All stories Copyright © by Craig Saunders 2012
Rights reverted on all previously published content
Dead in the Trunk
by
Craig Saunders
(inc. sample of Spiggot (novel) and introductions by the Author)
Acknowledgements
Just wanted to say thanks to Stephen A. North, Suzanne Robb, Iain Rob Wright, Stony Graves and Ian Woodhead for the friendship, and Iain Rob Wright, Ian Woodhead and Suzanne Robb, and Stephen A. North for the bonus material.
I'd also like to add an extra massive thanks to Ian Woodhead for being a guru and teaching me everything that would fit in my brain about indie publishing this book.
And of course, Sim, always.
Love you all.
Table of Contents
Mudman
Grass can be Weeds, too
The Martyr’s Tale
The Allotment of Time
4 Degrees of Separation
The Monkey’s Sandwich
The Body in the Bed
Recollection
Love is Like That
Sunday Night Séance Club
The House of Dreams
Rapture
Fake Plastic
Happiness
In a Town Like This
Insulation
Slate
Novel Sample: Spiggot
Also by Craig Saunders:
Novels
The Estate
A Home by the Sea
Rain
The Noose and Gibbet
A Stranger's Grave
The Love of the Dead
Spiggot
The Seven Point Star
The Gold Ring
Novellas
Deadlift
Bloodeye
Scarecrow – Scarecrow by Craig Saunders and The Madness by Robert Essig
The Walls of Madness
The Dead Boy: A Dead Days Novella (# 1)
Short Story Collections
Dead in the Trunk
The Black and White Box
Dark Words and Black Deeds
Writing as C. R. Saunders:
The Evolution War
Vigil
Writing as Craig R. Saunders:
The Outlaw King (The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One)
The Thief King (The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two)
The Queen of Thieves (The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Three)
Rythe Awakes (The Rythe Trilogy Book One)
The Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy Book Two)
Coming Soon:
Left to Darkness
Masters of Blood and Bone
Flesh and Coin
Unit 731
Praise for Craig Saunders:
[A Home by the Sea] 'Brutal and poetic' - Bill Hussey, author of Through a Glass, Darkly and The Absence
[Rain] 'I'd say it's the best book I've read in a year.' - The Horror Zine
'Saunders brings the unthinkable to life with pure visual perfection.' Emma Audsley, the Horrifically Horrifying Horror Blog
'Stephen King with a touch of Cardiff dirt and a lot of London grime.' - Richard Rhys Jones, author of 'The Division of the Damned'.
[Spiggot] 'Incredibly tasteless, shamelessly lowbrow, and very, very funny!' - Jeff Strand, author of Lost Homicidal Maniac (Answers to "Shirley")
"With A Stranger's Grave, Saunders has written a truly dark, atmospheric and character driven tale, packed with page-turning mystery, sorrow, and a jaw-dropping reveal that will leave readers haunted long after they've gone to bed." --David Bernstein, author of Machines of the Dead and Amongst the Dead
'A talent to keep an eye on.' - Eric S Brown, author of Bigfoot War
"A top-notch, thrilling read. Craig Saunders is a master of the genre." Iain Rob Wright author of Animal Kingdom and Final Winter
'An awesome talent!' - Ian Woodhead: Author of Shades of Green and Infected Bodies
“The Love of the Dead starts out like the type of horror novel you think you’ve read before, then whacks you over the head and goes in a direction you didn’t see coming—think chainsaws at a daycare center. Saunders’ writing will creep into your spine and paralyze you with dread.” —David Bernstein, author of Amongst the Dead and Tears of No Return
[The Love of the Dead] 'Craig Saunders' unique chiller kept my eyes glued to the pages in anticipation.' - Kenneth W. Cain, author of These Tresspasses
The following story was shortlisted a total of four times with various publications. It was this story that led me, largely, to indie publishing. I figured if it was good enough for four shortlists, it was good enough to open this collection. I've been published in numerous magazines and anthologies. There are a ton of reasons a story doesn't get picked up. This one? No idea. But sometimes you have to stick to your guns. I like it. Hope you do, too.
That's a pretty heavy introduction, really, for what amounts to a sweet love story...but I'll let you in on a little secret...nobody gets flowers at the end.
Mudman
Peter Mason began to dig on August 14th 2005. He could have dug anywhere, really, but under the shed just seemed right. Somewhere else might have been easier. He might have had room to get a decent swing with the pickaxe. Most places, he wouldn’t have had to use the pickaxe at all. The contractors had built a concrete base to last back in the old days.
Like most stories, this one didn’t begin on August 14th, 2005. On that day, Peter Mason’s luck was shit. Mrs. Mason, Daisy Mason, well, her luck was even shittier. If Peter’s was a three wiper, Daisy’s was the kind of shit luck where you don’t even realise you’ve dropped a load down your leg until you get off the bus.
The digging started on August 14th, but in a way, the story started after the Christmas party the year before when Daisy’s supervisor had driven her home and fucked her on the bonnet of his BMW in a lay-by until she came so hard she forgot she was married until the day the hole under the shed was done.
It’d been hard digging. Breaking the concrete was the worst of it, but there was plenty of work down below that. Forgotten rubble, gnarly old bastard roots, shoring up the sides against the slides he hadn’t reckoned on, moving the planks down as he got deeper into the dirt. He bled. He got blisters. Later, there was callous where the blisters and blood had been before. The ground was frozen through the last stretch, but by then he was practically tearing through the dirt because the mudman was talking to him and a job sometimes goes easier with a little company.
He finished in the morning of December 15th 2005. The job was done when he laid the last board above the pit. The board had a circular hole two inches in diameter cut through them. Directly below that was a four by four post that ended precisely eight inches below the hole. A spike protruded from the end of the post, two inches high, directly in the centre of the post, perfectly centred in relation to the hole.
There was a light snow in the air, like icing sugar, when he stepped out into the light, blinking, unaccustomed to being greeted by daylight at the end of a dig. He dusted off his jeans, worn through in the left knee.
He was busy that afternoon, taking the boards up again, laying again them afterwards, so he didn’t write his letter until the evening. As it turned out, it worked out just right. Everyone was seemed happy, in the end.
Maybe not Daisy, so much, but mudman, for sure.
*
Peter Mason
The Shed
December 15th, 2005
Daisy,
Maybe this comes as a shock, reading this, down there. Maybe you’re thinking, how did I get here? But...
He shook his head and put the pen down. Begi
nning was easy. Peter was good a beginnings. But he wasn’t a finisher. It was the reason he was a struggling freelance writer, selling boring pieces to shitty markets for peanuts. His shed was freezing, too, which wasn’t helping his concentration. His hands were claws, the tendons proud on the back of his hands, canyons between them in the candlelight. The ink in the pen was sluggish, too. Probably cold enough to freeze it, but he wasn’t planning of writing a long letter. It was pretty simple. Back in the old days, people used to call them a ‘Dear John’ letter. This wasn’t a Dear Daisy. Just a Daisy. The ‘dear’ days were long gone.
Where do you go from there?
Reading this...comes as shock...
Well, did it? Really? You fuck about behind your husband’s back, you know it’s got to end. Either your husband tucks his cock between his legs and takes it, or he does something about it.
So, not a shock, but...kind of an awakening. Like being woken up with a sudden shout when you’re in the pit of sleep, right down low where the real work is done.
But, I’ve known about your affair since August. I guess you’ve known about it a while longer. I’m not going to be a bastard about it, though. You wanted him, not me. So, well, maybe it’s not such a shock.
Fuck. Should’ve maybe planned the letter out first. The pen was getting scratchy on the paper. He couldn’t feel his hands anymore and his ears were starting to hurt from the cold. But it shouldn’t take too much longer to write. How hard could it be? They both knew what needed to be said. It was just a matter of clearing the air.
He clenched his jaw so hard he heard his teeth crack. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t get angry, not while he was writing the letter. It was just a letter. But it was getting difficult to concentrate with the constant cold and her moaning from the hole beneath the shed.
'Daisy. Honestly. I’m trying to be reasonable. I’m trying to concentrate, too. I’m writing, OK? So, you know. Come on. Be fair. I don’t bother you when you’re at work, do I? I know you’re busy, but I don’t come bugging you. Right? So, shut the fuck up. OK? I’m writing.'
Her moan settled down to a kind of whimper. Background noise. It was OK. He could live with that.
*
Sometime around the end of August Peter had done a pretty good job of breaking down the concrete base under the shed and Daisy had a rockery. She made a big show of being pleased with it. Went out and bought some plants especially for rockeries. Made out like she was chuffed with it, then said she had to work late the following night and probably fucked her supervisor in a misplaced display of gratitude.
Time got a little hazy there for a while, but when Peter thought back, the mudman started talking to him somewhere about six feet down into the hole. The passage of time ceased for a while and instead of months and weeks things became about feet and inches. The later part of that year wasn’t about writing features about ladies’ shoe companies, or schools for the blind or some other boring shit. It was about shovels and saws and axes and mostly dirt.
The dirt was a problem. The shed wasn’t huge – six foot by four. The hole went down eight feet. Eight by Six by Four. 192 cubic feet. Thereabouts, anyway. He didn’t know why it had to be eight feet deep, because Daisy was only five six, but the mudman wanted eight feet. Peter was happy to stop at six feet, but then the mudman came along, and he wanted to go deeper. He always wanted to go deeper.
Four Six Eight. The mudman liked that kind of thing. He liked playing with numbers. He was always talking numbers.
Maybe the mudman was a little autistic. Like a kind of savant, but just with numbers. Or maybe it was something obsessive, a kind of OCD thing. Anyway, the thing of it was, Peter got to six feet and the mudman came along so he kept on digging and pretty soon after that he realised the mudman was fucking nuts.
*
'Peter? Peter?'
Peter’s head hurt from the cold. He could hear the mudman and Daisy, both down below. Daisy’s voice, annoying now where once he’d found it sexy, kind of husky. A turn on, truth be told.
The mudman was kind of gurgly. But then he was made of mud. Sometimes Peter wasn't sure when mudman was talking out loud, or in his head. Sometimes it seemed like he was doing both.
It sounded like he was doing equations. Peter wasn’t mathematically inclined, so when the mudman started in on numbers he kind of switched off. The mudman’s wet voice was sort of soothing, like having the radio on low in the background. Daisy’s voice was putting him off.
'Shut up. I swear. I’m trying to write this fucking letter and you’re incessant whinging...Daisy...fuck...just. Just. You know?'
'Peter. Please. Please. Peter. Let me out. I’m sorry. OK? Me and Michael...Peter...It was just a fling. That’s what this is about? I’m sorry...so...Peter? It’s over. OK? It’s been over since September. He got transferred. It was a mistake...Peter? Please. I’m sorry...'
He was fairly sure she was crying, but it didn’t really matter. She was kind of annoying when she cried, too. This hitching, snivelling, snorty sort of blubbing. Like a fat kid.
He tried to tune it out. Ignore it. But then she screamed and made him jump.
'Shut up! Shut up!' He stamped on the boards, like he wanted to stamp on her head, but he couldn’t stamp on her head because that wouldn’t be good enough.
'Peter! There’s someone...thing...ah...Jesus! Peter!'
Peter smiled. Mudman must've been talking in his head. Now he was awake.
'It’s alright. That’s the mudman. He likes you. You’ll get on fine.'
She shouted for a while, then she went quiet. The mudman was slurping and muttering, but he sounded happy enough. Peter tuned out and got back to writing.
The thing is...I knew I wasn’t good enough for you. I expected it. You know? You probably don’t know. You were so beautiful, confident. I was just me. Nothing special. I waited for you to leave me. Couldn’t believe my luck. Wanted you from the first moment I saw you, but really, I knew I could never hold on.
But behind my back. That’s what I couldn’t take. Reasons don’t really matter now. I think things have probably gone a little too far for a reconciliation. Mudman says you’ve got to get even. I didn’t really want to, but he’s pretty insistent. As I write this I think maybe mudman’s eating you. I’m not sure. He wanted me to bring you here. He’s been talking to me for a while now. He likes numbers, so, if you want to keep him happy while you’re down there, I guess you could...I don’t know...do the times tables? I’m shit with numbers. As you know. He seems to like prime numbers. I give him numbers, sometimes. Try to get him to work out whether they’re prime. He likes it. I think he gets a little bored down there sometimes. It’ll be good for him to have a friend.
Shit. Look at me. I’m supposed to be breaking up with you, explaining why I’ve done what I’ve done. Guess I must look a bit of a nut, digging a great big hole in the ground. It wasn’t going to be that big, but the mudman liked the dimensions. You know? Four by Six by Eight. I think he liked it. Don’t know why. Makes it out a 192 cubic feet, which isn’t prime, but when you add the numbers it makes 12, and you add those, and it makes three, which is prime, and 192 is also divisible by three, which made him happy enough, although it works out 64, which isn’t prime, and that made him a little angry. He should’ve started with two, I think. Like 2 4 6 8. Maybe it had something to do with him losing his feet. Maybe that was why he wasn’t happy, and it wasn’t the equation thing. He kept slipping on the sides of the hole. Got a bit fed up with it I think. He wanted me to take them off. I said I didn’t want to do it. He said it didn’t hurt, but I think it did. But we’re friends, you know? And friends do that kind of thing for each other. Sometimes we do things we don’t want to do, messy things, but...
'Uhhh...Pe...help. Help!'
Mudman said something. He sounded happy. At least one of them was happy. Peter wasn’t a loon or anything. He knew Daisy would be pretty pissed with him. But then, you dig a hole under your shed and put your wife in it, you’re goin
g make some enemies. That’s the kind of thing splits couples up.
'Ayuh...Peter...who...'
'It’s mudman. He’s fine. You’ll like him.'
Anyway, shit, I’m trying to write this letter and you keep shouting and being a bitch. I guess you know that. Anyway. Fuck it.
I had a point when I started writing this letter. Not good enough for you, I know. I knew I’d lose you. I don’t hate you. I don’t.
I wanted to make it up to you. I know you wanted the other guy. You looked happy. You know? I watched the two of you, sometimes. Here and there. You looked happy. I thought you should be with him.
He’s gone, though. There’s just mudman. But it’s not fair that you should be alone. I don’t want to hold you back. I’m going to kill myself right after I finish this letter. You can move on. Break ups can be messy. Divorce, fights, shouting. You know how it goes.
I had a point. I think I lost it. I think I lost it.
Mudman had it right. He didn’t want me to hurt you. I didn’t hurt you. I didn’t. You hurt me. He wants you. You want him. I don’t want to stand in the way. I could never hold onto you. You and mudman...you seem happy. Happy.
I think mudman’s gone crazy. I think maybe I’ve gone crazy, too. I don’t know if you’ll live long enough to go crazy. Mudman’ll eat worms and stuff. I don’t know about you. You were always picky about your food. You used to do that sweet thing, pretend gagging, when I made a shit dinner. I liked that. I liked the way your hair laid on my shoulder when I slept next to you. I liked the way you laughed at burps and farts. I liked it when we got married and you let me wear your blue garter down the aisle. It still makes me laugh.
Dead in the Trunk: A Short Story Collection Page 1