Barns, Blood and Rock and Roll

by Joe Zito

  Barns, Blood & Rock and Roll

  Joe Zito

  Copyright © 2015 Joe Zito

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1514311875

  ISBN-13: 978-1514311875

  Joe Zito

  Copyright Joe Zito 2015

  Published at Smashwords

  CONTENTS

  Origin of the bloodbeast 3

  The letter 9

  Diable Terre 24

  AUDREY 38

  tHE FIRE WITCH 48

  tHE Possession of abby mcgullen 53

  sid 62

  bloodshow 64

  the falls 82

  devilshine 109

  The flesh and blood of john henry 110

  1313 116

  sisterblood 131

  the pack 135

  the gretchens 141

  the rock and roll massacre of ’76 167

  in unison 183

  bloodboud: tHE DIARY OF AMY SMITH 184

  LAURENS WILL 210

  ELLEN SUE GOES TO HELL 229

  PSYCHO ’78 237

  THE DINER 240

  Also by Joe Zito

  The Garage

  The old man’s rocking chair creaked on the wooden floor of the porch. It sounded like bones cracking on a skull face widening to a hellish grin. Grandpa Joe sat holding a sweaty glass of ice tea in his hand as a warm blanket of humid air settled down on the edge of dusk and the ball of fire in the sky sunk down, glistening in the distance while crickets and cicadas buzzed like miniature chainsaws throughout his farm, and in front of him sat his three grandchildren awaiting one of his summertime tall tales about witches trapped in white houses, devils locked in barns or beasts buried out in the corn. Little Billy sat in the middle between his older brother and sister with knots in his stomach. On the inside of the house Grandma turned on the porch light as the sun died out completely and Grandpa Joe with a half-crazed grin and a dark look in his eyes, leaned forward and said, “Do you want to hear a story?”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The stories in this collection were written between 2012-2015. Many of them are connected in some way or another to my first novel ‘The Garage’, and some are stand-alone stories as well. 70’s grindhouse films, Kiss, unseasonably warm spring evenings, thunderstorms, cornfields, Alice Cooper, 1976, the feeling you get when the lights go out at a concert and the good old days of riding in the back seat of your parents Buick while eating ice cream and not wearing your seatbelt, were all an inspiration in writing this collection of sick and twisted stories.

  Origin of the bloodbeast

  My name is Eldon Wharton and I believe that I created the devil of Indiana many years ago when I was a boy. It was an evil creature so hideous and frightening that it still plagues my dreams to this day.

  It was June of 1947 and my father Maynard Wharton was down on his luck just like most farmers that year in Indiana. Our once thriving fields of corn were now plagued by a nasty drought and a returning flock of black crows. I don’t know if it was the heat or if my father had really lost his mind but he believed that these crows were an evil entity and were causing the drought.

  “They’re killing our crops Eldon, don’t you see? They’re bad wretched vultures.”

  One day when I was out playing in our barn jumping from haystack to haystack. My Father pulled me aside and said he had a job for me.

  “Quit messing with that hay Eldon and get over here.”

  He was holding a big brown bag; god knows what was in it. He put his hand gently on my shoulder and looked down on me with this half-crazy looking grin on his face.

  “Son, I have a job for you. I need your help with those crows”

  He dumped the contents of the bag out in front of me. A variety of items fell before my eyes: rope, potato sacs, a pair of big black work boots, one of my father’s old work shirts.

  “We’re gonna make a scarecrow Eldon.” He said it with that same grin on his face.

  We began putting together the thing that my father hoped would put an end to the drought and crows as we worked all night in the barn.

  “Make it really scary now son. We gotta get rid of them crows,” he said.

  In addition to the things that fell out of the brown bag, there were also some nails, some scrap metal and a small bear trap.

  Finally the work was finished and I was exhausted but more terrified by what I had created by the command of my father. He lifted up the large scarecrow and I immediately got a cold chill looking at it. We had driven those nails into its hands and tongue which was a long piece of liver. And we used the small bear trap as its mouth.

  The hideous thing was horrifying. We heard a rumble of distant thunder along with the chirping of crickets just outside the barn. My father looked up and out at the night sky through the half opened barn doors.

  He said, “See there Eldon. It’s working already. It’s going to rain. C’mon, let’s get it out there in the field before it starts pouring.”

  His excitement was scary. I didn’t feel good at all about what we had done. It was just a simple scarecrow but not really. The thing was huge. I had a sick feeling in my stomach.

  We treaded through our cornfield to a cleared spot my father had made. There was a tall, wooden crucifix in the middle of the cleared area. He perched the scarecrow up on the cross. It leaned a little to the left. Heat lightening flashed in the distance eerily lighting up the monster we created.

  “I got the final touch for it. Wait here.” My father took off quickly running back to the house, leaving me alone with the scarecrow and its horrid face drooping down as if it was staring at me from up there where it hung. The wind rustled the corn around me. I was just waiting for that thing to reach down and pull me up into its evil face. My father returned and in his hand was a large witch’s hat. It was the same hat my mother wore last Halloween. I hated it.

  “There,” he said with a smile as he placed the hat on its slanted head. “Now it’s finished. Let’s get back to the house and wait for that rain.”

  He sat on the porch sitting in his rocking chair, looking out at the cornfield, and waiting for the rain as the thunder still rumbled far away and heat lighting lit up the sky. I went inside to be with my mother and three sisters. I couldn’t stay awake so I went to bed. But I was awakened some time later by the sound of rain hitting the roof of our house.

  “Get up son. Get up! Do you hear that?” His smile was large and his eyes were even larger with lunacy. “I told you it would work!”

  Still in my pajamas, he dragged me downstairs and pulled me halfway through the darkness of our house waking up my mother and sisters in the process. He pulled me along so fast I didn’t have time to get my shoes on or put on my jacket. We busted through the kitchen door and ran towards the cornfield; that eerie, slanted crucified devil showing its ugliness through the flashes of lighting. I heard my mother yelling from behind me to put my shoes on. I also heard her let out this kind of half shout and cry of joy, possibly because of the rain.

  We made it to the scarecrow and my father started jumping up and down, laughing maniacally and clapping his hands. He fell to his knees in front of the beastly thing.

  “Thank you, thank you!” He yelled out.

  I just wanted to go back to the house and get out of the rain. He turned to me, still on his knees, and put his hands on my shoulders. He stared into my eyes.

  “I told you it would work Eldon.” He said it softly and as if he was going to cry and then a hot, long streak of lighting struck the scarecrow. An explosion of light and sound hit all at once. Small silver balls of light burst into the air. The blast knocked us down. My father sat up slowly and looked at the smoking, evil creation hung up on the cruci
fix.

  “No,no, it can’t be,” he cried.

  Lightning struck it again and the scarecrow fell to the ground. It was burnt and charred and looked even more terrifying than before. And then to my unbelieving eyes the tall beastly thing began to move. It flattened its nail driven hands on the ground and began to push itself up. The rain was coming down hard now and the monster stood all the way up. My father’s eyes were big with fright yet his mouth was open just slightly in a grin of amazement. The beast stood in the rain staring at us both. We were on our knees and then it lurched forward. I scooted back on my bottom on the saturated ground. My father still had that look of terror and curious wonder on his face. The scarecrow growled at the thunder booming in the rainy night. And then my father, still on his knees, began to pray aloud.

  “Praise lord jesus, may not this evil creation strike me down.”

  The beast went towards him and put its large hand around his neck. He lifted up my father to the black, stormy sky. I was in shock and the scream of bloody horror that I wanted to let out was trapped in my throat.

  “Run Eldon!” My father screamed.

  I don’t remember getting up and running through the cornfield. I don’t remember the rain coming down hard as ever and hitting my body and it hurting like something awful. I don’t remember violent strikes of lighting hitting all around me. I do remember the sounds that were coming from the cornfield once I reached our house; the wretched, choking, gurgling, half screaming and pleading horror coming from my father. The next time I saw him was two days later lying in a large brown casket; his body flat and deflated looking, for that thing had sucked every last bit of blood from his body.

  A week after my father’s death, I was lying in bed trying to understand what happened that night and what that awful thing was. A tremendous feeling of guilt came over me at the thought of helping my father create the hideous thing that night in the barn. The moon was peeking through the summer night clouds as I laid in my bed thinking of all this and wondering why I didn’t remember getting up and running back to the house, seeing my mother swing open the door and scream at me, asking me where my father was. And then in the darkness of my room a horrid fright came over me when I did remember one other thing about that night, and that was the two red gleaming eyes staring back at me from the edge of our cornfield as I ran out.

  One night in 1974, many years after that frightening night, I scared the holy life out of my family when I woke up screaming from the worst nightmare I’ve ever had. Up until that point I hadn’t thought about that night the scarecrow came to life. But when I woke up screaming, half falling out of bed and making my two sons’ cry and my wife afraid to sleep with me for the next two weeks, I knew that thing, that horrible bloodthirsty thing was back and I saw it in my nightmare. There were these kids in my dream. I’ve never seen them before in my life. I don’t know who they were but they were in some kind of small building, maybe a garage, and there was so much blood and horrific screaming. And there was the girl with long black hair. She was a very pretty girl and she was screaming and crying and was covered in blood. I could feel her terror. And I saw those red gleaming eyes again. The same eyes staring at me that night long ago.

  It’s been many years since I moved away from Indiana, leaving behind the terrors of that night and for the most part I’ve blocked it out fairly well. That is until now. The nightmares have started again. The past two weeks I’ve been having the same dream every night. It’s an older woman about my age. She is running through a cornfield and she is scared to death and she is looking for someone named Heather. She keeps saying her name over and over. And then she starts to cry and begins saying the name Amy.

  I don’t know who these people are in my dream. I’ve never seen them at all in my life. But in some odd way I feel connected to them. Maybe I will never understand why I am having these dreams or what they are supposed to mean. But I do know one thing for sure, and that is I do believe I created something vulgar, wicked and deadly all those years ago that night in the barn with my father, and I shall never return to that dreadful place again.

  The Letter

  Gavin sat on the floor at the foot of his bed reading the letter his grandpa Sam had left on his dresser. It was Friday June 8th, the morning of the last day of school and Gavin’s senior year. Of course this meant big parties and plenty of teenage sexual angst to go around for the upcoming weekend. But Gavin’s grandpa had one particular concern in which he wanted to express in his letter to his only grandson; more so a warning. Gavin’s eyes drifted across the off white paper, reading the letter his grandpa had written to him which read something like this…..

  To my dearest Gavin,

  First I wanna tell you congratulations on graduating. You’re Mom and Dad and I are so proud of you. You’re gonna have a great future ahead of you. But you are probably wondering why I’m writing you this letter. I know your Dad has got you that fine automobile sittin’ out in your garage waiting for you to take it for a spin. That’s some graduation present. I know I was excited as a rabbit in spring when I got my first car. But I’m not here to harp on you about being safe and all that. I know you’re a good kid and you will do the right thing. I’m writing this to tell you where not to go. See Gavin, there’s a place not too far from where you live. I know you’ve heard of it and you and your friends I reckon have talked about goin’out there all ready. The place I’m talking about is a stretch of road called Devil’s Bluff. Just writing it down right now gives me a chill. Gavin, please don’t go on that road. It’s dangerous but maybe not for the reason you think. Of course kids have raced down there throughout the years which is and can be dangerous. But there is another reason why I want you to stay off of there and it’s not about speed. See Gavin, I saw something there one night back in 1958 during the summer when I was 17. Something that scared the hell out of me and I just can’t explain what it was. I was working for my old man at his shop Salem and Son’s at the time, and Christ was it hot that summer of ’58, oh so damn hot…..

  A large winged moth fluttered wildly around a bright shining flood light in the top corner of the building known as Salem and Son’s, a small body shop and wrecker service in the town of Bludenhale, Indiana. A large wooden sign painted white with red letters was attached to the roof. It read ‘Salem and Son’s 24 hr.wrecker service and body shop’. It was the summer of 1958 and the hottest summer on record at the time.

  Inside, owner John Salem was sitting at his desk with his legs propped up on top. It was 4 a.m. and it was just about quitting time. He had sent out his son Sam along with shop workers, Walt and George to pick up an abandoned truck out on 650 S. He wanted his son to get some experience so he sent him out with Walt and George. “Just watch how they do it and don’t mess with anything,” he had told him before they set out. John was holding the latest issue of Playboy magazine. The centerfold hung out sideways as did Johns head to get a better view of Marylin Monroe.

  “Holy Jesus,” John said slowly as he gawked at the centerfold.

  A small metal fan sitting on his desk blew the pages of the magazine. The window air conditioner was broke so the tiny fan had to make do. A small radio on top of a grey filing cabinet was playing Rock around the clock by Bill Haley and the Comets through its yellow grated speakers. John howled at the luscious centerfold of a young Marylin Monroe.

  “Wheeew-yyy, she’s a,”

  CRASH!

  The front door to the shop burst open, jingling the bells on top in a clanking frenzy.

  “Jesus jumpin’ halibut! What in the Christ!” John shouted.

  He threw the magazine down on the desk and kicked his legs back down to the floor. Walt Meyer, one of John’s employees’ slammed through the door, breathing in large heavy gasps.

  “Jesus Walt what the hell’s gotten into you?” John barked.

  “It…It got George…It got Geor,” Walt sputtered out of breath.

  “What got George? What in the sam hell are you blubbering about o
ld man!” John demanded as he walked in front of his desk.

  Walt was sixty but could still run with the best of them, but at the moment his age was showing. He hunched forward with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. His blue hat had fallen off his head and to the floor. His shiny dome and salt and pepper sides were revealed.

  “George…It…his head…Oh god,” Walt coughed and spat.

  “Where’s Sam, Walt?” John asked with immediate concern now in his voice. “Where’s my boy? Is he hurt?”

  And at that John ran past Walt and out into the gravel parking lot. Walt was still hunkering down and trying to catch his breath. He waved his hand up as John ran past him. “He’s…He’s all right.’ He coughed himself into a fit thereafter.

  John stepped out into the gravel parking lot, scanning the area for his son. The 4 a.m. morning air was as humid and moist as a seventeen year old pussy in the backseat of a 56’ Chevy on a Saturday night. He scanned the parking lot in search of the tow truck that Walt had been driving. The early morning darkness gave way and he saw it at once in his view, its rusted old frame looking as grim as John felt. His heart beat sped up when he saw his son sitting in the passenger’s side seat. John ran to him and when he reached the truck Sam’s complexion was cold white. His legs were up to his chin and he was trembling, just staring out the front window. “Sam,” his father said softly. “You ok boy? What happened?” Slowly, Sam turned his ghostly, pale face towards his father. His mouthed opened only slightly when he said, “Dad,” in a shaky and scared voice. “Are you hurt son?” John asked as he slowly opened the door. “C’mon, let’s get you out of there.” A spiderman comic book fell onto the ground as John opened the door. He gently pulled Sam from the truck and made him put his arm over his shoulder so he could help him inside. Just then Sam’s older brother Jeb came through the entrance door to the body shop making his appearance known when he belted out a laugh. “Holy shit. What the hell happened to you. I know, you got your first piece of pussy didn’t you.” He roared out mean sibling laughter, totally unaware of how bad the situation was. The early dark morning shielded Sam’s look of horror and shock on his face.