Tales from The Lake 3

by Tales from The Lake

  The train’s whistle shrieked as it barreled down the tracks.

  Fascinated, David watched the spectacle unfold, unsure how it would end.

  The train was almost on top of Jim while he strained to yank his foot out. He tugged at his leg, feeling as though everything was moving in slow motion—except for the train—still speeding towards him like a bullet.

  As Jim felt the white-hot pain shoot up what was left of his leg, he knew he was trapped. Fascinated, he shrieked and watched as the high arc of blood shot from the artery in his severed leg.

  David watched him struggle to get free, like an animal caught in a snare.

  “I thought you were smarter than that, Jim! Did you really think I wanted to join The Black Death? I know you invited me because you wanted to see me make a fool of myself. It looks like you’re the fool.” He laughed and walked away, leaving Jim to die.

  Every night at precisely nine-forty-five there have been numerous sightings of Jim Hanson, ghostly pale, wearing a sleeveless denim jacket, with a missing leg hobbling around the train tracks next to Albany High, where he met his gruesome demise.

  Without fail, he vanishes when the train speeds by in one big silver blur.

  BIOGRAPHY: Amy Grech has sold over 100 stories to various anthologies and magazines including: Apex Magazine, Beat to a Pulp: Hardboiled, Dead Harvest, Detectives of the Fantastic, Volume II, Expiration Date, Fear on Demand, Fright Mare, Funeral Party 2, Inhuman Magazine, Needle Magazine, Reel Dark, Shrieks and Shivers from the Horror Zine, Space & Time, The Horror Within, Under the Bed, and many others. New Pulp Press recently published her book of noir stories, Rage and Redemption in Alphabet City.

  She has stories forthcoming in Creepy Campfire Quarterly and Tales from The Lake Vol. 3. Amy is an Active Member of the Horror Writers Association who lives in Brooklyn. Visit her website: http://www.crimsonscreams.com. Follow Amy on Twitter: http://twitter.com/amy_grech.

  THE MONSTER OF BISCAYNE BAY

  Roxanne Dent

  New Year’s Day

  1975

  Last night I dreamt of Biscayne Bay and the monster that ate the hearts of all my friends.

  It was the summer of 1955. School was out. I was ten and on a plane to Florida with my seriously ill mother. My father was an out of work actor and had a new family. It was decided we should take my aunt up on her offer to live with her and Uncle Reg until my mother got back on her feet.

  My aunt promised to hire a live-in nurse to care for my mother, a bicycle for me and a community swimming pool I could walk to.

  The instant I stepped off the plane at the Miami Airport, the hot, moist air hit me. The long drive to my aunt’s house seemed to stretch on endlessly as my aunt drove past vast tracts of flat land. This land was home to hundreds of car dealerships, one-level homes with terra cotta tile roofs, giant, red poinsettia bushes and diners that sold fried chicken and grits.

  My aunt’s home was a bungalow with four bedrooms and a garden in the back with banana and coconut trees. A bright, plastic, pink flamingo decorated the front lawn. I thought it looked scared but then I never lacked imagination.

  True to her word, Aunt Wilda hired a doctor who visited twice a week and a live-in bossy nurse named Mrs. Babbitt.

  Once we were settled, Wilda informed us she and Reg were leaving on a European tour that would take up most of the summer. We would be alone except for the nurse and the dailies. So long as I didn’t make a mess, Shirley the cook and Edna, the housekeeper left me alone.

  A few days before they left for Europe, my aunt took us to visit a Seminole Indian village . . .

  We got a late start and it took longer than expected. We didn’t arrive until late afternoon I didn’t expect to see the village enclosed by a fence, or houses with three sided, open air, thatched roofs.

  I learned the Seminole people had their roots in the Creek culture but also mixed with runaway slaves and free Negroes. The men wore jeans and colorful shirts and the women wore long multi-colored skirts and peasant blouses.

  My mother and aunt returned to the car to rest. Curious, I wandered off. The Indians ignored me as they built fires outside and began cooking the evening meal.

  I noticed several children sitting around an old man. It looked like he was telling a story and I went over.

  “It’s true. When I was a boy, I was hunting with my father and uncles and saw an Ishtikini.”

  “What did it look like?” a boy of about seven whispered.

  “Exactly like a man. An Ishtikini can change into anything, man, woman, a wolf, anything.”

  “How did you know what it was if it looked like a man?” a little girl asked.

  “His eyes were dead and, even from far away, he stank of blood.”

  I knew the creature was after my heart. An Ishtikini will go after a man or woman, but children’s hearts are tender and the blood sweet so they hunt them first.”

  An older boy spoke up. “Tell us how they kill.”

  “They like to wait until its dark. Then they crawl or fly into an open window, dig deep into the child’s mouth or chest with their razor beaks, and rip out the heart, like this.” He demonstrated with his hands and the children gasped and shrieked. “By eating the heart, the Ishtikini become human again.”

  “What happened when you saw the Ishtikini?” one little boy asked.

  “My father shot at it, but the creature took the shape of the Horned Owl, and flew away. We built a fire and stayed up all night keeping the fire going. They fear fire. We never saw it again.”

  The shadows became darker and it began to rain. Thunder rumbled in the distance and everyone scattered, heading for home. The old man stood up. We were alone. He didn’t look my way but when he spoke, I felt he was talking directly to me.

  “The Ishtikini are clever, and . . . move like the wind. Some people have the gift to recognize them in their human form.”

  Shivering, I watched him walk away in the rain. One minute he was there, the next he was gone. The fires were out and the village was empty as the people went indoors. I heard an owl screech and my imagination made me hear the flapping of wings. I felt sure it was the Horned Owl and ran for the exit.

  That night I dreamed the Ishtikini was after me. I could smell his foul breath on the back of my neck as I ran, one step ahead of him. Once the sun came up, I felt a little silly. Monsters weren’t real and yet the nightmare lingered just beyond consciousness, ready to pull me in the moment I let my guard down.

  The next day, I went out exploring on my new, red bike. All the houses in the area looked exactly like my aunt’s bungalow except for one. The peeling, yellow, two-story, wooden house down by the bay must have been built before the bungalows came. There was an air of neglect and sadness about it. It looked haunted.

  I was standing with my bike out front, sure I’d seen movement on the second floor, when a girl rode up on her bike and stopped. She looked about my age with long, tanned legs, and short, dark brown hair. She wore a pair of pink polka dot shorts, a sleeveless, white shirt and scuffed, white sneakers. Next to her, I looked like a ghost with my pale skin, wrinkled white shirt and shoulder length, dirty blonde hair.

  “Creepy isn’t it?” she whispered.

  “Whose house is it?”

  “Some old lady who used to be in movies. No one famous. She comes here in the winter for a few weeks and throws cocktail parties but the house is empty now.”

  “I thought I saw someone upstairs.”

  “Not unless it’s a squatter and squatters don’t come around here on account of the patrols. My name’s Dixie.”

  “Lilly.”

  “How long will you be staying, Lilly?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Dixie mounted her bike. “I like riding down by the beach. Wanna come?”

  As we rode away, I glanced back. I saw the shape of a man at the window and peddled faster.

  ***

  Curtis and Billie Jo were the only other permanent residents. Billie Jo was tw
o years older than me. She wore dresses and her mother’s red lipstick. She also smoked. Under her left eye was a yellowing bruise she tried to cover up with makeup. The rest of the kids in the area were visiting relatives and would be gone in a couple of weeks, so the four of us hung out together.

  Curtis was the oldest at thirteen. He disliked me as soon as he heard me speak. “Ya’ll must be a Yankee,” he snarled.

  “So,” I snapped.

  “You lay off, Curtis Marshall,” Dixie ordered, stepping in front of me.

  “Northerners make trouble,” Curtis muttered.

  “Lilly’s okay.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Curtis could have knocked Dixie out with one punch but Dixie was one of those people who could stare you down.

  Dixie and I often took Rosie, Mrs. Archer’s black Chihuahua, on long walks. Rosie flat out refused to go anywhere near the yellow house. She’d dig her little feet into the sand and whined.

  “Why do you think she does that?” I asked Dixie one day.

  She shrugged. “I had an Irish Setter once who wouldn’t go down a street. We never found out why.” Her blue eyes lit with ghoulish delight. “Maybe there’s a dead body buried in the back yard.”

  I laughed but sympathized with Rosie. The house gave me the shivers. It was Curtis who first challenged us to enter the moldering, yellow house.

  We were walking on the beach and he stopped abruptly. We were only twenty feet from the house. I bumped into him and he whirled on me. “I bet you’re too scared to go in and look around.”

  “That’s breaking and entering,” I said.

  “I declare, Curtis Raymond, one day ya’ll gonna be on a chain gang,” Billie Jo drawled as she puffed on an Old Gold filtered cigarette.

  “It’s not breaking and entering if you got a key.” Curtis opened his palm. On it was an old brass key.

  “How did you get that?” Dixie asked impressed.

  “I saw where the old bat keeps the spare. She hid it under the cactus on the porch.” He laughed. “Talk about dumb.”

  “It’s not right,” I protested.

  “We won’t take nothing. That would be a crime,” Curtis agreed. “We’ll just look around. It’s owned by some old actress. There must be tons of interesting stuff in there.”

  Billie Jo dropped her cigarette and stepped on it. “I heard the place was haunted.”

  “If you’re scared, then don’t come.”

  “Let’s do it.” Curtis said heading toward the house.

  Nobody spoke up.

  “Hold on,” Dixie said, grabbing Curtis’s arm. “It’s daylight. Suppose someone sees us? Let’s wait till everyone’s at supper.”

  My mother won’t let me out at night,” Billie Jo .muttered.

  “Your mother will be dead to the world by six,” Curtis said nastily.

  Dixie punched his arm and Billie Jo flushed.

  “Mrs. Hamel’s six year old granddaughter Patty went missing,” Billie Jo said shivering. “Folks are saying she was kidnapped from her own bed. What if there’s a kidnapper roaming around looking to take kids?”

  “Who would want to grab you? We’ll all be together. I’ll even walk ya home,” Curtis promised.

  I turned to Dixie. “Do your parents let you out after supper?”

  She shrugged. “They don’t care what I do so long as I don’t interrupt their programs.”

  Curtis nodded. “Okay. Let’s make it late. Everyone swear to be here by eight sharp. It’ll still be light out.”

  We each swore an oath and went home.

  It was five o’clock. We had three hours before we met. I felt sick and barely touched the fried chicken, instant mashed potatoes and collard greens or the peach pie and whipped cream.

  I didn’t want to go.

  I couldn’t shake the image of a monster lurking in the shadows upstairs waiting to rip out our hearts.

  ***

  At seven twenty-five, I yawned and stretched. Nurse Babbitt was watching Captain Blood, an old Errol Flynn movie. My mother was asleep in her room.

  “I’m going to bed,” I announced.

  “So early?” Nurse Babbitt asked without looking up.

  “I’m tired.”

  When she didn’t turn around, I snuck into the kitchen.

  My aunt and uncle were somewhere in Europe. it was only Mrs. Babbitt, my mother and me.

  I grabbed a filleting knife Shirley used for skinning fish, and slipped the knife into the beaded, suede, fringed sheath I purchased at the Seminole village. I attached it to my waistband. In my aunt’s bedroom, I picked up the silver, monogrammed, cigarette lighter she forgot to take, and dropped it into my pocket before sneaking out my bedroom window onto the soft grass.

  The humid, perfumed air hit me like a wet blanket Jasmine from Mrs. Archer’s yard drifted on the faint, evening breeze. Smoky, grey clouds floated across the moon. I shivered as I made my way to the house by the bay, swatting at the swarm of mosquitoes determined to suck out every drop of my blood.

  As I neared the house, a putrid smell made me gag. It was worse than a pile of rotting fish. I almost ran away.

  The others stepped out of the shadows like ghosts.

  “What is that nasty smell?” Billie Jo whispered.

  “Who cares? Let’s go in,’ Curtis muttered impatiently. He walked up to the house, inserted the key and opened the door. The rest of us followed. Inside, mildew and mold hit me right away. Underneath was that awful stink. The air was stiflingly hot and still.

  “Smells like a pack of rats died in the walls,” Dixie said holding her nose.

  By eight thirty, it would be pitch black.

  I stumbled into Billie Jo who let out a tiny scream.

  “It’s a good thing I thought to bring a flashlight,” Curtis said shining the light around the hall.

  “What if the patrols see the light,” I whispered nervously, releasing the catch on my sheath.

  “They won’t, stupid. I timed them,” Curtis crowed. “They only go by every two hours and they just passed.”

  He headed into what looked like the living room.

  Framed movie posters of long dead, silent stars hung on the walls. Over the white fireplace was a portrait of a young blonde. She wore a blue satin dress. I thought it might be the owner when she still dreamed she’d be a big star one day.

  “Wow, look at that,” Curtis exclaimed.

  Along with the posters hung an African mask and the head of a snarling, stuffed tiger who looked like he was about to leap off the wall and tear us to shreds.

  On the mantle were all sorts of knickknacks of carved wooden figures with big eyes and bellies. There was a layer of dust over everything. A large spider crawled along the ceiling.

  Billie Jo grabbed my hand and I squeezed it.

  “She must have gone on safari,” Dixie said enviously. “I’d like to do that someday.”

  Upstairs, the house creaked. We all stood still holding our breath.

  “It’s an old house,” Curtis said scornfully. “They always make sounds. Nothing to worry about.” He led us into the kitchen where a flock of palmetto bugs flew at us.

  “Ew, get them off me,” Billie Jo screamed.

  “Come on, let’s go upstairs,” Curtis said excitedly. “Maybe there’s a safe with jewels in it.”

  We followed him to the second floor. There were four closed doors. I opened the one nearest me and looked in. It was a bedroom. The bed had been stripped and it was stifling hot. Flies buzzed around a dark stain.

  “What’s that?” I whispered hoarsely.

  Curtis went over and shined the light on the spot. It was almost black but there was a reddish sheen.

  Dixie asked what I was thinking. “Is it blood?”

  “Course not silly,” Curtis said. “Probably wine.”

  I felt the sweat pouring off me and itched to flee.

  “I want to go home,” Billie Jo whimpered.

  “Nobody leaves until we find something really
interesting,” Curtis growled.

  Storming into the hall he yanked open another door and stopped dead.

  I was right behind him, looking over his shoulder, and saw the body of a six year old girl in green and yellow Tinkerbelle pajamas sprawled on the floor. Her long, blonde hair fanned out behind her. Her mouth was sliced wide apart, her tongue was missing and her face and upper body was covered in dried blood.

  Billie Jo let out a high pitched shriek and ran for the stairs.

  The Ishtikini grabbed her. He was over six feet and had bulging, yellow eyes, a deformed beak, black talons and razor teeth. With one sweep of his claws, he split open her chest and plucked out her still beating heart with his beak. He swallowed it whole, his gullet swelling and tossed her body over the balcony. She landed with a thud.

  Dixie tried to run past him. He caught her by the leg. While she screamed and punched, he grabbed her hair. Yanking her head back, he was about to slit her chest open. I grabbed my filleting knife and stabbed him in the back. He screeched and threw Dixie against the wall. I heard a crack and she was still.

  The creature turned to me, a wild look in its eyes. I would have been next if Curtis, in a blind panic hadn’t started yelling like a banshee and ran past, knocking me out of the way and smashing the Ishtikini in the face with his flashlight, taking the stairs two at a time.

  Furious, the Ishtikini leaped over the banister and landed in front of him with the easy grace of a dancer. When Curtis tried to run past him, the monster reached out and jerked Curtis up, dangling his body off the ground. Curtis’ feet helplessly kicked the air. He sobbed and screamed for help. The Ishtikini’s head cocked to one side. His golden, owl eyes gleamed. He never spoke. Curtis swung at him, twisted and kicked, but nothing he did had any effect.

  The giant opened his mouth wide. His double tongue flicked before he drove his beak smack into Curtis’ chest. Grunting, the beast tore out his heart, greedily gobbling it down. Curtis stopped struggling.

  It all happened in seconds.

  The spell of horror broken, I ran into the first bedroom, locked the door and tried to open the window, but after years of dampness the wood around it had swollen. I grabbed a vase and smashed the glass, crawling out onto the rotting balcony.