Hallowed Horror

by Mark Tufo

  “What the fuck?” Butch gasped as he stared into the tool shed.

  Dir of The Earth smiled with Jim’s mouth. He absently dipped his hands into the punctured eye sockets. “Hello, Butch. Glad you could join us.”

  Butch stood paralyzed, staring dumbly as Jim licked his gore-encrusted fingers. “Come here,” Dir purred.

  “Fuck!” Butch screamed and turned to run. Dir, his strength and stamina heightened by the influx of fresh blood, was quicker. Before Butch took more than three steps, Dir tripped him, sending him sprawling head-first into the dirt.

  Dir stood over Butch and flexed his puny arms. He wanted to rend the human into pieces but knew he lacked the strength for such a feat. “Where are you going in such a hurry, my friend?”

  “What the fuck is going on?” Butch said as he crouched, recovering quickly.

  “Just having a little fun in the tool shed,” Dir whispered. “Come and take a look.”

  Butch lunged forward and barreled into Jim’s body, slamming him to the ground. Dir, frustrated by the weak body he inhabited, rolled away before Butch punched him. They both rose slowly and circled one another.

  “I can remember another human, in a time and world far from this one, once bested me in hand-to-hand combat. Do you fancy yourself a warrior, Butch Reed?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but Trisha was right.”

  “Trisha?” Dir stopped moving. “What did she say?”

  “She said you were acting crazy today.” Butch glanced at the tool shed. “I don’t think she realized how crazy you are.”

  “Is she coming here?”

  Butch turned suddenly and began running into the woods.

  And so the hunt begins anew, Dir thought. He knew he didn’t have time for these games, but the bloodlust filled him, and if he stopped and thought about things he would probably lose the exquisite taste for another human’s blood on his skin and in his mouth. It was always better to lament about needless killing after the fact. If the human got away he would warn others, and they would hunt him again, just like the old man had done, casting him back into his prison.

  Already the new blood coursing through his body and mind was evaporating at an alarming rate, so he began running after Butch.

  Cursing the weak body of Jim Rutan again, and swearing he would crush this puny body when he finished with it, he followed the scent of Butch Reed’s fear.

  Chapter Eleven

  Michael, Larry and Susan crowded into a booth at the Clay Diner and ordered some coffees from the disinterested waitress.

  “This isn’t a diner, this is an independent Denny’s,” Larry said. He picked up a fork dramatically and held the utensil to the light. “The silverware is too clean to be a real diner.”

  “To us Southerners this is a real diner, so shut up,” Susan chided.

  “Well, to us Northerners this is a poor excuse. You’re lucky I’m so hungry, or we’d be driving back to New York for some real diner food.” Larry stared at his menu. “What do you suggest?”

  “The coffee,” Susan said. “Do you know I’ve never been to New York? Never been farther than Virginia.”

  “Is that the truth?” Michael wanted to splurge on some eggs, pancakes and hash browns but didn’t want to do so in front of Susan. He had no delusions she was interested in him, other than as a friend, but it couldn’t hurt to be on his best behavior. Besides, he needed an excuse to slow down his horrendous eating habits.

  “I’ve never seen snow,” Susan said as her cell phone rang.

  “Not even in movies?” Larry kidded.

  “Hello? Hey, mom. We’re sitting in the Clay drinking coffee. Where are you?”

  The waitress approached again and Larry ordered pancakes and sausage while Michael ordered a short stack of pancakes.

  “Eating light I see,” Larry whispered conspiratorially. “Just don’t gorge yourself when we get back to your place.”

  Susan hung up her phone and ordered pancakes and sausage as well. “That was my mom. She was out with a couple of other librarians tonight and is heading our way.”

  “Those damn wild librarians scare me,” Larry said. “I’m sure they party like animals.”

  Susan laughed. “This is the first night in months my mom’s left the house. She probably doesn’t want the night to end but the old farts she’s hanging with are tired. You’ll like my mom.”

  “She is a character, trust me,” Michael said. He genuinely liked Miss Watson–Becky to her friends–and liked her and her daughter’s company. Even though Becky was fifteen years older than he was, she fit right in with her jokes and view on life. Becky and Susan had more of a friend relationship than mother and daughter.

  “I could use some coffee,” Larry said loudly.

  The coffee arrived at the same time Becky showed up, wearing tight jeans and a black top. She slid into the booth next to Larry and smiled at him.

  They exchanged pleasantries and Becky ordered coffee, French toast and hash browns without glancing at a menu. “What did you kids do tonight?”

  “We watched the new horror movie that just came out, with the people who break into the house and torture the family,” Michael said.

  “And you?” Susan asked.

  “None of your business.” Becky laughed and turned to Larry. “So, you’re the famous Larry I hear so much about.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Actually, Michael was vague about what you do for a living and all of that. So, since I’ve had a few cocktails tonight and I’m feeling buzzed, I’m going to ask you some personal questions until the food comes.”

  “Great.” Larry shifted nervously in his seat.

  Michael tried to change the subject. “Where did you go out drinking tonight? We’re looking for a close spot ourselves for the future.” Michael understood Larry would be uncomfortable with questions being tossed at him about his personal life like darts.

  “Nice try.” Becky leaned closer to Larry. “What do you do for a living?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You drive a luxury car, you’re trying to dress down but I know the pants you’re wearing cost a fortune, and you smell of expensive cologne. Are you a drug dealer?”

  “Mom!”

  “I’m actually a pimp,” Larry said. He stared toward the waitress and motioned for her to hurry with his hands but she ignored him.

  “Forget fast service here, Larry. It’ll be another fifteen minutes before she even puts the order in.”

  “I was lucky enough to get in years ago on the dot com craze, and I made a few dollars on it. I made enough to keep me going and to be able to live a decent life.”

  “So you’re a rich young man? My name is Becky.” She grinned and put her arm around Larry’s shoulder.

  “Mother!”

  “Lighten up, Susan. He knows I’m playing with him. You do, right?”

  “Sure, yeah. I don’t like to talk much about myself if I can help it. I think we need to talk about the exciting life of a librarian for a while, at least until the food comes.”

  Becky smiled. “My life is filled with international assassinations, money laundering, hardcore pornography, and food fights. Nothing too exciting.”

  “Sounds like it. How long have you been a librarian?” Larry asked.

  “About twenty years, since Susan was little and I was, um, younger than I am now. I always loved to read and I was a waitress out of high school, then I married Susan’s dad and was a mom for a couple of years. When Tom died I had to go back to work, and a friend told me about a spot open at the library. I realize it doesn’t sound glamorous, but it’s a job.”

  “One you seem to love,” Michael put in. Long after her shift was over, Becky to often stayed and put books away, or checked in late ones from what Susan said.

  “Since we’re being honest with the questions, I have one: how did your husband die?” Larry asked.

  “Drunk driver killed him a week before Christmas. He was on his way hom
e from work when some jackass plowed into him and he died instantly.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Becky waved him off. “It’s God’s will I guess. I try not to dwell on his death anymore, or the pain would eat me alive.”

  They sat in silence for an awkward moment, taking turns staring in the direction of the waitress. Finally Susan spoke up. “Guess what these two think they’re doing tomorrow?”

  “What?” Becky asked. She looked at Larry.

  “We’re burying some cows.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Yes, of course. We’re real men, we don’t need any help.” Larry tapped on the table. “But if you were offering …”

  “Not a chance. Susan already told me a baker’s dozen cows died on your farm. Do you realize how long it will take you to dig a pit deep enough for all of that spoiled meat? And you can’t bury them close to the house, and you can’t bury them anywhere near the river or Cove Springs Estates. That means you two manly men will have to drag heavy, bloated corpses a few acres and then bury them in a giant pit. Good luck.”

  “Does that mean you won’t help?” asked Michael with a laugh.

  Becky took out her cell phone. “I’ll give you the number to a guy I know, he’s in the excavating business here locally. Mention my name and maybe he’ll cut you a break on the cost of burying the livestock.”

  “How much will he charge?” Larry asked.

  “Honestly, even with a break because he knows me, he’ll probably charge you close to a grand. He’d need to get a backhoe up there and find a suitable spot. Those guys get like a hundred bucks an hour to do that and thirteen cows is a lot of beef to be hiding.”

  “Shit.” Michael sat back in the booth. “I guess we can try to do the job ourselves in the morning first, but if we don’t seem to be making any headway we’ll call this guy.”

  “Honestly, can I just get a second cup of coffee?” Larry shook his empty cup at the waitress.

  Chapter Twelve

  Butch Reed’s mind couldn’t comprehend what he had seen with his own eyes. Jim killed Gary, Jim killed Gary. He wanted to run and keep on running but his heart pounded in his chest hard enough to burst.

  The woods appeared dark and uninviting tonight, even more so than normal. “Where the fuck am I?” he whispered, jumping at the tiny sound of his own voice. He thought he heard the tell-tale sound of twigs being crunched underfoot to his left but he couldn’t be sure. Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him. Maybe he was going into shock, like you saw in the horror movies they all went to see. Jim loved those horror movies. Maybe he snapped after watching so many of them, and sitting in the damned tool shed where the murders happened. Maybe Jim was one of those maniac kids you read about in the newspaper and watch on the TV news, killing everyone.

  Butch didn’t want to die. He moved as slowly and quietly as possible, praying to God in his head, asking he be spared from Jim and left alone to live a good life. From this moment forward I will do better in school, not harass my parents, stop doing drugs, stop drinking, stop masturbating… whatever you need from me, God, I will do. Just let me get out of these woods alive and get to safety.

  Even though his blind flight through the woods had gotten him lost, Butch breathed a sigh of relief when he glimpsed lights ahead. He was still somewhere behind the Cove Springs Estates and probably not far from his house.

  Crunch.

  Butch froze. The branch had snapped off to his right, no more than twenty feet away and slightly ahead of him. Crouching down, he scanned the black woods for some sign of movement. He had the sudden urge to piss his pants.

  He took a tentative step toward the house lights, followed by another. The woods remained quiet. He remembered all of the scary films they’d seen as a group and knew that more than one of them featured an invincible killer with a hatchet, chainsaw, or axe stalking his prey through woods like this. The extras, or cannon fodder as his father used to say–Butch wanted to play the hero in this reality but knew he was more than likely cannon fodder in the grand scheme of things–was ever so close to freedom, with the porch light within grasp, when the killer would strike. The last thing the cannon fodder would see would be the pulsing glow of the beacon being extinguished, liberty a hands-width away.

  Jesus Christ, enough! Butch’s mind screamed. You’re psyching yourself out, only a few more feet into the safety of someone’s yard.

  A hint of movement to his right scared him and he threw caution to the wind and bolted for the light. As he ran he felt wetness coating the front of his pants and thought for a second he was bleeding. He burst from the confines of the woods and onto neatly-cut grass realizing he had indeed pissed himself.

  Butch slammed against the backdoor to the house and began pounding for help. I made it; I made it, just Jesus Christ someone answering the fucking door and let me in!

  Intense pain flared between his shoulder blades and coursed throughout his back. Butch turned, and something snapped behind him.

  “I’m killing you with a tree branch. Seems so anti-climactic, but effective, don’t you think?” Jim held a broken and jagged piece of tree limb in his hands. He thrust the branch more fully into Butch’s neck and smiled when the blood flowed to his fingers.

  This isn’t happening, I was safe, I got out of the woods, Butch thought.

  A woman screamed as Butch hit the ground with a thud, clutching the gaping wound in his neck. As the pain subsided and his eyelids grew too heavy to keep open, Butch felt nothing. By the time the woman, neck broken, fell on top of him he prayed for death.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The rising sun hurt his eyes, not like in cheesy vampire movies where the sun could burn him and send him back to hell. But because Jim Rutan’s body was weak, so weak, and getting weaker. It had taken all of his strength to finish killing Butch and that woman, rendering him nearly useless.

  After dragging both bodies into the house, thankfully no one else had been home, he skirted back into the woods and back to the tool shed. All he wanted to do was sleep and gain a bit of strength back, enough to get to Trisha and conquer her.

  If I don’t escape from this meager body soon I will be trapped in it until I am sucked back into the prison. Indeed, this close to the prison he felt its cold pull, the incessant tugging of his soul to return and slumber again. I am so tired, so very tired.

  Police sirens sounded in the distance. What if a neighbor called the police? What if, even now, they were investigating the house? Finding the bodies and the tracks that would lead them back to the tool shed? Would they find Gary’s torn body as well?

  He forced himself up. Gary lay discarded in a corner of the tool shed, his blood cooled and worthless. Dir sniffed the air for fresh blood but found nothing, not even a field mouse or snake. The animals recognized his true scent and steered clear of the area.

  The humans will come to this tool shed again, knowing the past events and figuring to find new clues here. Dir dug into Jim’s memories and his version of what happened here in the tool shed and laughed. There existed no thought of a supernatural being or ‘demon’ behind the deaths, only a psycho. The news reports praised former owner Benjamin Zaun, the old man who had killed off the murderer before succumbing to a heart attack in the hospital, feverish dreams about a monster being buried on the property. Of course no one believed him, although in Jim Rutan’s mind it was a huge part of the story and he wanted to believe. I guess you do now, Jim, eh? Dir knew Jim’s mind remained fused with his, and any thought Dir had, or shared, occupied Jim’s mind as well. This was usually enough to destroy the human’s psyche or damage it beyond repair. Dir idly wondered how many human’s he had done this to over the years, and how many would have ended up in mental institutions if he hadn’t killed them with his new host.

  What would you do, Jim Rutan, if I didn’t kill you? What stories would you tell to the psychiatrists and doctors as they injected you with experimental drugs and watched you scream and thrash in a rubber
room, your body held in a straightjacket? Would you eventually free yourself, only to be killed by another lunatic, or killed by the doctors trying to save you? What would you do if your good friend Trisha came to see you?

  Dir decided to think about letting Jim Rutan stay alive after the body switch. After all, Jim’s fingerprints were on all three latest victims. Could you handle knowing what I know, weak, little Jim? Dir decided to find out. He opened his own mind like he’d never done before to a human host, letting decades of knowledge, thoughts, feelings and actions flood into Jim Rutan’s mind, pulling back just before the boy went mad with chaos. He still needed the body for another day and didn’t want to destroy him. Indeed, he wanted Jim Rutan to remember all of this, every last detail and thought. It would give him something to tell the doctors, a wild fantasy story full of unimaginable horrors and depravity. Why hadn’t I done this sooner?

  Dir heard another police siren in the distance, farther away. He didn’t know if they had been called but didn’t want to be caught in this weak body without an escape just yet.

  Dir dipped Jim’s hands in Gary’s cold blood and wrote ‘HELTER SKELTER’ on the tool shed wall as a joke, made sure Jim’s full bloody fingerprint marked several objects in the tool shed: a broken rake handle, the door, a clear floorboard, and Gary’s cheek.

  Even that small amount of energy tired him more. With the prison below trying to get a firm grip on him, he struggled to leave the tool shed.

  I’ll hide in the loft of the barn until tomorrow and sleep off this pain. Then he was going to get Trisha’s body once and for all.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “If you die of a heart attack can I have the farm?” Larry asked Michael.