Nightmare Magazine Issue 26

by Nightmare Magazine

  Throughout, she’d sat in a chair across the room and hadn’t spoken once.

  “That was wonderful,” I said. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “You already have.”

  I wasn’t sure what she meant. My belly felt reassuringly packed to the bursting point.

  “You haven’t asked,” she said.

  I frowned. “Asked what? I don’t understand.”

  “You do. You’re dying to ask. I know you are. They always are.”

  “They?”

  “Why the people here are horribly deformed.”

  I felt a chill. In truth, I had been tempted to ask. The town was so unusual, the people so strange, I could barely stifle my curiosity. She’d been so generous, though, I didn’t want to draw attention to her infirmity and be rude. At once, her reflection in the mirror at the BAR-B-CUE popped up terribly in my mind. No chin. One eye. Flat slits where there should have been a nose. Oozing sores.

  I almost vomited. And not just from the memory. Something was happening in my stomach. It churned and complained, growling, swelling larger, as if it were crammed with a million tiny darting hornets.

  “Sins,” she said.

  I squirmed, afraid.

  “Long ago,” she said, “in the Middle Ages, certain priests used to travel from village to village. Instead of hearing confessions, they performed a ceremony to cleanse the souls of the villagers. Each member of the group brought something to eat and set it on a table in front of the priest. At last, an enormous meal awaited him. He said the necessary words. All the sins of the village were transferred into the food.”

  I swallowed bile, unaccountably terrified.

  “And then he ate the meal. Their sins,” she said. “He stuffed himself with sins.”

  Her tone was so hateful I wanted to scream and run.

  “The villagers knew he’d damned himself to save their souls. For this, they gave him money. Of course, there were disbelievers who maintained the priest was nothing more than a cheat, a con man tricking the villagers into feeding him and giving him money. They were wrong.”

  I heard her stand.

  “Because the evidence was clear. The sins had their effect. The evil spread through the sin-eater’s body, festering, twisting, bulging to escape.”

  I heard her doing something in the corner. I tensed from the sound of scratching.

  “And not just priests ate sins,” she said. “Sometimes special women did it too. But the problem was, suppose the sin-eater wanted to be redeemed as well? How could a sin-eater get rid of the sins? Get rid of the ugliness. By passing the sins along, of course. By having them eaten by someone else.”

  “You’re crazy,” I said. “I’m getting out of here.”

  “No, not just yet.”

  I realized the scratching sound was a match being struck. A tiny flame appeared. My stomach soured in pulsing agony.

  “A town filled with sin-eaters,” she said. “Monsters shunned by the world. Bearable only to each other. Suffering out of charity for the millions of souls who’ve been redeemed.”

  She lit a candle. The light grew larger in the room. I saw her face and gaped again, but this time for a different reason. She was beautiful. Stunning. Gorgeous. Her skin seemed to glow with sensuality.

  It also seemed to shimmer, to ripple, to—

  “No. My God,” I said. “You put something in my food.”

  “I told you.”

  “Not that foolishness.” I tried to stand, but my legs felt like plastic. My body seemed to expand, contract and twist. My vision became distorted, as if I peered at funhouse mirrors. “LSD? Was that it? Mescaline? I’m hallucinating.” Each word echoed more loudly, yet seemed to murmur from far away.

  I cringed as she approached, growing more beautiful with every step.

  “And it’s been so long,” she said. “I’ve been so ugly. So long since anyone wanted me.”

  Reality cracked. The universe spun. She stripped off her uniform, showing her breasts, her . . . Her body was . . .

  Despite the torture in my stomach, the insanity of my distorted senses, I wanted her. I suddenly needed her as desperately as anything I’d ever coveted.

  Passion was endless, powerful, frantic. Rolling, we bumped the tray, sending glass and plate, knife and fork and steak sauce crashing down. A lamp fell, shattering. My naked back slammed against the sharp edge of a table, making me groan. Not from pain. I screamed in ecstasy.

  And just before I came with an explosive burst, as if from the core of my soul, as if after foisting her sins upon me she needed something from me in return, I felt her drawing me close to her, down, ever down.

  She moaned and pleaded, “Eat me. Eat me!”

  I lost consciousness. The Nebraska state police claim they found me wandering naked down the middle of Interstate 80 at one o’clock in the afternoon two days later. They say I was horribly sunburned. I don’t know. I don’t remember. All I recall is waking up in the hospital in Iowa City.

  In the psych ward.

  The doctors lie. They claim I’m not ugly. Then why have they locked me up and taken the mirrors away? Why do the nurses flinch when they come in with guards to feed me? They think they’re so smart. Despite the thick wire screen across the window, at night I see my reflection. I don’t have a chin. There’s only one eye. In place of a nose, I’ve got two flat, repulsive slits. I’m being punished. I understand that now. For all the evil in the world.

  I used to be a Catholic, but I don’t go to church anymore. When I was young, though, learning to go to confession, the nuns made me memorize a speech to say to the priest in the booth. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was . . . And then I’d tell him how long ago, and then I’d confess, and then I’d finish by saying, I’m sorry for these and all my sins. I am, you know. I’m sorry. Except I didn’t commit them. The sins aren’t mine.

  My wife and children come to visit. I refuse to let them see me. I can’t bear to look at the sickened reaction in their eyes.

  How can a sin-eater get rid of the sins? That’s what she said to me. By passing the sins along, of course. By having them eaten by someone else.

  I’ve known for several weeks now what I had to do. It was simply a matter of pretending to be calm, of waiting for my chance. I hope the guard wasn’t badly hurt. I tried not to hit him too hard. But his head made a terrible sound when I cracked it against the wall.

  I’ve been very clever. I’ve stolen three cars, and I’ve never kept one long enough for the state police to catch me. It’s taken me two days to return.

  That’s why the tree’s so important. It’s my landmark, you see. Remember the off-ramp had no sign. The tree’s all I had to give me direction.

  But I’m puzzled. Oh, I found the tree all right, its branches in the shape of the menorah candelabrum. And it’s so distinctive I can’t believe there’d be another like it. But I swear it had eight upright branches then, and it was bare.

  But now it’s got nine.

  And leaves have sprouted.

  Dear God, help me. Save me.

  I pressed the accelerator to the floor, racing along the two-lane blacktop. As before, the road stretched forever. Doubt made me frantic. I tried not to glance at the rearview mirror. All the same, I weakened, and my ugliness made me wail.

  I saw the building in the distance, the glint of sunlight off the metal roof. I whimpered, rushing closer. And I found the town again. Exactly the same. The water tower. The cattle pen (but it’s full now). The service station, the BAR-B-CUE.

  I don’t understand, though. Everyone’s normal. I see no goiters, no hunchbacks, no twisted limbs and festering sores. They stare as I drive past. I can’t stand to see their shock and disgust.

  . . . I’ve found her house. I’m in here waiting.

  In the hospital, the doctors said I was having delusions. They agreed my initial suspicion might have been correct—that some chemical in my food could have made me hallucinate, and now the effec
ts of the drug persist, making me think I’m ugly, distorting my memory of the trip. I wish I could believe that. I even wish I could believe I’ve gone crazy. Anything would be better than the truth.

  But I know what it is. She did it. She made me eat her sins. But damn it, I’ll get even with her. I’ll make her take them back.

  I’ve been writing this in her living room while I glance hurriedly out the window. In case something happens to me, so people will understand. It wasn’t my fault.

  But she’ll come home soon. Yes, she will. And then . . .

  I hear a car door. On the street, someone’s stepping from a station wagon.

  Oh, sweet Christ, at last.

  But no, it’s not one person.

  Two. A man and a woman.

  And the woman isn’t the one I want.

  What happened? Did she leave?

  They’ll come in. They’ll find me.

  I don’t care. I can’t bear this anymore. I have to pass the sins along. I have to . . .

  I found a knife in the kitchen. See, I don’t know the words. I don’t know how to put my sins in the food.

  But I remember the last thing she said to me. I know how to do it. I have to use the knife and a fork and make them—

  Eat me.

  © 1984 by David Morrell.

  Originally published in Whispers 5,

  edited by Stuart L. Schiff.

  Reprinted by permission of the author.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  David Morrell is the critically acclaimed author of First Blood, the novel in which Rambo was created. He holds a Ph. D. in American literature from Penn State and was a professor in the English department at the University of Iowa. His numerous New York Times bestsellers include the classic spy trilogy The Brotherhood of the Rose (the basis for the only television mini-series to premier after a Super Bowl), The Fraternity of the Stone, and The League of Night and Fog. An Edgar, Anthony, and Macavity nominee, Morrell is the recipient of three Bram Stoker awards from the Horror Writers Association as well as the prestigious lifetime Thriller Master Award from the International Thriller Writers’ organization. His writing book, The Successful Novelist, discusses what he has learned in his four decades as an author. He lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

  To learn more about the author and this story, read the Author Spotlight.

  NOVEL EXCERPT

  Egmont USA Presents:

  Amity

  (novel excerpt)

  Micol Ostow

  * * *

  Please enjoy the following excerpt of the new novel Amity by Micol Ostow, coming this month from Egmont USA:

  When Connor's family moves to Amity, a secluded house on the peaceful banks of New England's Concord River, his nights are plagued with gore-filled dreams of demons. destruction, and revenge. Dreams he kind of likes. Dreams he could make real, with Amity's help. Ten years later, Gwen's family moves to Amity for a fresh start. Instead, she's haunted by lurid visions, disturbing voices, and questions about her own sanity. But with her history, who would ever believe her? And what could be done if they did? Because Amity isn't just a house. She is a living force, bent on manipulating her inhabitants to her twisted will. She will use Connor and Gwen to bring about a violent end as she's done before. As she'll do again. And again. And again.

  Inspired by a true-crime story, Amity spans generations to weave an overlapping, interconnected tale of terror, insanity, danger, and death.

  * * *

  Prologue

  Here

  Here is a house; bones of beam and joints of hardware, stone foundation smooth, solid as the core of the earth, nestled, pressed, cold and flat and dank against the hard-packed soil and all of its squirming secrets.

  Here is a house; sturdy on its cornerstones, shutters spread wide, windowpanes winking against the speckled prisms of daylight. Weather-beaten slats of knotted siding, drinking in nightfall. Tarred shingles surveying star maps, legends shared in the pattern of dotted constellations above.

  Here is a house; not sane, not sentient, but potent, poisonous, drenched with decay.

  Here is a house of ruin and rage, of death and deliverance, seated atop countless nameless unspoken souls.

  Here is a house of vengeance and power, land laid claim by wraiths and ciphers, persistent and insistent, branded and bonded and bound.

  Here is where I live, not living.

  Here is always mine.

  Now

  Dear Jules:

  The Halls moved out of Amity today.

  She told me. Amity did.

  Like a bat out of hell. Or bats, I guess, seeing as it was the four of them—Mr. and Mrs., and the kids, Luke and Gwen. Who aren’t really kids, you know, with Gwen being exactly my age—our age—and Luke barely a full year older. Not quite twins—not like us. But close enough, right?

  Anyway: Gwen. I could tell Gwen was different right from the start. Something about the light in her eyes told me that she had ways of seeing that were . . . well, you know, different from normal people.

  I liked that about her. Of course. I like different.

  It reminds me of me.

  But Amity? Well.

  Amity doesn’t care much about different. Amity doesn’t care much about anything, does she? Amity just wants what she wants.

  Twenty-eight days. Barely a month. That’s how long they lasted, the Halls, at Amity.

  Exactly the same as us.

  —Connor

  Part One: Arrival

  Ten Years Earlier

  Day One: Connor

  It was hot on the day we moved in, brutally hot, in that way that makes you feel almost crazy, sweat dripping into your eyes so bad you’re practically blind. When we first pulled up in the van, Amity glimmered so you could almost see the ripples of heat with your own eyes, like a mirage plunked down far outside a tiny New England town. It wasn’t a day for heavy lifting; only a crazy person would have tried moving all on their own, in that kind of weather.

  But no one ever said that Dad wasn’t completely insane.

  Even being so close to the water, the sun was near unbearable. When Jules whined, Dad fixed her with one of his looks. Dad was never known for his patience. Not like me. I can be very patient. When it’s useful, I mean.

  Normal people would have hired movers, professional guys, to get the job done. But Dad said, “Why would I pay hard-earned money when we’ve got four pairs of hands among us?”

  Yeah. Four pairs, so at least he wasn’t expecting Abel to do much lugging.

  Abel was only six, but you kind of never knew with Dad.

  I just hoped that even then, even little, my brother knew he was getting a pass. Dad wasn’t much for passes. This was definitely your onetime-deal kind of thing.

  There were no onetime-deal passes for Jules, or for me. Seventeen, I wasn’t an athlete at all—team sports rubbed me the wrong way—but I was strong enough.

  Strong enough for some stuff.

  So there we were on moving day. Jules whined, Dad glared, Abel mewled, and Mom worried. And I hitched my shorts up and wrangled a box marked “fragile” in six different places. It made a clinking sound as I hiked down the drive and past Mom, who made a face at the tinkle of shattered glass.

  Our first day in Amity, and things were already all falling apart.

  Mom had bought this sign, I remember.

  Seriously, it was the stupidest thing. Like so stupid, I mean, that you almost had to feel all sorry for her for even having it. For, like, going into a store, and seeing it, and thinking, Yes, I want that, I should have that thing, and then paying real, actual money to own it. I can’t even tell you. I didn’t even know where you could find something stupid like that, a sign for a house.

  “Amity,” it said: this fake etching on a cheap, shiny, little fake wooden plaque. She must’ve had it made up special, which made the whole thing even dumber. I didn’t know anyone whose house had a name. It was the kind of thing you’d see in a movie, like if someone were rich
or whatever. But no rich person would buy something tacky like this.

  We weren’t rich. I mean, we weren’t poor. Which I guess meant we were in the middle. Probably from the outside it looked like we were doing better than we really were. That was Dad’s thing—making sure we looked like we were doing better, doing well. God only knew what his sketchy “business” deals were. He had to sell off the Ford dealership downstate real quick, and I knew some neighbors had their own theories about his work. None of them were all that flattering.

  But even with Concord being a little speck on the map, the kind of small town even small-town people are bored by, it was pretty, sort of. Like respectable. The kind of place you could maybe put down roots, not the kind of place you rushed to, all cowering in the dead of night, your stuff piled sky-high in the back of a pickup, no forwarding address left behind.

  Concord was a respectable town, one of the oldest in the country. I guess Dad picked it thinking some respectability might rub off on us.

  Also, the house came cheap. I didn’t know why at the time.

  I didn’t care much about things like what a house cost, but I had to admit that Amity was nice. It was pretty big. Much bigger than our old place. In Amity, my bedroom was connected to Jules’s by a bathroom we had all to ourselves. That bathroom felt like a real, big-time luxury after sharing just a single john with Mom and Dad for so long. It had one of those ancient bathtubs with the heavy iron claw feet that looked about a hundred years old. Jules thought it was cute but I thought you had to wonder how many people had soaked their bones in a tub that old, and where those people were now. And Abel’s room was way down the hall, so for the first time in forever Jules and I wouldn’t be woken by him at the unholy crack of what-the-sweet-living-Jesus every day.

  On the third floor, there was a room I hoped for a second would be a den or something, like for me and Jules to hang out in, especially since Dad wasn’t one for sharing the old remote in the family room. It would’ve been nice to have a space of our own just to, you know, be in. But Mom said it was going to be her “sewing room,” like we were living in a fifties sitcom, so that was that. Never mind that I couldn’t remember the last time I saw her sew. Jules was always trying to get me to go easier on the old lady anyway.