Journals of Horror: Found Fiction

by Todd Keisling

  War rages on outside this small, smelly, frozen room. Men are stabbed and gouts of blood erupt from necks, stomachs and chests, splattering the snow-matted earth and giving rise to great clouds of sizzling steam. But here, in this cramped, fecal-black, chilly little latrine, I fight my own one-man war.

  A war fought between a man and his arse is a war you can forget about ever winning. No matter how ferociously you fight, how much you dig your heels into the earth, clench your teeth, sweat and moan and strain, your arse always wins. It’s the way of things. If you have an arse, you’re as good as buggered already.

  This whole thing began around this time yesterday morning. It was the coldest morning of the war so far. The air bit into your face like chips of ice and broke off there, and the dawn was so pale I half thought the sun might rise with a crown of snow festooned on its yellow pate. Myself and some of the other officers were gathered round a flickering fire, nestled in a dug-out snow-pit. Our scouting man, Embry, had been out hunting and he’d brought back some curious game. It rather resembled a rabbit, but it was the size of a fully grown German shepherd, God strike me down if I offer a word of a lie! And its face… well, I fancy I haven’t seen such a cruel, pinched, narrow, evil-looking face as that on any of God’s fine creatures.

  I remember being glad the thing was dead, knowing that it would surely be clawing at my chest with its deadly-seeming talons and clamping its alligator-like teeth around my throat if it had still possessed even an ounce of fight. Skinned pink, it sent up a cloud of black smoke and an acrid, gunpowder-like smell as we cooked it over our pathetic fire. It smelled quite rotten, but we’d had naught to eat for five days but the chalky bark we’d scraped from the surrounding trees. Any kind of meat was welcome and enough to make our mouths run with saliva and our bellies rumble like cannons.

  The meat had the consistency of wet algae, but if you ignored that and focused on the taste then it wasn’t too bad. I ate a whole leg of the beast just myself, an extravagance I afforded myself as a man of the King’s own guard. With no king to guard out here in the nowhere, the only thing separating me from the boys of the lower ranks was the freedom to eat more than my share of the food.

  That, and the luxury of shitting inside. If you can call this rudimentary tent “inside”.

  In any case, putting my story down on paper has so far succeeded in distracting me from the considerable pain exploding from my arse, so I believe I’ll continue my relaying of the events as they transpired.

  Later that day, the scouting boy, Embry, was found dead in his bedroll. I was shocked when I heard about it, but assumed that he had frozen to death in the night like so many other unfortunate cases. The messenger boy shook his head when I voiced this assumption, and it was at this point that I noticed something about the boy. At first I’d just assumed he was so white because of the cold and the wind and the snow. But then I saw his eyes were darting back and forth, his breath was hitching up and down like that of a dying mouse, and his hands were visibly shaking.

  The boy looked like he’d had the death of fright put into him.

  “Are you alright, Mewsby?” I inquired. He shook his head again and held open my tent flap, beckoning for me to follow.

  He led me to what looked to be a bloody animal carcass. Sopping wet, crimson, lying in the snow all mangled and twisted. As I got closer, however, I began to realize that the carcass was made of cloth. It was Embry’s bedroll, soaked through with blood, as if somebody had lowered it into a large cauldron of the stuff. Several strides away was something else lying in a bloody heap, with a series of bloody footsteps leading to it.

  That one was Embry. He was lying on his belly, hands clutching fistfuls of snow, neck twisted at a painful angle, his face contorted in the throes of absolute terror and pain.

  “Something did this to him?” I questioned.

  “No sir,” said the messenger boy, and he pointed.

  It was only then that I could clearly see the tattered shreds that had been Embry’s long johns, and the gaping, ragged hole through which I could see right up to the back of his throat.

  At that moment I’d felt an overpowering need to buckle over and empty my guts into the snow at my feet. A need I quickly gave vent to, turning an entire square metre of snow into slush.

  That night, as we officers were all sitting down to a tot of rum each, Cartwright began coughing, choking in the most undignified, obnoxious manner. His face flushed a deep scarlet, and he staggered to his feet, clutching his belly as though staunching a wound from a native’s spear, and rushed away from the weak light of the fire, dropping to his knees just beyond the tree-line of the encroaching forest. There followed a most horrendous, wet wrenching sound, as of something thick and juicy being slapped repeatedly against a hard, flat surface.

  After a moment, I called; “Cartwright? I say, old boy, are you quite alright?”

  But there was no answer forthcoming. I cast a querulous look around the fire and, receiving only doppelgangers of my own expression, rose slowly to my feet and headed towards the trees.

  It didn’t take me long to find him. He was curled on the snow like a baby in its mother’s womb, blood all around him like a huge, spreading ink-stain. Knowing what I would find but still unable to quell the rising gorge in my throat, I checked the man’s rear end.

  It was as I’d expected. Empty. Hollowed out like a cored apple.

  This time I managed not to vomit quite so copiously, my throat producing naught more than a teacup’s worth of bile, which I promptly swallowed.

  If I could get used to the ugliness and brutality of war then I could get used to this, by Jove.

  When we woke this morning, the man we’d left on watch – a black-bearded officer named Hodgson – was several paces from his post, his face twisted as though in the utmost pain, his arse yawning like a schoolboy’s mouth at morning assembly.

  As I stared down at his stinking, bloody corpse, it occurred to me that of the four men who’d partaken of the meat of that strange animal the previous morning, I was the only one left alive.

  It was only shortly after that that I started feeling the stomach pains. Like someone poking a spear into my stomach from the inside. Pushing, prodding, stabbing. Then the leaking had begun, my trousers growing wetter with each second that passed, my bottom sizzling as though brushing against acid.

  So here I am, my bottom glued to the latrine. I can feel it pushing, nudging against the tight ring of my arse. Trying to nose its way out. I would liken it to the feeling of passing an extremely stubborn shit, if you’d eaten nothing but barbed wire and ground glass the night before.

  It’s getting angrier now, more ferocious with every moment. I fear I don’t have much longer to relay this tale. I can feel it bulging, ripping, stretching my inner ring. Tearing the muscles. I can feel blood rushing, mingling with the poisonous shit-juice gushing out of me. Any second now, it’s going to happen. It’s going to explode out of me in a rush of blood and flesh and shit and guts.

  I would like my last recorded thought to be a deep sympathy for my mother, and indeed for all women, for what they must go through in order to bring a life into the world.

  Oh shit.

  Author bio: Joe Ramshaw is a passionate and enthusiastic horror writer with an insatiable hunger for terrifying people. He loves scary movies, particularly those with lots of jump-scares because he prefers to eat his popcorn off the floor. He lives in Western Australia with his beautiful fiancee, and hopes to continue horrifying people with his stories long into his old age. Visit him at https://www.facebook.com/ramshawshorrorshack

  HUMAN RESOURCES

  By Todd Keisling

  Case #BF 6214396328

  Journal transcribed from an internal corporate email.

  From: Alex Newmarth

  Sent: October 28, 2014 2:38 AM

  To: Elizabeth Cameron; David Miller; Rena Oppegard; Mary Griffith;

  CC: charles.boid@zerzeph.net

  Subject: My resignation –
Boid be praised!

  To All:

  It is with deep regret and sorrow that I must bid you farewell. Effective immediately, I am resigning from my duties as HR manager on account of having just murdered my assistant and misleading others at the company. Additionally, let this email stand as my last will and testament, and as my confession for the sins I have committed against our glorious prophet, Charles Boid.

  Three months ago, members of our IT department approached me with evidence of misappropriation of company resources. Although they could not prove it at the time, signs pointed to one of our senior programmers, Charles Boid (Praise His Glory). They alleged that he was using our company’s software and network to build, and I quote, “something evil.”

  Although improper usage of company resources is a serious matter, I was taken aback by their claims, and I can honestly say that I have never heard anything like it in my twenty-year career. That being said, I approached the matter with utmost care and professionalism, and acted accordingly despite my ignorance of the greater picture. My intention now is to set the record straight regarding these allegations and sing the praises of the Anointed One who has shown me the truth beyond this veil of flesh and electrons.

  My original report contained a number of egregious errors which I intend to rectify for you now, per the instruction of the Anointed One:

  Charles Boid’s attitude and work ethic are not “poor” and “questionable,” as previously indicated; the Anointed One requires isolation to contemplate the nature and machinations necessary to resurrect He Who Lurks Beyond the Code. In light of this, I find our prophet’s actions acceptable, and I was wrong to factor them into my investigation.

  An addendum to the previous point: The account of my assistant, Jessica Beatty, which included allegations of “harassment” and “violent conduct,” are hereby stricken from my report. The Anointed One’s reaction to Ms. Beaty’s interruption of his meditative process should only serve as an example of our prophet’s dedication to his cause. Furthermore, Ms. Beatty recanted her statement shortly before transcending beyond this mortal plane. May she find solace and mercy in her ascension as she is judged by He Who Lurks Beyond the Code.

  Mr. Boid’s usage of company resources to further his explorations into the electronic abyss by building and testing the gateway known as “zerzeph.net” should not be considered misconduct. By building the website in-house and utilizing the company network to test it, the Anointed One has been able to commune directly with the Old One known as Zer Zephanum, a name not spoken aloud by the tongue of man since the Fourth Reconciliation. Boid’s communion will bring about a great revelation for all of humanity once the site is ready for public consumption.

  In light of these arguments, I believe we were wrong to terminate his employment from the company, and as my final act as HR manager of [REDACTED], I recommend his position be reinstated immediately.

  Furthermore, I encourage you all to experience the glory that is Mr. Boid’s creation, as it was a vital part of my own personal enlightenment. Human words cannot accurately express the glory of the Old One—you must bask in the electrons and let Zer Zephanum commune with your mind. With enough time, you may transcend into that dark abyss beyond the Code and become one with His Majesty. Together, we will be one with divinity and usher forth a new era of existence for all mankind.

  As a gesture of my faith in those who lurk beyond the electronic threshold, I will offer this vessel of flesh and bone in accordance with the instructions outlined in the zerzeph.net FAQ:

  I want to transcend this existence. What do I do?

  Only believers of the One True Faith may truly transcend, but if your mind is pure and committed to communion with He Who Lurks Beyond the Code, then all you need do is make an offering of your most prized possession: your life. Refer to the Rituals and Incantations section for further details.

  After much careful preparation, I am ready to shed this skin and become one with Zer Zephanum, lurker beyond the electronic threshold, devourer of minds, and defiler of worlds. Praise be to our prophet, Charles Boid, for showing me the way. May the world follow in his footsteps.

  Warm regards,

  Alex Newmarth

  Manager, Human Resources

  [REDACTED]

  Author bio: Todd Keisling is a writer of horror and speculative fiction, as well as the author of A LIFE TRANSPARENT, THE LIMINAL MAN (a 2013 Indie Book Award finalist), and the UGLY LITTLE THINGS series. Born in Kentucky, he now lives with his wife and son somewhere near Reading, Pennsylvania. He still has a day job, he’s

  awkward and weird, and if you were to live next door to him, your grass would probably die.

  IN THE WOODS, WE WAIT

  By Matt Hayward

  Case #BF6263787379

  Journal transcribed from a letter found on a vanity table inside an elderly couples bedroom.

  My name is Teddy McEvoy, I’m seventy years old, and last night I lost my wife. I’ll soon go and join her myself, of that I’m quite sure. In the last twenty-four hours, my life’s changed dramatically... It’s funny how such a short time can bring such a large change. I can’t afford to side track here, I apologise if I do - but I’m just so tired. I’m so very tired...

  My arthritis is setting in something fierce so I need to get this down quick. Before I go back out there, I need you to understand a few things. First of all, I’m certain that tomorrow the tragic deaths of Theodore and Ellie McEvoy will be announced in the local news. They might say in my old age I succumbed to alzheimer's or maybe even dementia from the loss of my belated wife only twenty four hours before me. But of course they wouldn’t know she had gone the day before I did because there would be no bodies. Either way, It’s all a lie. Every single word of it. If you’re reading this, I’m happy that someone will know the truth and that I didn’t write this down in vein.

  Her comb’s on the bed. The white one, the one she used on her hair every morning. It wasn’t there a moment ago. I should know, I made the bed when I got back this morning, after my shower. I was caked in mud and god knows what else. My joints were killing me, I needed that hot water bad. I make that bed everyday, force of habit, you know? Her comb is there now, I can see it reflected in Ellie’s mirror directly in front of me. I’m sitting at her vanity table.

  That’s why I decided to write this down, not just what I saw in the woods but all of it, even the comb and what I believe to be other hallucinations. I think I’m starting to see things that aren’t really there. It’s probably due to the bite, an infection perhaps but thankfully it’s on my left arm and I write with my right. I cleaned it in the shower with peroxide and bandaged it, the skin around the wound was a deep pink and it was agonising to clean. My arm is killing me, even now. But enough of that, I need to stop rambling and get down to the point.

  Last night I woke in Brian’s field. That’s the other end of Pure Mile Road. I must have fainted after hearing the gunshot. I don’t remember walking Pure Mile, I guess everything that happened was just too surreal to comprehend. Ellie didn’t respond when I shouted her name. She stayed about ten feet ahead of me at all times along Pure Mile and I just couldn’t keep up. God, I screamed my voice hoarse shouting her name. She never even acknowledged me. I cried at being ignored after a while. My throat burned in agony from screaming at her to wait up. My legs hurt and I had left in such a hurry that I’d forgotten a flashlight. She didn’t bring one either.

  But once again I’m getting ahead of myself here. I need to start at the beginning. She’d been in the garden only a few hours before, I could see her through the kitchen window as I washed our dinner dishes. We had been talking about getting a dishwasher earlier that day, and I’d said I’d do the dishes after we ate if she drove me to the hardware store the following day (that would have been today), to pick one out. I never did learn to drive, I guess now I never will either. I depended on her so much. I miss her with all my heart and I just hope all this is over with soon, so that I don’t have to deal w
ith this hurting much longer. I need the pain to go away, both mentally and psychically. I think I need to get a glass of water and calm down, I’ll be back.

  Ok, let me see... She was out in the garden, her back to me. I was curious as to what she was doing. She had said she heard something. The valley in Calico is surrounded by woodland, hundreds of acres of it, so strange noises are nothing to worry about. Usually it’s just the trees creaking, hunters shooting in and out of season, or some other such nonsense. But she said it was singing.

  “It sounds so beautiful, such a sad melody.” She said. I chuckled and asked if she was coming back inside, she said she wanted to hear the rest of it first.

  “You can still hear it?” I asked.

  “Can’t you?” She looked at me with faraway eyes. That’s when I started to be frightened. Ellie and I were by no means spring chickens, I reached the big seven zero last February, three years Ellie’s senior. We had talked about dementia after Greg, her brother, succumbed to it last year. Although, we came to the conclusion that it wasn’t something either of us thought we’d ever have to worry about. We both did plenty to keep our minds active, always loved our Scrabble Sundays. Had more wit between us both than most folk half our age.