Fearsome Things: Five Short Tales of Horror and Suspense

by Anthony M. Strong

  “So when did she stop becoming just a sweet child?” I could see I had aroused the interest of my companion once more.

  “That happened later. It must have been about six or seven months after I first saw her that she began to change.”

  “In what way did she change?”

  “It was slight at first. Her hair was a little unruly, her nightgown smudged with dirt. Then the changes really began.”

  My companion observed me for a minute, taking this in, then bade me continue.

  “Like I said, at first the changes were small, but soon they became unsettling. It was a cold night in December when I first felt uneasy. I know it was December because I had been wrapping Christmas presents that evening and had just climbed into bed, later than usual. She appeared at the end of the bed and began to speak silently, as usual, frantically trying to say something. I watched this with fascination as always, but then I noticed that something was different. There was smoke, or at least what looked like pale wispy smoke, rising from her nightgown. Of course, I could smell no smoke, or even see any flames, at least not yet.”

  My companion raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

  I continued. “The next time she appeared, about a week later, I could clearly see flames around her. In fact, it looked like her nightgown was on fire. She was frantic this time, much more than normal, although she did not seem to notice the flames that were licking up around her, catching her alight. Then she vanished, as suddenly as always.”

  “What did you do?”

  “What could I do? Of course I was rigid with fear at this development. The ghostly visits had been something of an amusement, once I had accepted them, but now they were frightening. She was burning up in front of me.” I wiped my forehead, removing a bead of sweat. “She appeared several more times after that, and each time her condition grew worse, until in the end all that remained was a ball of flames. It was quite disturbing, I can tell you.”

  “And you never told your parents any of this?”

  “No. I don’t know why. I just had a feeling that even though the apparition was a grotesque sight, the little girl meant me no harm. I never felt threatened. I came to the conclusion that she was desperately trying to tell me something, that I could help her, if only I could have understood what she was trying to say. Of course, by the time the visits stopped there was no way of telling even if her mouth was moving, all one could see was flames.”

  “How terrible. When did you stop seeing her?” My companion was sat on the edge of his seat.

  “Oh, it must have been about ten months after I first saw her. In the end there was nothing recognizable as a human shape appearing, just a mass of flames, and then the flames started to get less each time she appeared, until the apparition literally burned itself out.”

  “And that was it? You never found out who she was, or why she was appearing to you?”

  “Yes, I did find out who she was but only recently. I had forgotten all about the ghostly visits of my childhood, or at least pushed them out of my mind, until last month. My family moved away from Manchester about two years after the ghostly visits stopped, and I only returned to the city last month when my job required me to start attending meetings there. It is my habit to buy a newspaper each morning, and on the morning in question I took my usual trip, from my lodging house, to the paper shop. When I arrived a headline in the local paper caught my eye, so I bought it, even though I prefer the national publications. The article concerned a house that caught fire and burned the previous night. The upper floors were completely destroyed. The sad thing was that the attic room had been turned into a play room and the eight year old daughter of the house owners had been up there playing before bed. No-one could get to her in time to save her. She was a pretty girl, they printed a photograph.”

  “But what has that to do with the girl you saw so many years ago in your attic bedroom?”

  “Well you see, the house that burned down was on Maypole Street, in fact, it was the very same house that my family owned when I was a boy. That poor girl that burned up in the attic last month was the very same girl that appeared to me as a ghost all those years ago. Her spirit appeared to me thirty years before her birth, to try and warn me of her death, in the hope that I could save her...”

  Whiter than White

  MRS. BARBARA PORTER, Barb to her friends – who numbered precisely one – tore the package open with a zeal usually reserved for Christmas and birthday presents. She plucked the contents from the box, a round plastic container, and squealed with delight.

  “It’s here. Finally.”

  “What is?” Emily West, the sole recipient of Barbara’s friendship, knew what would be in the box, what was always in the box, but there was a ritual that had to be observed.

  “For all your whites, to keep them bright, Whiter than White.” Barb recited the slogan on the plastic container.

  “That stuff from the infomercial on Channel 10, oh Barb, you didn’t?”

  “I most certainly did. They got red wine out of a white shirt with this. Oil too. You should see what it does to counter tops.”

  “I’m sure it doesn’t work half as well as they make out,” Emily said as her friend fawned over what was surely the latest disappointment in a parade of underperforming products that had made an appearance in Barbara’s kitchen over the years. “Why do you always have to watch those infomercials?”

  “And just what would you have me watch dear?” There was a hint of condescension in Barb’s voice.

  “Why can’t you just watch quiz shows like all the other middle aged women instead of wasting your money on that stuff?” Emily wished she hadn’t agreed to come over for coffee. To tell the truth she rarely had the fortitude to visit her friend these days. That had not always been the case though. Barb had been different before, back in college. It was not until years after that the cleaning fetish had reared it’s ugly head.

  “Quiz shows? Why ever would I want to watch those?”

  “I don’t know. It’s better than infomercials.”

  “Is it?” She placed the tub of cleaning powder on the table as if it were the most precious thing she had ever owned. “I can’t wait to try this stuff.”

  “Why don’t you sit down and drink your coffee?” Emily looked at her own drink, at the white plastic spoon and oblong packet of sugar her friend had placed on a folded napkin. This was a new development. Barb had decided that no one could touch her silverware for fear of contamination. Apparently germs were everywhere.

  “Nonsense my dear, there’s cleaning to be done.”

  Emily sighed. The kitchen was a picture of perfection, scrubbed Formica surfaces, gleaming floor tiles, appliances that looked like they had just come out of the box. “The place is spotless, please sit down, you’re making me nervous.”

  “Well, just for a few minutes.”

  “Thank you.” Emily reached toward the plate of ginger cookies, her hand hovering as she decided whether to take one. It was a trap of course. There was always a plate of cookies. But where there were sweet treats there were crumbs, and crumbs would not be tolerated. She withdrew her hand and looked wistfully in the direction of the door, toward the umbrella that sat propped against the wall, waiting. The same umbrella she’d dared not open on the way over despite the rain. Drips of water on Barbara’s floor certainly would not do.

  “So my dear, what’s new with you?” Barbara asked, finally settling into a chair, her hand resting on the tub of Whiter than White.

  “Nothing much. Harold, my oldest, is going to college in the fall. He got into UCLA.” She could feel hives breaking out on her face. She always got hives in stressful situations, and coffee with Barb more than qualified.

  “Really? UCLA. That’s a good school.” Barbara said.

  “Yes. It was the first one he applied for.”

  “You must be very proud.”

  “I am. He’s grown so much since you saw him last. Would you like to see a photo?” Emily
reached down toward her purse.

  “Well of course I…” Barbara paused, her eyes shrinking to deep narrow slits. “What’s that?”

  “What?”

  “That.” Her voice rose in pitch, a faint tremor creeping in around the edges. “Those red marks on your face.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. Just hives, that’s all.”

  “Well they look dreadful.”

  “I’m sorry.” Emily had no idea why she was apologizing, but it seemed like the right thing to say.

  “Don’t be sorry, get rid of them.”

  “I can’t. It happens sometimes when I’m stressed.”

  “Stressed?” Barbara pushed the chair back and sprang to her feet. “Why would you be stressed? Make them go away.”

  “Don’t worry about it, they will go down soon,” Emily said. “Just give it a few minutes.”

  “I don’t have a few minutes.” Barb drummed her fingers on the table. “They’re not clean. Oh my, just think of the germs.”

  “There’s no germs, and getting mad at me won’t do any good.” Emily wondered if it was time to leave.

  “Of course there are germs. Make them go away this instant.”

  “Barb, I can’t, you’re making them worse.”

  “Well if you won’t make them go away, I will.” Barbara lunged across the table, sending the plate of cookies crashing to the floor. She fell upon her startled friend, gripping her by the hair. With her other hand she reached out and found the tub of cleaning powder.

  It only took second for Emily to regain her senses. She lifted her arms, pushing back against Barbara, trying to dislodge the heavier woman, almost doing so.

  But not quite.

  Instead, Emily’s chair shifted and started to tilt, the front legs lifting from the floor. It teetered for a few seconds, fighting gravity, and then toppled. She let out a brief scream before her head cracked hard on the gleaming white floor tiles. The thud reverberated around the kitchen.

  Barbara sat astride her dazed friend and pried the top off the tub of Whiter than White, throwing it to aside. She reached in, her fingers finding the round abrasive scrubber and closing over it. Next, humming a tune that had been rattling around her brain for days, and with a wide grin on her face, she loaded up with powder and went to work…

  ***

  Barbara sat on the floor, her chest heaving from the exertion.

  The screaming had finally died down to a wet gurgle, and then stopped altogether. It was funny how she’d noticed all those other blemishes once she started scrubbing, a mole here, and a freckle there.

  The tub of Whiter than White lay half empty on the floor next to her, it’s top lost somewhere under the table. It had certainly done its job though.

  She admired her handiwork, studied the gleaming white skull that stared up at her without so much as an ounce of appreciation. At least Emily would not have to worry about those unsightly hives now. Not that she had said thank you of course, that would be too much.

  Barbara looked down at herself, at her dress, her legs and arms, all covered in her friend’s blood. That would never do. She picked up the tub of cleaner and dunked the scrubber down into the powder once more, and went to work. She rubbed, moving the pad over her knees, her thighs, ignoring the pain that flared with each pass. Soon she’d be spotless just like Emily, and it was all because of her new tub of cleaning powder. Thank heaven for Whiter than White…

  The End

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  Some places should be left alone.

  It’s been fifteen years since Ben and his father buried the time capsule in the woods. Now Ben is returning to dig it up. But things have changed. The woods are not the happy place they once were. What starts out as a weekend camping trip to rekindle old memories and have some fun turns into a nightmare for Ben and his girlfriend, Sally. By the time they realize their mistake, it’s too late. There’s something evil at the old campground, and it doesn’t want them to leave.

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  What Vengeance Comes

  John Decker left Wolf Haven, Louisiana, to escape the memories of his troubled past, believing he would never return. But after twenty years working for a big city police department, he suddenly finds himself back in Wolf Haven, taking the reigns as the town’s sheriff. Expecting to spend his time dealing with the trivialities of small town life, the occasional drunk, cats stuck in trees, and domestic altercations, he instead finds a vicious killer picking off the residents one by one. Scrambling to find answers before anyone else dies, Decker stumbles across an age-old superstition, a terrifying creature conjured from the depths of hell to seek revenge.

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  Prologue

  32 Years Ago

  THE WAITING ROOM WAS COLD and clinical. An odor of disinfectant clung to the air, cloying and pungent. Concealed fluorescent lighting, set into the ceiling behind yellowed plastic grilles, bounced a cool white glow from the dull gray walls, giving the appearance that the whole room was somehow overexposed, making everything appear almost painfully bright.

  A row of hard plastic chairs lined the wall, empty except for one, upon which perched a ten-year-old boy, his curly black hair cropped short, a small bruise over his left cheek where a badly thrown baseball made contact two Saturdays before. He rocked back and forth on the edge of the seat, nervous and fidgeting.

  Voices, low and muted, drifted through a set of white double doors. The boy had no idea what the occupants of the room beyond the doors were saying. Despite his attempts to listen in, he could not hear them clearly, but even so, he knew it was not good. Nothing had been good for days.

  The boy wiped away a pear shaped tear that pushed from the corner of his eye and meandered down his cheek. He rose to his feet and counted out the steps to the double doors, looking down at the ground to make sure his feet remained within the confines of the light blue tiles as he walked, careful not to let them land in-between, over the grout lines. Todd Jenkins two houses down had told him it was bad luck to step on the lines between the tiles, and he didn’t need any more of that, not right now.

  When he reached the doors he put a hand out and pushed them open just wide enough to catch a glimpse of what lay beyond, but could not make sense of anything. He eased them wider, careful not to make a sound, until the room came into view, and what he saw froze him to the spot.

  His mother lay on a hard aluminum table. A strange circular light hovered like a weird alien spaceship above her. He knew it was his mother because an arm had slipped down and now dangled, fingers pointing toward the floor. Upon that arm, near her wrist, was a heart shaped tattoo with a set of initials inked into it - his father’s initials. He’d heard the story of that tattoo so many times he knew it as well as he knew his own name. She’d gotten it a few weeks after she met his father, to prove her love on a whim. The tattoo left no doubt who occupied the table, even though her body was covered with a white sheet, the fabric stained crimson in places like some grotesque Rorschach test.

  He stood transfixed, horrified yet unable to move. The men in the room were still talking, but then, as if sensing the pair of childish eyes invading the forbidden space, one of them turned, a look of deep sadness upon his face.

  “You shouldn’t be here Johnny boy.” His father said, crossing the gap between them. “You need to stay in the waiting room. I’ll be out very soon, I promise.”

  John eyed him, somehow relieved that his view of the mortuary table was blocked, that he was unable to see the nightmare that lay upon it, the bloody thing that was once his mother. Instead he saw his father, stiff and wear
y, his sheriff uniform uncharacteristically wrinkled. And he saw the gun in its leather holster, right there, just waiting.

  For a moment John wondered if he could snatch it and turn it upon himself, pull the trigger and join his mother in heaven, which was surely where she was. He ached to see her again, but Father Gregory, his Sunday school teacher, said suicide was a mortal sin, and sinners went to hell, not heaven, so it would be a pointless endeavor.

  It was too late now anyway. His father was steering him backward, closing the double doors, locking them.

  John turned back away, hands deep in his pockets, and started to weep, ever so softly.

  1

  Present Day - Wolf Haven, Louisiana

  SHERIFF JOHN DECKER steered the police cruiser along the winding, muddy trail toward the cabin in the woods.

  In the passenger seat Beau Thornton, Mayor of the town of Wolf Haven, leafed through a pile of paperwork resting on his lap.

  “I sure do appreciate you bringing me out here at such short notice sheriff,” he said in a thick southern accent, never once looking up from the stack of papers. “I know you have a lot on your plate.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Decker replied. He might be elected, just like Beau, but Thornton still cut his paychecks. “I’m not sure why you need me though.”

  “I thought it would be prudent to have a show of force on hand when I speak to Annie.”

  Decker shot him a sideways glance and raised an eyebrow.

  “Alright, you got me.” The mayor threw his arms up. “The damn woman gives me the creeps. Living out here in the middle of nowhere surrounded by alligators and mosquitos. People say she’s a witch you know.”