Yes, I have a name. All living things have names. I, I, I...
A bullet swept through its skull like the wind through a keyhole. The zombie fell before its headstone.
The two men came stomping through the cemetery, hollering and howling like schoolboys.
“I told you. I told you. You have to shoot ’em in the head. Just like in the movies.”
“Let me get the head. It’ll look nice on my hood once I get the truck back to working.”
Billy drew a long hunting knife from his belt and bent over the zombie’s body.
He barely had time to scream.
My name is Evelyn Walker, the zombie growled in a black and gravelly voice, and then sunk her teeth into the man’s throat.
* * *
It is a myth that you can kill a zombie with a bullet to the head. While the living enjoy scaring the piss out of themselves, they also like to give themselves a fighting chance; thus, they create magical means to defeat their monsters. Vampires are vulnerable to stakes, werewolves to silver bullets, zombies to head trauma…. But the dead cannot die. And death cannot be conquered. This is the most difficult idea for the living to accept.
* * *
And though zombies do not, as a rule, eat human flesh—they will if you piss them off.
* * *
What is not a myth is that when a human witnesses his friend being eaten by an animated corpse, that human runs. Just as this man’s friend did.
* * *
Thoughts flashed through Evelyn Walker’s mind like lightning in a summer storm. She remembered dying and the long, lonely quiet; rising from her grave; the farmhouse; and the men who chopped off her arm, shot her, ran her over, shot her again.
Evelyn Walker leaned against her gravestone, and tried to weep. But the dead cannot shed tears.
Footsteps. Labored and loud.
Evelyn looked up and saw a man stumbling through the graveyard. He wore a dark suit that was in tatters and covered in filth. Unlike her, his arms and legs were still attached to his body. His head, however, was not.
The undead stranger held his head by its long black hair, as if it were a grocery bag or a plastic Halloween pumpkin.
The decapitated zombie stopped two graves away from Evelyn. The two dismembered corpses looked each other over and exchanged expressions that seemed to say, “So they got you, too?” The man thrust his head forward. It was remarkably well preserved, except for a few scratches and bruises and a ragged scar that ran from his left temple to the corner of his mouth. The head wobbled and swayed before Evelyn’s face. The nose twitched like a curious rabbit. Then the mouth slowly began to open and close, the dead man’s face twisting in agony. A low hiss emanated from the severed throat, followed by a moan, and then the zombie head purred: I...think...my...name...is...Ben...Gardner.
Another thought, as bright and clear as the first, came to Evelyn Walker.
She took Ben Gardner’s free hand and led him down into her grave.
* * *
The undead are the same as the living: they try to make the best of a bad situation.
It is a well-established fact that anything can be endured. But it is also a fact that it is much easier to endure if you have a companion.
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Teatime With Mrs. Monster
(Originally published in Weirdbook #33)
Inside my brain I’m saying, “Don’t move, Kylie. Don’t breathe. Don’t make a noise. He’ll hear you.”
It’s warm and icky under the porch. There are spiderwebs in my mouth and bugs crawling on my legs. Maybe it’s my ’magination. I don’t know. But it’s safe here. Daddy doesn’t know ’bout my hiding place.
I hear him above me in the house. He’s cussing and stomping like crazy. The floorboards groan like in the haunted houses in those scary movies I used to watch with Mama. Daddy is saying he’ll find me when he gets back, he’ll find me and then he’ll take care of me and then I’ll learn, I won’t be bad no more. I knew that’s what he’d say. So when the Bad Thing happened I runned straight out of my room and hid here. Daddy said, “Where’d you think you’re going?” But I was past him and out the front door already. It was only a matter of time before he goed upstairs.
He’s screaming now, “This is your fault, Kylie! You little brat! No more friends in the house! No more tea parties! Not ever again! What a mess! What a damn mess!”
I put my hand over my mouth so he can’t hear me breathing. I seened that in those scary movies too, when the monster comes looking for the little girl and she’s hiding in the dark. But I’m not scared of monsters. Monsters never hurted me.
I’m lying on my tummy near the porch steps and I see Daddy’s big dirty boots as he stomps down. I can see the boards bending. I think maybe they’ll break and he’ll see me. Then he’ll drag me out and take care of me. Mama used to say she’d take care of me when she was alive. But she meant it different.
I see him crossing the lawn. I see he’s carrying something in his arms. It looks like a bag of garbage. He throws it in the back of the truck, gets in and drives away.
But it wasn’t my fault. It was Amy. She made Mrs. Monster mad. I told her to shut her stupid mouth but she wouldn’t listen. Daddy doesn’t think Mrs. Monster is real just ’cause he can’t see her. But Mrs. Monster says he can’t see because he doesn’t wanna. People, growned-ups ’specially, don’t want to see monsters, they don’t want to believe they’re real. That’s why I thought Amy would see Mrs. Monster. She’s eight like me. But Amy is stupid. I hate her and I don’t care if I never see her again.
Me and Mama used to have tea parties all the time. She’d make up stories and we’d pretend. She said I was good at it. She’d say, “What a livid ’magination you have.” After Mama died, I asked Daddy if he’d have tea parties with me. But he said no. He don’t have time.
So I have tea parties without him. I don’t need him. I have Mrs. Monster now.
Daddy says I should play with the kids in the neighborhood instead of staying in my room all day. I say the kids are stupid, I don’t want to play with them. When Amy came over today I seened his eyes were happy. Most times they’re sad.
Amy is taller than me. She has red hair and freckles. She talks with a lisp and spit gathers in the corners of her mouth when she talks too much. Which is all the time. Sometimes I make fun of her but she’s the only kid that comes to my house. I never invite her, she just rings my doorbell. Most times I don’t answer. Today I did.
Daddy said, “Why don’t you go outside and ride bikes or something.” He didn’t want to hear no racket. I ignored him and took Amy by the hand and goed upstairs.
In my room there is a small round table with small chairs too. The teacups were already out, the kettle in the center. There was one for me and one for Mrs. Monster. There wasn’t one for Amy. I didn’t know she was coming.
I searched in the toy chest against the wall. At the bottom was a cup with flowers on it. The flowers were red like old blood. The handle had broken off but it was OK.
Amy said, “Don’t you have any dolls? I want to play dolls.” She said it doll-shhs.
I put Amy’s cup on the table. “Dolls are stupid,” I said. “We’re going to have a tea party.”
“But shouldn’t you have dolls around the table? Or is it just going to be me and you?”
“No, silly. Don’t you see the other teacup?”
We sat and I poured Amy’s tea. “I hope you like black tea.”
“I prefer Earl Grey,” she said trying to sound like a big girl but her lisp made her sound like a dumb baby.
“Black tea is all we ever have. So you’ll have to like it. Mrs. Monster only drinks black tea. She says it’s the best one.”
“Who’s Mrs. Monster?”
“She’s sitting next to you, silly.”
“Oh,” Amy said and made an ugly scrunchy face like she smelled something bad. “I don’t like monsters.”
I could tell Mrs. Monster didn’t like Amy. Nobody likes Amy. That’s why she plays with me.
“Mrs. Monster said hello,” I said.
“That’s a weird name.”
“That’s what she’s called.”
“No princesses? I’d rather have tea with princesses.”
“Princesses are stupid.”
“You’re a loon, you know that?”
“Take that back!”
“No,” she said and took a sip of her tea, all dainty-like, with her pinky up in the air.
“She doesn’t look mad to me. Actually she don’t look like nothing, ’cause she’s not here. She’s imaginary. Crazy people have imaginary friends, you know? Wasn’t your mother crazy? That’s what mine says. I think you’re a loon too.”
Daddy called Mama crazy once. I remember in my brain. I was so mad at Amy. Mad like when Daddy gets and I have to hide under the porch. Then Amy started singing “loon loon loon.” I didn’t want to see Amy’s stupid ugly face so I shutted my eyes so tight I seened fire in my brain. That was when the Bad Thing happened. I don’t remember what went on but Amy screamed. I heard other sounds too. Bad sounds. Monster sounds. I was too scared to open my eyes. I runned, my heart going thrum-thrum-thrum. “Go to your safe place,” I said inside my brain, just like Mama used to tell me when Daddy’s eyes got mad and his face turned red like burning.
I could stay under the porch. Daddy will never find me. He’s never found me before. Once I stayed under here the whole day and it got dark and I only came back home because something bit me—I think it was a rat—and besides I was hungry. Daddy was real mad that time. He hurted me. I know he’s madder than ever now ’cause of the Bad Thing and when he gets back he’s gonna be worse than any monster I ever seened in the movies. I think then in my brain about Mama and our tea parties. She’d say, “Do you see that monster sitting next to you?” And I’d laugh. Mama’d say, “Aren’t you afraid?” I’d say no. “That’s right, baby,” she’d say. “People are worse than any make-believe monster. Don’t you never forget that.”
Madness & Mayhem: 23 Tales of Horror and Humor Page 10