Nightmare Magazine Issue 23

by Nightmare Magazine

  My mother stood by me when things were toughest, when I couldn’t stop crying, but it proved too much for us to stay in the neighborhood after what had happened, and before the year was out we had moved to another part of the city where we could start again.

  I still think about Mitch, even all these years later, and about the house I lived across from for eleven years but never really knew. Sometimes I think I know just what happened there, that if I could have found a way to get Mitch inside it he’d still be there today, ready to play the games we once played. Maybe the answer to everyone’s problems was staring us right in the face, and though we were all too blind to see it, I was the only one foolish enough to ruin it. Or, perhaps there are some things that will come for you no matter what you do, no matter where you hide. Eventually, they’re going to find you.

  Then again, maybe it was all nothing. Perhaps the events were fabrications of an eleven-year-old mind, incapable of accepting both the loss of his father and the death of his friend. I’m not sure, but sometimes, when I hold back my curtain and look through the window, I see the shadows of butterflies flitting from flower to flower, and a chill runs through me. I can feel them watching me patiently, waiting for the curtain to finally drop.

  © 2010 by Simon Strantzas.

  Originally published in Cemetery Dance.

  Reprinted by permission of the author.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Simon Strantzas is the author of the critically acclaimed short story collections Beneath the Surface (2008), Cold to the Touch (2009), Nightingale Songs (2011), and Burnt Black Suns—published in 2014 by Hippocampus Press. His fiction has been nominated for the British Fantasy Award and has appeared in The Year’s Best Dark Fantasy & Horror, The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror, The Best Horror of the Year, The Year’s Best Weird Fiction, the Black Wings series, Postscripts, Cemetery Dance, and elsewhere. He was born in the cold darkness of the Canadian winter and has resided in Toronto, Canada ever since.

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

  NOVEL EXCERPT

  Samhain Publishing Presents:

  Proud Parents

  (novel excerpt)

  Kristopher Rufty

  * * *

  Please enjoy the following excerpt of the new novel Proud Parents by Kristopher Rufty, coming this month from Samhain Publishing:

  He’s still their son. No matter what. It was a risky experiment, but Greg and Sheila wanted a baby. Unable to conceive, they signed up for the project. Their prayers were answered when they were selected for the experiment. And it worked. All of the chosen families conceived. Then came the mutations—followed by the men with guns, killing everyone, and the fire that burned the place to ashes, erasing its failure from existence. But it didn’t eliminate them all. Six years later, Greg and Sheila are still on the run with their son, Gabe, moving from small town to small town, just wanting a life to call their own. Gabe’s getting worse, his appetite is voracious, and his temper is untamable. And now Gabe is changing…again.

  * * *

  Three minutes had passed since Sgt. Macowee last knocked. He’d been tolerant, but with this being his third attempt, his patience was pretty much gone.

  Tanner, his much younger partner, stood with him, eager to kick in the door. Macowee knew better. He’d been a cop way longer than Tanner. Although Tanner was a damn good cop, he lacked common sense in situations like this.

  “It seems awfully quiet,” said Tanner, smacking his gum hastily.

  “Good observation there, Tanner,” replied Macowee, not taking his eyes off the door.

  “Too quiet.”

  Macowee crossed in front of Tanner, stepping over to the picture window. The blinds were drawn tight. Smashing his face against the glass, he couldn’t see past the shield of the blinds.

  “I already checked. You can’t see crap,” Tanner said. Macowee sighed at his partner’s colorful vocabulary. “What do you think happened?”

  “I don’t rightfully know. But it seems kind of odd to me that two social service workers would come out here and just up and vanish.”

  At first, Macowee had suspected the social workers had gotten lost on their way back. He could understand it; this house wasn’t an easy one to find. They’d had quite a time themselves, even though Tanner had sworn he used to date a girl that lived nearby. The car could have broken down; a flat tire was also a possibility. He’d half-expected to find them sitting in their car on the side of the road on their way in. He hadn’t. Suspicion nudged at him, skittering up his spine, but he didn’t allow it to consume him just yet.

  Play it by ear. No jumping to conclusions.

  The house was located on the outskirts of the county, almost outside their jurisdiction, in the thick forests of Clintonville, Wisconsin. The appearance of the house gave Macowee the creeps, but he refused to admit it, even to himself. It stood alone, surrounded by woods; old, but not dilapidated, though it could use some repairs to the exterior. The white paint had faded and peeled in places, pock-marking the house with the bad complexion of neglect. A Victorian-style house, it stood two stories tall, coming to a point on the top floor.

  The report Sandy had read to them said that a call came in around 5:00 p.m. from Earl, the supervisor at the Department of Social Services. It stated:

  Two of my girls, Glenda Holt and Terri Blanchard, went to the home of Paul and Sara Gordon to investigate a tip from the local mailman. From what the mailman states, the Gordons must have a kid, though he’d never laid eyes on one. He has delivered many packages from Internet pharmaceutical distributers to this address, not thinking much of it. Then, following several occurrences of screams, almost guttural roars that put him in mind of some form of inhuman pain, he became suspicious and began looking into the contents of the packages. What he discovered was that the prescriptions were for a child, as well as many extremely strong medications, like tranquilizers and such. He felt guilty for snooping in their mail, but he was very concerned about what was going on in that house and if anyone was being harmed. He felt it may be best to have someone check it out. So, I sent Mrs. Holt and Ms. Blanchard to the home shortly before 11:00 a.m. this morning and I haven’t heard anything from them since. They had another appointment at 1:30 p.m. that they did not return to the office for.

  Sally went on to add that Earl was worried and he’d tried phoning them both for a few hours before finally putting the call in to the police. Macowee wished he had called sooner. Maybe they would have found something.

  All we have now is a deserted house and an empty driveway, with the exception of our cruiser.

  Tanner spoke, startling Macowee from his thoughts. “Yeah, you’re right, it doesn’t sound right.” Tanner sighed. “Think maybe they tried to take the kid and something happened?”

  “That’s what we’re here to find out. I’ll knock one more time and then call it. We can give Sandy a buzz and see if we have grounds to enter on probable cause.”

  Tanner turned around and leaned against the rail, crossing his arms. “I say we call her now. No one’s here.”

  Macowee ignored him and pounded on the door with the bottom of his fist. Hearing a clicking noise, he stopped. The door slowly swayed inward with groan.

  Tanner joined Macowee at the door. They shared a look of concern and then looked back to the partially open door.

  “Well?” said Tanner, his hand moving to his gun.

  “You know what to do,” Macowee answered.

  They drew their guns.

  Macowee leaned his head into the gap between the door and the frame. “Hello? Is anyone home? It’s the Clintonville Sheriff’s Department!” He waited for an answer but received none. Macowee took a deep breath. “One more time, Clintonville deputies here, and we’re at the front door! We’re coming in if you do not respond!” Tanner went to rush past him, but Macowee held his left arm out, blocking his way. Macowee continued to wait, but still got no reply.

  “Are we going
in?” Tanner asked, impatiently.

  “Yeah.”

  Macowee stepped inside. Tanner followed. Pointing their guns this way and that, they skulked into what was most likely the living room. They walked to the center of the room and pressed their backs together, each keeping an eye on the way in. Tanner faced the entrance they’d used while Macowee focused on the rear, the direction they would be heading.

  Macowee cast his gaze over the room, scanning each shadowy crevice that could possibly hide someone. No one was there.

  The room itself had been demolished: the coffee table turned over, magazines strewn across the floor, an end table lay on its side. The TV was on, but the image flickered with static and there was no sound. A couple blankets were strewn about a pile of children’s coloring books that were on the floor. Broken crayons littered the top.

  “Jesus Christ, what happened here?” asked Tanner, his voice shaky. He kept one eye squinted, looking down the barrel of his gun.

  “Looks like we have a positive on a kid,” said Macowee, thrusting his chin toward the coloring books.

  “Yeah . . .”

  “Let’s split up, check the place out. You take the left, I’ll take the right.”

  “Got it,” said Tanner. He darted across the room, disappearing on the other side of the doorway that led into a hall. His footsteps echoed in the hallway on the other side of the wall.

  After giving Tanner time to move on, Macowee whipped his gun around and slipped through the same doorway Tanner had just gone through moments ago. He could see his partner investigating the kitchen to the left. Tanner glanced back, making eye contact with Macowee. They both nodded. Macowee pointed in front of him, indicating to his partner that he was heading forward.

  Then he was moving again.

  Macowee searched the rooms that occupied the narrow hallway. Other than mess and discarded debris, he found nothing out of the ordinary.

  He searched a spare room that was mostly empty and a bedroom he assumed belonged to the parent or parents, due the size of the bed. The bathroom had also been pillaged, but it was empty.

  He made his way down the hall, to the last bedroom on the left. The door was slightly ajar. He paused, taking a deep breath and slowly releasing it.

  Entering, Macowee found the room was pitch black. He could almost make out two sets of windows on the far side of the room, but they had been blacked out with either a dark tarp or plastic, which took away all hope of any light from outside getting in.

  He switched the gun from his right hand to his left and fumbled his fingers across the wall in a mad quest for the light-switch. Arching his fingers like a spider, they crawled along the wall. The tips tinkered over a hard plastic cover. He stopped.

  “Let there be light,” he mumbled, flipping the switch. The room filled with a dark blue light, the kind you would normally see at the zoo while exploring the reptile exhibit; certainly not what Macowee had expected.

  He took a couple steps forward, entering the shadowy bedroom. It was as dark as moonlight. Stopping a few feet inside, he took the gun and placed it back in his trigger hand. He pointed it forward, preparing himself for anything.

  He scanned the room. He checked the dressers to the left. The drawers had been pulled open and left that way. Empty. A few articles of clothing had been left behind, draping over the gaping drawers. A shirt sat crumpled in a wad at the foot of the dresser. Tanner knelt down and snatched it with his free hand. Holding it by the collar he flung it wide. The shirt opened up. It was small, big enough for a child around the age of six or so. The design on the front was a Tyrannosaurus Rex towering over a quivering Stegosaurus.

  A kid definitely has been here. Where are you now, little guy?

  He dropped the shirt on the floor, stood. Adjusting his belt, he moved on.

  The closet was just a few feet from the dresser. The door stood open. He stepped to the opened frame and removed his flashlight from his belt. The closet’s interior was even darker than the room. Holding the flashlight by his head, he clicked it on. A small beam of light cut through the black. He shined it here and there, only discovering vacated thin-wired clothes hangers inside.

  Sighing, Macowee turned his back to the closet. He scanned the room with his flashlight as he walked toward the bed. Shining the light to his left, the round disc skimmed across crayon drawings taped to the wall. From the skill with which they had been created, he figured the artist was a child. The drawings varied. Some were just shapes or scribbled lines, but the ones scattered on the floor were what intrigued him the most.

  He made his way to the scattered stack and crouched. He set the flashlight on the floor, keeping the beam pointed at the drawings. Flipping through the sketches he found crayon creations of madness, as if a six year old child had been drawing a horror comic, telling tales on the gore-drenched pages.

  A lady, scribbled in blue and red, lay on her back while a small, fuzzy creature tore into her stomach, pulling out her intestines. The intestines were drawn with red in curved lines. The guts wrapped around a greenish-colored ball for a hand. The fingers were a row of small lines.

  The creature was apparently feasting on the red lines.

  Feasting on the guts . . .

  Macowee tossed the picture aside, disgusted. Underneath was a sloppily drawn man on white construction paper in black crayon. The featureless man held a shovel over a patch of scribbled green lines that Macowee guessed was grass. Stick arms and legs protruded from the green patch. While this man was apparently burying bodies, the creature sat on a rock and watched. Both figures in the drawing had curved lines for mouths. Smiles. Either happy from the grave digging, or just enjoying the time together.

  The last drawing was somewhat a pleasant one: a family of three holding hands. The man with the shovel was on the right, a woman with black hair was on the left, and in the middle was the creature. This drawing depicted him with light brown hair on top of his head, a light green body the color of plastic Easter grass, and little brown lines waving across its body which Macowee assumed were tiny hairs.

  “The whole family,” he muttered.

  Nauseated, Macowee stood up and turned around. His eyes landed on the bed. He paused. He hadn’t checked there yet, but he really didn’t want to, either. Although he hadn’t found much of anything useful, he felt as if he had found a hidden cemetery in this room.

  Still might, he realized.

  Aiming the flashlight to the top of the mattress, he saw blankets piled and bundled into a massive ball. They’d been folded and wrapped around one another. It wasn’t a gigantic mound, but definitely one that was large enough to conceal a kid.

  He slid his thumb over the safety lock on his gun and flipped it the left. The gun was ready to fire. He stepped over to the bed, his tread soundless on the padded carpet. At the bed, he slouched over, using the barrel of his gun to sort through the blankets. He pulled sheet after sheet away on his way to the bottom.

  Sticking his barrel deep into the mound, it smacked something solid with a thump.

  He’d gone too deep for someone of any size to be hiding under the blankets, but he’d definitely found something that wasn’t the mattress.

  With the help of his left hand, he jerked the blankets out of the way, unveiling the solid object his gun had poked.

  He jumped back, screaming once he saw the surprise waiting for him below the sheets. “Tanner? Get in here! Now!” He pressed the side of his gun against his thudding heart.

  The sound of Tanner’s frantic approaching footsteps came from the hallway. Tanner appeared at the doorway, panting. “What’d you find?”

  “This,” said Macowee, pointing to the severed female hand.

  © 2014 by Kristopher Rufty.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Kristopher Rufty is the writer/director of the movies Psycho Holocaust, Rags, and Wicked Wood, and he is also the author of Angel Board, The Night Everything Changed, and The Lurkers. He also hosts Diabolical Radio, an internet radio show devo
ted to horror fiction and film. The show has been online for nearly five years now and has developed quite an archive list and following. He is married to his high school sweetheart and is the father of two insane children that he loves dearly, and together they reside in North Carolina with their 120-pound dog Thor and a horde of cats. He is currently working on his next novel, script, or movie. For more about Kristopher Rufty, please visit lastkristontheleft.blogspot.com.

  NONFICTION

  The H Word:

  The Intersection of Science Fiction and Horror

  Lucy A. Snyder

  Science fiction and horror share many of the same genre roots; science fictional motifs wind through horror like strands of DNA, and horror’s tentacles have slithered into many works that are otherwise squarely science fiction. If science fiction is the literature of ideas, and horror is the literature of fear, there’s plenty of room for the two to blend.

  Take Mary Shelley’s 1818 novel Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus, for instance. Every Nightmare reader has at least a passing familiarity with this work, if not from reading the novel itself then from watching any of the legion of movies, television shows, and cartoons that have featured Frankenstein or his monster (or recognizable variants) as characters. Shelley set out to write a horror story, but in doing so she not only created one of the most influential horror novels of all time, but she also wrote what is arguably one of the first genuine science fiction novels. Without Victor Frankenstein’s laboratory experimentation—a science fictional extrapolation based on what little was known about electrophysiology in Shelley’s day—the whole story would fall apart.