Playing with Fire (Anthology of Horror)

by Chryse; Coral Russell; Brian Fatah Steele; CAV Laster; Nomar Knight; Robynn Gabel; Susan Evelyn Wymer

  There we discussed what we had witnessed so far. At the time, we assumed that our father had taken ill and the stress of this had broken our mother. Why they had neglected to inform us, we couldn't deduce. No longer young children, we felt we had the right to know if our father was sick or dying. Bryce suggested confronting our mother, but Rachel pointed out that in her state, she might forbid us to see him again and force us to leave. How were we to aid him then? We all agreed to stay the weekend as planned, taking in as much information as possible, then regroup as a family come Sunday evening at Bryce and Amanda's home to figure out our next move.

  That, of course, never happened....

  That Friday evening progressed normally enough, I suppose. My mother wandered the house, rarely speaking to us unless to snap a judgment or speak ill. Father never left the chair in the library, although we peeked in on him constantly. We explored the house and found that perhaps only three-fourths of our parent's belongings had been unpacked. The home itself was huge and we all joined in a friendly squabble about what wings we were going to take for the night. Much of the house was still lushly furnished, and I began to wonder just how my parents had afforded this place. Why had it been so cheap? Bryce, a fan of horror-related movies and books, told me because it was obviously haunted. As I write this, I wonder how right he could have been.

  We had pizza delivered that Friday evening and although our mother screeched not to get any messes on the floor, Father seemed mildly thrilled at such a delicious treat. I could tell Bryce was getting irritated with our mother's attitude, but Amanda was doing her best to soothe him. Rachel was playing happily with Emily while Neil looked on with a certain gleam in his eyes. Jonathan and I spoke of his schooling. Eventually the five-year-old started to wear out and her parents decided to put her to bed in a room adjacent to theirs. The rest of us decided to stay up a bit longer.

  After a few more hours had passed, we all decided to call it a night. I must have taken a wrong turn or something, because I ended up on the second floor left wing instead of the right wing where I had chosen to bunk down. Chuckling to myself, I prepared to turn when I heard a moan. I crept further down the hall, when the moan started yelling out words that I won't repeat here. It was Amanda. It would seem she and Bryce had not simply gone to sleep. I found their actions a bit odd, considering the circumstances, but shrugged and made my way back to my room.

  It wasn't until Sunday that I noticed the changes, but as I look back now, I realize that they began on Saturday. That morning when I came down to find the kitchen, Amanda and Bryce were already making coffee. Amanda had on a robe that was draped open a bit more than should have been appropriate. Bryce didn't seem to notice or care, but I did my best to advert my eyes. When I asked about Emily, he grumbled something pertaining to Rachel. I must admit, I didn't think much of the behavior at the time, nor of the fact that Neil didn't appear until around noon.

  Most of the day went along well. We checked in on our father, who, after we had hassled to bed last night, had promptly returned to his chair in the library. Bryce seemed to be in a bad mood, although Amanda seemed more pleasant than usual. He was only brought out of his scowling when Jonathan told some particularly disgusting jokes he had heard recently. Neil roamed the house and Rachel worked Emily into such an excited frenzy that in the afternoon, she had to be put down for a nap.

  We had all discussed going out for dinner on Saturday the previous evening, but come the time, no one wanted to be bothered with leaving. We raided our parents' fridge and found enough supplies to make dinner for everyone. Of course, when Mother saw us in the kitchen, she threw a fit. Jonathan laughed at her and Bryce told her quite bluntly to leave. Eyes wide, she shook a finger at all of us threateningly and marched out. We ate a bizarre meal, concocted of various items, and everyone sat around the dinner table in a relatively good mood. Even Bryce had perked up a bit.

  That night when Amanda and Bryce excused themselves to put Emily to bed I wasn't surprised. What I was surprised by was how exhausted I was. I had done practically nothing all day, but my desire to sleep seemed overwhelming. I dragged myself to bed and was out as I hit the pillow.

  The next day, it was noon before I crawled out from under the covers. As I was coming down the steps, I found Rachel calling out for Neil. Asking me if I had seen my brother, I told her that I had just woken up. Throwing her hands in the air in exaggerated exasperation, she stormed off. Unconcerned, I strolled into the kitchen. This time I was greeted by the sight of Amanda in a robe that was fully undone, her sheer bra and panties exposed.

  I know I should have turned away and walked out. I should not have looked. The thing was: I didn't even care. Amanda was a beautiful young woman--Bryce had married well--but I didn't feel the least bit of a stirring. I remember thinking this was strange as I watched her pour herself a cup of coffee. She asked me if I wanted to sit, and I responded by asking about Emily. Amanda shrugged. I wandered out of the kitchen.

  Aimlessly, I maneuvered my way through the house. Eventually I found myself in the library. My father was smiling up at me. I sat down on the floor beside him and leaned my head against his chair. He mumbled something that vaguely sounded like,

  "I love you, Aaron." I closed my eyes and fell back asleep.

  Darkness. When I woke, it was dark. No one had turned the lights on that day in the library and Father was sitting in the dark, me slumbering on the floor beside him. I got to my feet and asked if he was okay. I could see him nod in the growing twilight, so I made my way out to the wide corridor. I blinked in the light as I came into the foyer and call out for anyone. Nothing. I walked into the kitchen to find it empty. Shuffling back to the foyer, I glanced out to make sure the cars were still here. They were. I realized it almost didn't matter.

  Taking the right corridor, I went down to the sitting room. I stood there blankly for a minute taking in the scene before me. Emily was running around in circles making the sounds of a train, oblivious to the fact that Jonathan was laughing at Rachel, who lay on the couch weeping. Eventually, my brother noticed me standing there and he pointed at me, giggling. Jonathan told me how he had been informing his soon-to-be sister-in-law how HER little sister, his ex, had cheated on him multiple times. He appeared deliriously happy at the result this had on Rachel. I took it all in mutely. When Emily made another pass around the room near me, I reached out to stop her. She snapped at me, her teeth biting only inches away from my hands. I leaned back and let her go on her way.

  I asked about Emily's parents and of Neil. Jonathan just laughed and said big brother Bryce was probably still fucking his wife. Rachel pulled her face away from the couch cushion long enough to wail that she had only seen Neil briefly that day. And our mother? Rachel was once again sobbing and Jonathan merely shrugged. I nodded and left.

  I had made it most of the way back down the hall when I had to stop and rest. Again, I was wiped out, as if the most basic of actions had taken the most strenuous toll on me. Trying to keep my eyes open, I felt an arm go around my mid-section and help me along. I know at some point I glanced up to see it was Neil. I may have murmured my thanks to him, but I honestly do not recall. He got me to a bedroom and laid me down.

  As Neil began to close the door on me, I do remember calling out his name. He came to my bedside and I asked him what was wrong with me, what was happening. I remember him saying that he was searching for something, that he thought he could fix things. He said we would never leave this house if he didn't make things right. Neil, the associate history professor, said he would save us as he gripped my arm then left me to my dreams.

  I never saw my little brother again.

  Whenever I woke up the next day, it was daylight. I had left my watch on my nightstand in my room the day previous. It took all my energy to pull myself from the bed and into the hall. By the time I started moving, I felt better. I was aware that it was Monday and I was supposed to be teaching at school, but for some reason, this didn't really bother me. I was mildly
concerned for my father, but even that sensation seemed distant and faint. Regardless, I decided to check in on him, leaning against the walls most of the way.

  Along the way I ran into Jonathan. He told me everyone was sitting down for dinner and that he was just coming to fetch me. Although I must admit I found this somewhat suspicious,--and I don't know why--I didn't care. He led me to the dining room, and sure enough, everyone was present, except for Neil. I thought to comment on this, but before I could, my mother started screaming.

  Like she had come out of a trance, she had looked around the room at her gathered family and their state and found it lacking. Father sat at the head of the table drooling down his chin, Bryce beside him with arms folded tightly. Amanda was curled up on a chair beside Bryce in only her sheer undergarments, her robe now fully discarded. Beside my mother was an empty chair, presumably for me, then one for Neil. Then sat Rachel, who rocked back and forth, tears streaming down her face. At the other end of the table, Emily had her face buried in a pile of mashed potatoes, an empty seat to her left for Jonathan.

  Our mother began howling, swearing at each of us, calling out our flaws and faults. She banged her fists on the table to punctuate her words, cursing us as failures in her eyes. There was such hate and rage in her voice, such utter contempt.

  Each of us took it differently. I slumped down to the floor, impassive, while Jonathan cackled at her display. Neither Amanda nor her daughter seemed to care, the first too busy rubbing her husband's arm, the child too busy gorging herself. Rachel wept harder as my father just bobbed his head and smiled. But Bryce, oh but Bryce...

  He grew more and more tense, visibly shaking, until he finally reached out and grasped one of the glass goblets that had wine in it. Hurling the wine at my mother's face, in the same motion he brought the top of the glass down against the tabletop, shattering it into a jagged shard. We were all stunned into silence, all but mother who continued her stream of obscenities, now directed fully at Bryce. Then, with a scream of defiance, Bryce lunged across the table and shoved the glass shard straight into our mother's throat.

  Before I passed out once more, I heard Rachel scream over Jonathan's maniacal laughter.

  I have no idea how long I was out that time, perhaps a few hours, maybe a day and a half. When I woke up, it was because something was rubbing against my mouth. I opened my lips slightly and something was shoved to my teeth. It was a nipple. I opened my eyes to see Amanda straddling me, nude. She was grinding her hips into me, the moistness between her spread legs already working into the thin cotton fabric of my pajamas.

  Through the haze in my brain, I knew this was wrong. Yet, strangely, I wasn't even remotely turned on. I managed to get my hand up to her chest and push her away. She called me a faggot and sauntered from the room. Lying there propped up against the wall, I rolled my head over to see the body of my mother. It was gone. Bryce must have removed the evidence of his madness.

  The more I thought upon it, the more I realized the truth behind that statement. We had all walked through the doors to this house and gone mad. And yet, each of us had somehow been afflicted in a different manner. Each effect had been specific, been personal, as if...

  I heard the giggling and shifted my head over to see Jonathan squatting in the corner of the dining room, defecating into a pile, his face covered in blood. I wearily asked him whose blood he had smeared on himself and why, not bothering to ask the reason he was shitting next to the dinner table. With a big grin, he told me it belonged to Rachel, that he had convinced Bryce that she had been on Mother's side. I believed I raised an eyebrow in confusion. Jonathan replied that he had said it to Bryce so that he would kill her so the bitch would stop crying. I shook my head. As his giggling commenced, he said that he couldn't wait to see what would happen when he told our eldest brother that his wife had been trying to fuck me. I tried to voice my objection, but Jonathan just wiped his ass with his hand, smeared the shit on the wall and left.

  Knowing my time was limited, especially with my uncontrollable onsets of slumber, I forced myself out into the house. Although the thought of my family falling apart didn't really matter to me at the time, I had enough in me for self-preservation. Commanding as much willpower as I could, I formulated a plan. Emily's room had been chosen, for it contained bunk beds.

  If I could just make it there and move the furniture, perhaps I could wait out the ensuing insanity. Perhaps I could survive.

  And survive I have, I suppose. Not for much longer, however. I made it to Emily's room and immediately fell asleep. It was only by pure luck and Bryce's madness that I wasn't found before I woke and could move the bunk beds. Next time I awoke, it was to Jonathan's screams, so I assume my eldest sibling turned on him. I have no idea if Amanda or my father are still alive, but two days ago I saw Emily running on all fours outside the window, her clothes in tatters.

  I have no food and I've been disposing of my waste in one of the closets since this window refuses to open. Whenever I'm conscious, I write down what I can before falling prey to my flaw of apathy. That's what it is, you see. This house brought out all of our darker aspects, our most subtle of faults. It latched on to them, so deeply buried but so deeply a part of us and brought them to the surface. It's the only thing I can deduce and I've had the time to think about it, locked away here in my niece's former bedroom.

  I'm just glad that the fool English teacher in me always kept a pen handy and that my brother and sister-in-law promoted Emily's love of art. But it's all coming to an end now. My bouts of slumber are getting more frequent, and during my times awake, I've heard Bryce smashing through rooms about the house. It's only a matter of time before I no longer wake or he simply finds me.

  Really, I don't much care. Although there is a small part of me inside that I think grieves for my father, wherever he may be. And Neil, I wonder what happened to Neil...

  The Lake Constantine Police Force are still investigating the disappearance of the entire Gastlin family, their bodies never found. The letter written by Aaron Gastlin was found by Samuel Nevelson, age 8, in August of 2006 underneath the bunkbeds of his new bedroom. He placed it on top of his dresser and forgot to give it to his parents in the excitement of moving in.

  Table of Contents

  The Stuff Dreams Aren't Made Of

  by

  Brian Fatah Steele

  The encampments had sprung up all around the edge of the desert, shabby little holes dug into the ground with tattered fabrics held up with broken sticks to act as tents. If you headed further into what used to be the city, you might be able to find a stray remnant in the ruins to help sturdy your home. Of course, if you looked away for a moment, it was likely to be stolen. Individuals here attacked for less than a blanket.

  Anything to remind them of their former lives.

  What had started out as a small band of refugees had grown recently in exponential numbers. No one was sure why, or how this had even been allowed to happen. Perhaps those in power were not aware. Perhaps they wanted everyone to gather together in one place so they could swoop down from on high. Or perhaps they simply no longer cared.

  Things had started out differently. Those who had fled to the desert's brink had wanted something better, something more than what hollow promises the city once held. However, as the encampment grew, so did the old ways. Greed and murder, lust and injustice. Decadence became a general way of life and those that spoke out were quickly silenced.

  Here in this place of misery, David shuffled along past a group of makeshift shelters. The sounds of copulation came to his ears through the thin material, grunting and moaning. Some had found solace in carnal activities, if they still could perform. Many sold their bodies for other necessities or vices. David had his own vice, but the spilling of his seed was not part of it.

  He had to travel through this area of the encampment from where he had once bedded down to reach his destination. All along the way, offers came to him from men and women alike. The few children p
resent even sauntered up his way, baring flesh for him to touch and taste. He dismissed them all, nonchalantly in manner, so as not to offend any rogue enforcers of the whores that may be lurking about.

  It was a trade and barter system, really. Each section had its own den of sin. Some of the coin might have changed since before, but the end result was still the same. Pleasure and content, a sense of escape. But no one really escaped; that was the irony.

  David followed a small path and came around to another grouping of tents. He passed a number of them, knowing which one he wished to be a patron of. He had come many times before to Garcia's and he was sure that the man would have the product he desired. Too often he had given to Garcia, and soon David knew he would be forced to pay a price higher than he might truly be able to.

  As he came up to the Mexican's tent, David saw a slim woman walk out carrying a battered shoebox. Another satisfied customer. David momentarily wondered what she had given him for the contents, what she had been willing to part with. He had been fool enough to ask Garcia once what he did to receive the products that David so desperately longed for. Garcia had threatened to never do business with him again should David feel so curious in the future.

  He stood outside the pale blue tent and coughed twice, as per the custom. Garcia bade him enter and David flipped back the fabric, walking in. The Mexican sat on a broken wooden crate, a wobbly card table set up next to him. Upon it and on the floor beneath sat piles of cardboard boxes of all shapes and sizes. Crumpled cigarette packs, toy containers, food packages--all types.