Easter Eggs and Bunny Boilers: A Horror Anthology

by Matt Shaw

  “That’s… sick…” Tears ran across her cheeks.

  “The fetuses don’t know any better.” Lukas’ mother said softly, “They simply become a part of it all. But you….”

  “I won’t let you kill me…” Polly said, and she clenched her fists.

  “I don’t intend to kill you, silly girl. Haven’t you been listening.” The woman took a deliberate step back, her eyes no longer fixed on Polly, but at something behind her. “The Goddess needed two more lives. Your baby is the twelfth sacrifice, and you are the thirteenth.”

  The snapping sound of twigs made Polly turn and, to her horror, she stood eye to eye with the land… or at least something that had come from it; something that had shaped itself into a woman. Her face was hideous. Instead of skin, it was covered with soil, in which insects crawled restlessly. Wooden roots had made a skeletal frame, and her skull-like face had a feral mouth filled with rows of sharp teeth. The smell of wet soil and clay hung pungent in the air. The thing reached out to Polly with wooden claws.

  The roots, sharp as needles, which were shaped as ribs, legs, arms, even veins, shot out at her, penetrating Polly’s soft skin, pushing inside of her like wiggling maggots. Polly didn’t even have time to scream, as the creature pulled her inside of her. Polly struggled, but the woman melted into the ground, dragging her along. Every nerve sang with pain as the earth applied pressure to Polly’s body, breaking all her bones, tearing her lungs to shreds, mixing flesh with earth. Every orifice filled with dirt, preventing her from screaming. How she was still alive was beyond her. Something dark and hard pushed against her eyeballs, bursting them, so that the liquid mixed with the earth. Each drop that spilled out was still part of her. Her brain, mangled as it was by roots and the pressure of dirt, still functioned, still thought. The mother had been right, this was a true form of Hell. Everything happened slowly, deliberately. Her body branched out, as if she was made of nothing but roots herself. She would grow, she realized, and be part of this land –while at the same time, she would never truly belong. The baby in her stomach stirred. She was more one with it now than she ever had been, of every move it made. It would grow too, and be part of her and part of the strange creature that had swallowed them both. What remained of Polly could sense the other babies too. There were thousands of them, some hundreds of years old. She even sensed some of the dead ones, that hadn’t quite rotted away yet.

  An overwhelming sadness came over Polly’s remains, and she wished she could have just died in her bed. If only she could be a corpse in an oven, so that her torment would end. But there was no end to her torture, she wasn’t even sure what she would become, what her role would be. If she could have, she would have cried. Instead, she tried to pray.

  Please, God… don’t let me turn into a tree.

  THE END

  Bio

  Chantal Noordeloos lives in the Netherlands, where she spends her time with her wacky, supportive husband, and outrageously cunning daughter, who is growing up to be a supervillain. When she is not busy exploring interesting new realities, or arguing with characters (aka writing), she likes to dabble in drawing.

  In 1999 she graduated from the Norwich School of Art and Design, where she focused mostly on creative writing.

  There are many genres that Chantal likes to explore in her writing, but her ‘go to’ genre will always be horror. “It helps being scared of everything; that gives me plenty of inspiration,” she says.

  Chantal likes to write for all ages, and storytelling is the element of writing that she enjoys most. “Reading should be an escape from everyday life, and I like to provide people with new places to escape to, and new people to meet.”

  Links:

  Facebook: http://tinyurl.com/pon4e66

  Blog: http://chantalnoordeloos.blogspot.nl/

  Twitter: C_Noordeloos

  Amazon page: http://tinyurl.com/puy2t87

  Easter Hunt

  JR Park

  It was set to be a glorious Easter Sunday as the villagers slowly woke from their sleep. The fire-red sky from the previous evening had lived up to its folk tale promise and brought about a morning so magnificent even the mist that had settled across the surrounding fields shone yellow; lit up in a golden glow by the majestic rays of the morning sun.

  Old Pat was already up and making his way through the low level cloud with a sack full of chocolate eggs. He smiled as he picked out one of the treats and regarded it for a moment before hiding it within a thicket of long grass.

  He couldn’t remember how many years he’d been making the early morning trek to set up the children’s Easter egg hunt, but it could be counted in decades. He’d started whilst Edna was still with him, and when she died, succumbing to a sudden and aggressive cancer, he carried on the tradition. Bringing happiness to the children of the village seemed like a fitting memorial to his wife, and one that he knew she would approve of.

  Times had certainly changed.

  When he first came up to these fields all those years ago he had carried a basket of real eggs; their shells carefully hand-painted with rainbow swirls and dusted with glitter. Today their sparkle came from the brightly coloured foil, wrapped at a factory and bought from the local shop. Some of the magic seemed to have died with the moving of modern times, but the beaming smiles from the kids hadn’t changed, and neither had that feeling of joy he felt watching their innocent games.

  Even this morning as he picked out the hiding places for his chocolate treasures he felt the air tingle with the same excitement of old.

  Finding new hiding places had become increasingly difficult with each passing year, and he was thankful this time he had a new canvas to work with. Heavy rain storms last autumn had caused severe flooding. The ground had swelled and slipped in the wash, bringing forth new dips and gradients; nothing on a disastrous scale, but enough to pull down fences and remodel the terrain.

  The subsequent work on a new drainage system, hastily organised by the council, was still ongoing and would no doubt lead to an even more altered landscape, but for now that was out of bounds. The red-tape fences clearly marked the building site, encircling the huge craters that had been dug for the laying of pipes by a good few metres.

  As long as he kept the eggs away from the red tape the children would be safe.

  Old Pat clambered over a wooden stile and peered through the mist.

  Strangest I ever did see, he thought as he regarded its custard-like colour.

  His skin tingled as he swallowed his own saliva in a vain attempt to rid himself of the strange sour taste that prickled his tongue.

  Bending down to re-tie a loosened shoelace, a movement caught his eye. Looking up he watched as a silhouette emerged from the foggy surroundings.

  Kid couldn’t wait until after church, he smiled to himself. Come out here early to get first pickings.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Old Pat called out. ‘Annie, is that you? Edmond? Your father won’t be happy about you sneaking out this early.’

  Silence met his questions as the figure staggered towards him. Feeling his knees creak as he straightened up, Old Pat walked towards the figure. His eyes locked onto its face as he squinted through the yellow vapour. The mist swirled across the plain, continuing to conceal the identity of the oncoming stranger.

  It had to be one of the children, even with such obscured visibility he could make out their height, just reaching his chest.

  ‘Edmond?’ he called again as he drew closer.

  A gust of wind blew hard across the field and momentarily the mist cleared. As the stranger’s face was revealed Pat’s cheeks grew a chalky white.

  The old man didn’t have any time to react before he heard the slop of his intestine falling from a huge gash, torn across his stomach. In shock he reached forward, trying desperately to grab hold of the fatty tube that spilled from his own body. But his grip slipped, his fingers failing to find any purchase on the slimy, gristly texture.

  The chocolate eggs scattered on the g
round as he dropped to his knees.

  A sliver of sanity returned and with it the thought to scream; to call for help. He opened his mouth and bellowed, but a slice across his windpipe reduced his cries to a rasp. It became a gurgle as blood poured down his neck and into his lungs. Red crimson bubbles frothed from the gaping wound as the old man struggled to breathe.

  He felt a large, wet sack fall through his hands and splatter onto the ground.

  He knew it was his stomach.

  Daring once more to look at his attacker, his face contorted with terror. Old Pat fell forward as his thumping heart beat its last; his lifeless corpse landing face first into a pool of his own blood.

  Even on such a beautiful spring day the church was cold inside. The sun had been blazing since dawn, managing to burn off the mist that had glowed with such a radiance it’d become a talking point as the families met for the Easter Sunday service.

  Annie didn’t care about some stupid fog. It was Easter and it was time to go hunting for chocolate.

  She shivered as she sat restlessly on a hard, wooden pew, swinging her legs back and forth. The sun shone through a stain-glass window creating brightly coloured patterns on her legs. She held them out, admiring the kaleidoscopic image. It warmed her skin, teasing her with the pleasures to be had outside.

  She looked at her mother with a face of abject boredom. The warning look that glanced back said it all. Sit quiet and shut up. The priest’s sermon had long become a mindless drone, buzzing in her ears. Annie quietly sighed and gazed back at the pattern. The reds and greens sparkled, just like the foil of a chocolate egg.

  Annie was eight years old when she’d entered the church. The service had crawled at such a pace that she swore she’d turned nine before she was allowed out with her friends to play in the fields.

  ‘How boring was that?!’ Megan scoffed as she took Annie’s hand and ran through the long grass.

  ‘We’re here now,’ replied Annie, excited to be free from her parent’s watchful eye for the next few hours. ‘We’ve got to get a move on otherwise Bruce and Edmond will get all the treats.’

  Reaching the tall Ash tree, they saw the two boys with their hands already in the bushes, pushing back brambles in search of the sugary treasures. Ian must have got there first, or just been lucky, and already had an armful of silvery wrapped orbs, whilst Derrick looked on with jealous eyes.

  ‘Gertie and Brad aren’t coming,’ Megan informed, taking pride in her knowledge. ‘Brad was sick coming out of the service and Gertie’s in trouble for pushing him into his own puke.’

  Annie couldn’t hold back a laugh. ‘They’re always fighting. I wonder if I’ll fight with Adam when he’s no longer a baby.’

  ‘Probably, but you’ll win,’ Megan replied, her mind on the eggs. ‘I reckon I know where Old Pat’s hidden them this year.’

  With that she sprinted across the field.

  ‘Wait for me,’ Annie called out, running after her.

  A cry stopped them all in their tracks.

  Annie and Megan turned to see Ian floundering on the ground, surrounded by a dozen chocolate eggs that had been scattered by his fall. Above him stood the oafish Derrick, puffing his chest out and smiling a cruel smile.

  ‘You leave him alone,’ Bruce was the first to voice his support as he stopped his search and ran towards the pair.

  Edmond, Annie and Megan weren’t far behind.

  ‘Don’t be an idiot,’ Edmond berated the wannabe bully as he caught up. ‘Play the game fair. If not you’ll have me to deal with.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ came Derrick’s reply through clenched teeth. ‘You’ve been asking for it for a long time.’

  He launched himself at Edmond, grabbing the boy’s shirt. The pair tumbled through the grass, kicking and punching as they wrestled each other.

  ‘Stupid boys,’ mocked Annie. ‘Come on Ian, I’ll help you up.’

  She took his hand and slowly brought him to his feet.

  ‘Ugh! What’s that on your shirt?’ Megan pointed at a red smear running down his top. ‘There’s more on the ground.’

  Intrigued by the strange substance, Megan set off, following a trail across the grass and towards the stile at the top of the field.

  Ignoring Ian and the girls, Bruce turned and ran towards the duelling pair of boys. Edmond needed help to escape the fists of his much larger foe.

  ‘Bruce, come back,’ Annie called trying to catch his hand as he ran past.

  Bruce stopped at her touch.

  ‘I don’t want you to get hurt,’ she implored.

  ‘But he’s my friend,’ Bruce answered.

  Paying no heed to the going-ons around him, Ian dusted himself off and picked up one of the Easter eggs that lay on the ground. Carefully unwrapping it, he let the chocolate melt in his mouth. It tasted good as the treat dissolved on his tongue. Closing his eyes, he silently savoured the moment, lost in his own private pleasure.

  Opening them again, he squinted at the light, finding it hard to believe what he saw.

  ‘But it’s not your fight,’ Annie tried to reason with Bruce.

  ‘His fight is mine,’ came the retort.

  ‘You always say that. Don’t be so stupid!’ she huffed.

  ‘Um… guys,’ Ian’s quivering voice was muffled by a mouth half-filled with chocolate.

  Something had caught his attention, shocked him from his moment of bliss. Ian watched as it came closer, but a sense of disbelief kept him rooted to the spot.

  Edmond cried out as Derrick’s fist caught him, square on the cheek.

  ‘Guys,’ Ian called out again, his nerves growing fraught.

  ‘Not now,’ Annie shouted him down before returning back to her argument with Bruce. ‘Why can’t you just grow up? You’re better than all this fighting.’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ Bruce said shaking free from her grip and running towards his friend.

  Mesmerised by the nightmarish figure that bounded across the grass, Ian pinched his own hand. The feeling of pain as his fingernails dug in told him he wasn’t dreaming. But how could that be?

  ‘Guys!’ the tone in his voice had changed. A resonance of fear vibrated through his words with such primal power even Edmond and Derrick stopped fighting and looked up.

  Only metres away from where Ian shook, standing on its hind legs and just a few inches taller than the terrified boy was a rabbit-shaped beast with wild, piercing eyes. Its mouth foamed with a bubbling liquid that oozed down its chin, matting its white fur into a yellowish mess. Pointed incisors protruded like knives and it swung its arms, slicing the air with its lethal claws.

  In an instant the creature was on top of Ian, knocking him to the floor. Its bulk kept him pinned as he stared, helplessly into its glowing eyes.

  Thrusting its arms forwards, the gnarled claws buried deep into the boy’s shoulders. He screamed as the pain coursed through his body. Waves of agony were ignited afresh each time he tried to wriggle free.

  The monster leant closer, its nose twitching as it sniffed at the soft flesh of Ian’s exposed neck. Thick drool dripped onto the boy, stinking of something wretched. Bruce ran to his aid, but was too late. Its long front teeth sank into Ian’s milky white skin. Blood sprayed high in the air as the creature tore into his throat.

  A scream echoed across the field. Annie recognised it as Megan and ran towards the sound.

  She heard another cry, distorted by the wind that rushed by her ears. She knew it was Bruce. Tears ran down her cheeks as she dared herself to look back. Confirming her worst fears, he lay face down on the ground, his jet black hair swimming in a puddle of blood that collected round his head.

  The monster had worked quickly and was already upon Edmond, his chest a mess of broken bone and savaged flesh. Its teeth gnawed at the stringy innards pulled from his stomach. Edmond’s head rolled to one side and looked at Annie. She gasped as she saw his lips move. He was still alive!

  Her vision was blurred with grief as she glimpsed Derrick
running down the hill towards the village. Coward!

  She felt no better than him as she turned and ran towards Megan, but she had to help her friend. The others were already lost.

  Climbing the stile she saw Megan transfixed by the remains of a mutilated corpse. Trails of flesh had been pulled from the body and its face had been shredded. Brain matter dotted the area like a horde of pink maggots. The starlings had already taken its eyeballs and were making short work of the rest.

  A sack of Easter eggs laid by the body’s side, giving the only clue to its identity.

  ‘Old Pat?’ Annie asked between gasps as she caught her breath.

  ‘I-I-I guess so,’ came Megan’s response, her voice quivering with fear.

  The girl burst into tears, but a hand from her friend held her mouth.

  ‘Shhh,’ Annie warned. ‘We’ve got to be quiet. What did that is still out here. It got the others. Killed them, like Old Pat.’

  Megan’s sob intensified, but remained muted by Annie.

  ‘We’ve got to be really quiet,’ Annie continued. ‘Promise?’

  Megan wiped the tears from her eyes and nodded.

  Slowly Annie removed her hand from her friend’s mouth. As she had promised, Megan kept quiet, wiping her long brown hair away from her tear sodden cheeks.

  ‘What do we do?’ she asked, her voice trembling.

  ‘We’ve got to get back to the village,’ Annie tried her best to sound confident. ‘Tell our parents what’s happened. They’ll know what to do.’

  Carefully the pair climbed the stile, keeping themselves as low as they could.

  ‘Try not to look,’ Annie whispered back to her friend as she cleared the stile first. ‘Keep your eyes on the ground.’

  Curiosity gripped Megan as she ignored the warning and scanned the landscape. Silent tears fell down her cheeks as she saw the boy’s lifeless bodies strewn across the field.

  The wind carried birdsong, their melodies unmoved by the tragedy around them. It bowed branches and directed the grass in waves, like a landlocked sea; the dark patches of blood resembling oil spills, polluting the natural beauty of this once comforting place.