfully, time healed most wounds. Although Fran’s death left horrible scars on all involved, they all moved on in their own ways.
It hadn’t been Dana’s first dare, but it was the last time she surrendered to peer pressure. It had also been the day Dana started smoking. Thinking of it, she withdrew a cigarette and her lighter. She held her hair back with one hand and used the other to light the cigarette. She sucked in deep, watching the smoke spiral out of her mouth, forming mesmerizing shapes. All the while she twisted her father’s ring on her thumb.
“Whatcha thinking about?” Jesse asked.
She narrowed her view on him and took another drag. “Nothing.”
“Come on.” Then, as if the thought had just popped into his head, “Were you thinking about that night?”
Tales from The Lake 3 Page 16