Wicked Haunted: An Anthology of the New England Horror Writers

by Daniel G. Keohane

William’s mind was made up for him when Justine’s belly started to swell.

  Manda heard the whispers and went in search of William to demand to know if they were true. When she found him, he was holding Justine’s hands in his and she was crying. That was all the answer Manda needed. Heartbroken, she turned and fled without approaching them. What a fool she had been. She had lost the boy she had loved since they were children.

  Justine and William were married the next week. Most of the village was there. Manda did not attend the wedding or the reception. Instead, she sat alone on a cliff staring out to sea, shed the last of her tears for him, and then hardened her heart. She vowed she would never love another.

  Manda struggled through the pregnancy, watching Justine’s belly swell with the life growing inside her, and with each day her resentment and anger grew. Justine had stolen her man and her future because the trollop had been willing to spread her legs while she had not. When the babe was born, and it was a beautiful, healthy girl, Manda lost any good feelings she might have harbored for William. Only hate now filled her heart.

  In the days, weeks and months that followed, Manda sank into a deep depression. She longed to leave the island, but none would take her and she could not do it on her own. She would sit on the cliffs overlooking the sea or seclude herself in the cottage to avoid a chance meeting with William or Justine and the babe.

  In November, when the sky turned dark and the winds blew with a chill from the north, Manda’s mood was as black as her future. Her only relief would be to follow Sean into oblivion.

  * * *

  Manda watched from the bluff as the approaching storm howled on the horizon. She heard voices crying in the wind, hollow laments filled with sorrow and desire from the throats of kindred spirits to her despair. Let William and the rest of the village hide behind stone walls and sacrificial sheep. On this night she would meet the wraiths face to face.

  As the fury of the storm grew, so did the screams and moans of the dead. When they burst from the sea, Manda’s mind rebelled at the sight. Bodies that had been whole and firm in life were torn and ravaged. Clothes hung off them, torn into rags by the sea and wind. Eyes that had once been blue, or brown, or green, now shown red in the night. Faces that had laughed or smiled in life howled in despair, or screamed in rage.

  Manda watched as they made their way from the beach below her to the village filled with life. Her desire to join them vanished in the stark reality of their presence. There was no adventure here, no romantic tragedy, just fear and hate. There was no way she could get to the safety of the cottage where her Da and Ma now sheltered. Her only hope was to hide here on the cliffs and hope they would pass her by.

  They had almost passed her by when one specter broke from the hoard and looked directly at the place where she hid cowering in the sea grass. Stay away! She thought, but the ghost streamed toward her. Its passage seemed smooth and effortless over the broken ground. When she jumped up to run, it closed the distance between them in an instant. It only took a second for her to recognize him . . . Sean.

  His once beautiful face was bloated. His smile was marred by missing teeth, and those that remained were sharp and pointed like a shark. His eyes burned with a fire neither the sea nor the storm could extinguish. Manda opened her mouth to scream, but her voice froze in her throat when the ghost invaded her body.

  Her muscles went rigid. The cold was so intense it burned. Worse than that was the attack on her mind. Sean poured all the sorrow, the regrets and the hate that had driven him to open the door of his home to the revenants. He fed her the fear and revulsion he had felt when one of them invaded his mind and body. No, she tried to scream, but her voice was frozen. Yes, he hissed, and took control of her body.

  She tried to fight him but it was useless. Her body was no longer her own. He walked her down to the shore, uncaring as she stumbled over sharp outcroppings of stone and shale. By the time they reached the breakers she was cut and bruised, bleeding in a dozen places. He walked her into the ocean. The saltwater that licked at her body eagerly sucked the blood away. Sean drove her onward, past her knees, her waist, her neck. And finally, her head.

  Manda tried not to breath in the cold sea, but Sean would not have it. He made her inhale the ocean as if it was a sweet summer breeze. Saltwater filled her throat and lungs. She gagged, but only drew in more. When her heart stopped beating, Manda’s battered body was being drawn out to sea by the raging waves. She would be trapped within it until the fish, crabs and worms reduced it to nothing but bone.

  * * *

  The next day, William stood on the cliff overlooking the surging sea. Was Manda out there, lost in its depths? No one, not even her Da or Ma had seen her since before the storm. When the storm came, and the people of the island had tied a sheep or goat to their sac-poles and retreated to the safety of their homes, Manda had not been with them. He had loved her their entire lives. He had never stopped loving her, even when she had hardened her heart against him. If he hadn’t turned to Justine in a foolish attempt to make her jealous, they would be together now. But the babe had changed everything. Once he had planted the seed in Justine’s belly, all their lives had changed.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, as he dropped the handful of late blooming flowers he had gathered on his way to the top of the cliff into the sea below. Everyone in the village was looking for her, but he knew they wouldn’t find her. She was gone. She had finally fulfilled her dream of leaving the island. Just not the way she had wanted.

  During the next year William watched his child grow. A second babe now filled Justine’s belly. He thought of Manda less with each passing day. At first, when he went to sea to fish with the rest of the men in the village he feared he would find her ravaged body in the nets as he drew them in. As the months passed and the only things he found in the nets were struggling fish, their mouths opening and closing in a futile effort to breath, Manda receded into the depths of his memory.

  Life on the island was too hard to allow time for thoughts of the past. At least until the chill of October and the threat of storms rolling in from the north filled him with dread. Had she joined the lost souls who returned to the island with the first storm of the season? Would he hear her voice entwined with the moans and shrieks of the dead mingled within the howls of the wind?

  The storm, when it came, was unexpected. It blew in fast from the north. One minute the sea was calm, and the next white caps rose up to slap at the sides of boats racing for home. William reached the dock just as a flash of lightning tore through the sky. He only had time to tie off a single bow line before the first screams of the dead reached him. He ran for his life, not even daring to look back. When he reached his cottage, Justine had already tied a ewe to the sac-pole and was waiting for him at the door.

  “Get inside,” she yelled as he reached the yard. William barely heard her over the scream of the pursuing hoard. He was hardly inside when Justine slammed the door closed and threw the bar in place. He was bending over, sucking wind and rubbing the pain in his side when Justine screamed, grabbed the babe and ran for the bedroom where the shuttered windows blocked the view of the world outside. When William looked up to see what had terrified her, he saw Manda’s ravaged visage staring at him through the window. It only took him two quick steps to reach it and slam the shutters shut, blocking her from his view.

  William went into the bedroom where he sat on the bed with Justine and the babe. Even with the door closed and the wind howling outside they could hear Manda calling to him . . . “William, William,” . . . as she circled the house looking for a way in. Justine sobbed and the babe wailed with each haunting cry.

  “Go away,” he finally screamed when he could bear it no more.

  * * *

  Manda ignored the terrified bleating of the sacrificial ewe tied to the sac-pole. She hungered for more than animal blood. What was it, compared to the life of the man who had scorned her? She would have him or nothing. Time after time she circled the cot
tage, looking for any crack or crevice which might afford her entry. She was finally forced back to the sea when the storms fury started to wane and the sun threatened to break through the cloud-filled sky. “William,” she screamed one final time before retreating to the cold embrace of the sea.

  Every year, Manda came with the first storm. William waited in the cottage while Justine and the children sheltered with her Da and Ma. He would listen to her call his name as she endlessly circled the cabin. He could not escape the island, but he finally escaped Manda when death claimed him in his eighty-second year and he was buried in the welcoming arms of the island’s rocky soil.

  Turn Up The Old Victrola

  Tom Deady

  I never liked yard sales. It felt like buying someone else’s trash. What made me stop that day, I’ll never know. But I did stop, that’s the point of the story.

  Let me back up, it started before the yard sale. The real beginning was when my uncle died. Billy was always the “cool uncle” that every kid has. The one that teaches you the shit your parents try to shield from you. The one that swears in front of you when you’re too young, and later buys you cigarettes or beers or condoms. Anyway, Uncle Billy was the guy that introduced me to music. I’d go over to his house and we’d sit and listen to everything from the Beatles and the Stones to Miles Davis and John Coltrane. Always on vinyl. Even when the rest of the world moved on to cassettes and eventually compact discs, Uncle Billy played records.

  When he passed away last year – sclerosis of the liver, even the coolest uncles can’t defy the evils of alcohol – he left me his record collection. Over three hundred albums, some of them over fifty years old with covers so faded you could barely make them out. The problem was, he’d sold his kick-ass stereo equipment to pay his medical bills. Water, water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink. Sure, you could get used equipment, but could you get the needles? So, the records stayed in storage for a while.

  Then the hipsters brought back vinyl. It was retro. Record players hit the market again, what’s old became new. The next shoe to drop could be the return of bell bottoms, God help us if that happens. So, I picked up a system and dug Billy’s records out of storage and let the nostalgia roll over me.

  I’ll never really understand why vinyl came back. The quality sucks! It’s all scratchy and the records skip. Listening to records when you could have digital quality is like washing clothes by hand in the river when you own a washing machine. It’s pretty fucked up when you think about it. So, the collection sat, right next to my overpriced “retro” sound system.

  The other thing I learned from Uncle Billy was the joy ride. He’d pick me up and we’d drive along country roads, music cranked (cassettes then) and end up wherever we ended up. That’s how I ended up lost on some back road in a town whose sole claim to fame was probably having a Blockbuster video store.

  I rounded a hairpin curve and had to slow. Ahead, flashing yellow lights and cones signaled a delay. Probably some redneck ran his confederate-flag-adorned pickup into a tree. I approached, and realized I was mistaken. A tree was down across the road. A big tree. The crew was furiously working to clear the block, saws buzzing in the late-morning sun, but it would be a while.

  I was about to make a U-turn when I noticed a tattered sign tacked to a tree just ahead: Yard Sale. I needed directions anyway, so I eased the car over to the shoulder and got out. The yard was crowded with the usual yard sale detritus; old toys, out-of-style clothes, rusty tools, and knick-knacks that seem to gather in every elderly person’s home. I could purchase most of the stuff brand new for less money at any Christmas Tree Shop or Job Lot.

  I ambled across the grass, spying an old couple by the weathered cape-style house. I wondered if they were selling everything to move to a condo, maybe in Florida. They appeared to be arguing, then the man brushed by her and into the house. I turned away, and my eyes fell on the Victrola. It was old, much like the one in that RCA ad with the dog. It looked to be in pretty good shape and I thought of the collection of vinyl back at my place.

  Unable to find a price tag, I walked towards the old woman. “Hi, I was wondering what you wanted for the old Victrola?”

  Her eyes narrowed and she took a step backwards, but didn’t answer.

  “You know, the old-fashioned record player?” I motioned toward it.

  Her eyes widened and her hand reached up to her forehead. I swear she was about to make the sign of the cross. “It’s not for sale,” she whispered.

  I opened my mouth to reply but realized I had nothing to say. The screen door screeched open and the old man reappeared. He looked angry, like he was about to lay into his wife, but he saw me and managed a smile. “What can we do for you, young man?”

  “Well, uh, I was asking about the Victrola, but your...she said it wasn’t for sale.” I realized there was a resemblance between the man and woman and that they might be brother and sister.

  “Nonsense,” the man said – a bit too loudly and cheerily – “let’s take a look.”

  He walked past me without a look at the woman. I hung back, watching her. She met my gaze with a look of terror, shook her head, and ran into the house. I turned and followed the man back to the Victrola.

  “Does it work?”

  His head snapped toward me and just for a split-second I saw a look of fear in his eyes. “Sure, it works.” His voice was cautious, no more of the chipper old man from a moment ago.

  “How much?”

  He looked at it, then back at me. “I guess I could let it go for twenty.”

  I pulled out my wallet and handed him a twenty without thinking about it. He snatched the money and stepped back from the Victrola.

  “That’s gonna look pretty cool on display. You got one of those man caves to put it in?”

  I smiled. “This baby’s going in my living room. I’ve got a killer collection of vinyl.”

  The old man’s face contorted into a look I couldn’t identify. “Well, I mean, it works, but, uh, it sounds crappy. Don’t go ruining your collection on this old relic.”

  His eyes were begging, for what, I wasn’t sure. I picked the machine up gently and felt something ripple through me, like a weak electric current. I shook my head and turned to thank the man, but he was already moving quickly back toward the house. I placed the Victrola in the trunk and turned my car around, heading somewhere.

  * * *

  The following weekend, my buddy Jason and I were hanging out at my place having a few beers. “Hey Mark, why don’t you throw an album on the turntable and we can relive the not-so-glory days of analog sound?”

  I remembered the Victrola sitting in the trunk. “I’ll do you one better, Jay. Grab me another beer, I’ll be right back.” I ignored his look of confusion and went to the garage. I popped the trunk and grabbed the ancient machine, again feeling a shock course through me. All the apprehension of the day at the yard sale returned. For a moment, I considered closing the trunk and forgetting the Victrola existed, but I shook the feeling off and carried it inside.

  “Whoa, dude, do you have a time machine in your garage?”

  I laughed. “No, but twenty bucks at a yard sale is almost as good as a time machine.”

  Jason helped me set up the Victrola and clean it off. I cranked it up and the turntable spun silently. I grabbed an obscure blues album that Billy had loved – no way was I hacking up a Springsteen or Eagles album if this thing didn’t work right.

  “Come on, fire it up,” Jason urged.

  I slid the disk onto the spindle and moved the needle in place. Just before I released it, I had the distinct feeling that I was setting something in motion that I would not be able to stop. I let go of the tone arm and once again a surge of current ripped through my body, much stronger than the previous times.

  A scratchy sound, like a kitten trying to tell you it wants to come inside, emitted from the horn, then the music kicked in. The rhythm guitar started slow, joined by a subtle drum beat. Then the bass and the ho
rns exploded and the gritty voice of Billy’s hero, Johnny “Orleans” Johnson began his tale of sorrow.

  I stared at the big horn of the Victrola, lost in the music. Jason said something but it didn’t register. There was another sound, beneath the music and song, but I couldn’t make it out. It was like trying to hear a whisper over the roar of the ocean. I strained to understand the words, all the while staring into the gaping void of the horn. The darkness there was complete, somehow refusing the ambient light of the room to penetrate its mouth. And it did look like a mouth, and it began to move like a mouth, and only then did I finally hear the message.

  * * *

  I woke to murky splinters of sunlight stabbing the dim room, bright enough to send pulsing pain through my head. My tongue felt too big for my mouth and my heart was beating like I’d just run a race. A fucking hangover. How is that possible, I only had a couple of beers? I remembered setting up the Victrola and playing a blues record, then... Then what? I had no memory of what happened after putting on Orleans Johnson’s record. Everything before that was crystal clear, then nothing.

  I stumbled into the kitchen and guzzled some orange juice out of the carton, then stood still while my stomach did flip-flops. When I was sure I was going to keep it down, I noticed the time on the microwave: 11:37. I hadn’t slept this late since college. I found my cell on the couch and called Jason. It went straight to voicemail. I noticed the Orleans Johnson was still on the turntable. Resisting a sudden urge to turn the crank and play it again, I put it back in its sleeve and returned it to the collection.

  I tried Jason again, this time leaving him a message to call me back. “Shit.” I remembered I had a date with my sometimes-girlfriend, sometimes-nemesis, Angie Giordano. We’d been through a rough patch and I finally got her to agree to see me without having to beg. Barely. She was a firecracker; her Italian blood ran hot at times and I seemed to be the spark to heat it. I’d been looking forward to this for a week, and now I felt like shit. I went to the kitchen to make some toast and start trying to shake my hangover.