A Haunting of Horrors, Volume 2: A Twenty-Book eBook Bundle of Horror and the Occult

by Brian Hodge

  “Ma, Ma,” said the one on the left. “Looky what Da got us. We got us parrots.”

  Henry watched his boys run into the kitchen, the look of fatherly pride unmistakable. He glanced over at Adam and winked.

  “Gonna teach them them to talk,” he said.

  Adam wondered who was going to teach whom. He took a moment to collect his thoughts and cleared his throat. He grabbed the briefcase where it had slipped to the floor and propped it on his knees. He dialed the combination, flipped it open, grabbed several documents and closed it. Placing the documents on the top of his laptop desk, he began his spiel.

  “Now, as you know, Mr. Wheaton, I have been concerned with your family. Your wife and I,” said Adam, gulping, “have developed a comprehensive plan in the event of virtually any untimely disaster.”

  He paused to make sure he had the man’s attention and waited while Enid handed her father an earthenware jug. The man uncorked it with his teeth and took a long swig. When he finished, he whistled long and slow.

  “They call this concoction The Sweetness. My cousin makes it and it’s the best, damned shine you’ll ever taste. Here,” he said proffering the jug, “Try some.”

  “Maybe later, Sir. As I was saying, your house is insured and covered in the event of fire, flood, earthquake, tornado and of course the special consideration your wife insisted on... er... demonic possession. And I can guarantee that we have provided your family with the best rates available in today’s tumultuous market.”

  Henry nodded for Adam to continue.

  “Tuesday, I returned and we initiated a comprehensive plan for your truck and the John Deere out back. So if anything happens to them, all you need to do is call me and I will take care of everything. I pride myself on individual service and... ”

  “Okay. Okay,” said Henry, his eyes glazing over a bit with the words. “Tell ya what, Mr. Connor. Let’s talk about that after dinner. I’m hungry as a bear after a winter snooze and I need something to fill my gut.”

  Adam stared blankly for a few seconds then nodded slowly. It appeared he was going to get fed again.

  They had been eating for three hours. Well, he’d really done the eating. The rest of the Wheaton’s had merely picked a bit, seeming more concerned with his health. Henry had just returned from a fishing trip down to the Florida panhandle and had brought back four hundred pounds of amberjack. Mable had begun to pickle it right away and offered a bowl for Adam to taste. He had to admit, it was very good and contained some unique seasoning. He’d also forced himself to eat some of the pork rinds they were so proud of, as well as half a pecan pie and four boysenberry muffins.

  His stomach felt distended and all he really wanted to do was lie down and take a nap. They must have noticed and had made him a pot of coffee. The bitter dark taste of chicory made it an exotic counterpart to his usual early morning vanilla java. The caffeine also spiked his brain awake. He was looking forward to concluding the deal.

  The aroma of turkey was making its rounds through the house, and even though he was full to bursting, it teased his taste buds until his mouth watered. It took little effort for them to entice him to the dinner table. The spread was incredible. It was everything one would expect at a Thanksgiving and more: Mashed potatoes and gravy, fried okra, pickled fish and pig’s feet, boysenberry jelly, pickles, corn on the cob, plates of butter, dressing, cornbread and an immense turkey.

  The boys gnawed on their roasted parrots, holding them daintily with pinkies extended. They’d explained to Adam that their Da liked them to eat them because it made the boys talk better. Adam had nodded, somehow knowing that that would be the reason.

  Around the table sat Enid, the twins, Henry, Mable, Granny and Adam. But the only two that were seriously eating was Enid and Adam. Henry had expertly carved several huge slabs of juicy white breast meat and laid them on Adam’s plate. The turkey had been carefully basted in honey and the meat fell apart in his mouth. He didn’t even need to chew it was so perfect. It wasn’t until the second plate that he voiced the question that had been bothering him.

  “Why aren’t you eating? I’m feeling more than a little guilty sitting here and devouring your excellent food.”

  “Don’t you worry, Mr. Connor,” said Mable. “This food is for you and Enid. The rest of us are humanitarians and we don’t like to eat animals.”

  “Humanitarians?” asked Adam. The political term seemed out of place in the kitchen and he’d never heard it mentioned with food before.

  “But as you see, Enid’s joining ya,” added Henry. “We could never get her to stop. Even though she’s thin as a sassyfras tree, she never turns down a meal.”

  “Enough of this shit, Henry. I’m tired of waiting and getting hungry as hell,” said Granny in a reedy voice.

  Henry cast a glance at his mother and then locked eyes with his wife who nodded in return.

  “As soon as you’re finished, Mr. Connor, we’ll get down to business and finish this once and for all.”

  Adam gulped down his mouthful of food and nodded sharply. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and pushed the plate aside.

  “Let me just go and grab my briefcase,” he said, pushing away from the table.

  “Not yet, Mr. Connor. We got something special to show you first,” said Henry.

  Adam paused and glanced around. If it was more food, there was no way he’d ever be able to eat it. As it was, he felt what could only be what a woman pregnant with sextuplets must feel like on delivery day.

  “Well, I don’t know, Mr. Wheaton,” he said. “I really can’t imagine eating another bite.”

  “Then it’s perfect timing. Come on and lemme show you what I mean.”

  Henry stood and gestured for Adam to follow. Adam pushed away from the table and ambled across the wooden floor of the kitchen and into a room he’d previously mistaken for a closet. Instead, it was a large room dominated by an immense stove set against the outside wall. Henry tugged open the door which opened downwards. The small man pulled out a six-foot metal tray. Deep grooves had been cut along the edges to catch juices as they bubbled out of the meat. Five bands of metal were arrayed along the stainless steel.

  “Take off your clothes Mr. Connors,” Henry said, as if he said it to men all the time.

  “What? Take of my clothes? But... ”

  “Come on. Either you do it, or I’ll have my boys do it for you,” Henry said, his voice hardening.

  “But why do I need... my... clothes... off?” his voice trailed away as he spun around to see the smiling faces of the family and realized that the oven wasn’t made for pigs, or cows, or horses.

  He spun and ran toward the door and hit the Mongoloid brothers at full speed. He bounced off and hit the floor hard. They grinned stupidly, picked him up and held him fast. Enid slid next to him and with a long knife, began to cut away his last good suit. He soon stood naked. He struggled the best he could, but the iron-like grips of the twins made it virtually impossible to move.

  They threw him on the metal tray. Carefully, they secured his arms, legs, and neck with the metal bands.

  He screamed for them to stop, but they ignored him.

  They left him momentarily and he found himself offering them his car, his savings account, his house, his condo in Jamaica and his first born child if only they’d let him go.

  They reentered. Granny carried a large twenty-gallon pot of breadcrumbs, parsley and celery. A garden shovel stuck out from the top of the mixture. It took his panicked mind but a few seconds to realize that it was stuffing and it was meant for him.

  “Go on ahead and chop off that, pecker, Mable,” said Henry. “We’ll make jerky out of it. You know how much Momma loves to chew on her jerky.”

  Four things happened at once:

  Granny approached his ass with a garden shovel full of dressing.

  Mable approached his manhood with a paring knife.

  Henry approached his stomach with his fish knife, apparently ready for the gutting. />
  And Adam realized that being a humanitarian had absolutely nothing to do with politics.

  I Saw Renny Shooting Santa Claus

  by David Whitman

  Casey stared down at the corpse, a big smile erupting underneath his mustache. “I can’t fucking believe you killed Santa Claus.”

  Renny was poking the fat man with his boot, his face pale. “You made me do it. You told me it was a prowler.”

  “No, my friend. I told you it might be a prowler. You’re the one that got all gung-ho and shot the fat fucker.”

  Renny leaned down and studied the dead man. Santa’s mouth was open, showing off white teeth in an even whiter beard. His blue eyes still registered the shock of being shot. Blood was pouring out of the Santa suit from the side.

  Renny jumped when the camera flashed.

  Casey pulled the picture out of the instant Polaroid camera and shook it back and forth in the air. “Well, that was a Norman Rockwell Christmas moment if I ever saw one. Who you going to get next? The Easter Bunny?”

  Renny threw the shotgun to the carpet in front of the Christmas tree. “This shit isn’t funny. He can’t be the real Santa Claus. There ain’t no such thing, man.”

  Casey looked at the developing picture and smiled. “Well, there ain’t no such thing anymore.” He sang in an off key voice. “I saw Renny shooting San-tee Claus. Underneath the mistletoe last night.”

  Renny frowned. “I’m glad you think this is so fucking funny. There is a dead man on my living room floor in a goddamn Santa suit, and you’re cracking jokes.”

  Casey handed Renny the picture. “You need to learn to appreciate the absurdity of life, my friend. This is too ludicrous to not laugh at.”

  Renny stared at the picture, shaking his head. He was leaning over Santa, his face a mask of horror. He handed the photo back to Casey who stuck it in his back pocket. “We have to get rid of this body.”

  Casey was pulling at the dead man’s beard. “Yep, it’s real. This is so fucking bizarre. Why don’t you just call the police?”

  “Well, number one, we have enough drug paraphernalia in this house to start a commune. Number two, this gun is unregistered. And number three, once they find out I have a gun, I’m going right back to prison.”

  Casey smiled. “As opposed to killing Santa Claus and then trying to dispose of his body?”

  “Would you cut it out with the Santa Claus shit? This is serious. I can get sent to prison for a very long time. It’s like this: we either dispose of the corpse, or get rid of the drugs. You choose.”

  Casey looked down at the red and white body. “I guess it’s the corpse then. We can’t afford to get rid of the drugs.” He searched through the deep pockets of the Santa suit and pulled out about five tightly rolled joints of marijuana. “Looks like Santa likes to partake of a fat blunt or two now and then.”

  Renny stared down at the joints. “That bastard. He was a prowler. Those blunts were on my dresser. The Butler brothers gave them to me for Christmas.”

  Casey laughed. “Well, see? I was right. He was a prowler.”

  Renny grabbed the joints from his friend, pocketing them quickly. “Let’s get this corpse the hell out of here. There’s a wheelbarrow in the garage.”

  After about ten minutes of struggling with the amazingly heavy corpse, they managed to get it inside the trunk. Renny tried to close it, but realized the man was too fat for it to shut all the way.

  Casey burst into laughter. “Oh this is too fucking much. Now what you gonna do?”

  Renny moaned. “We’re gonna have to tie the trunk closed.”

  “Yeah, but then he’ll be sticking out. Then everyone will see what you did to poor Santa.”

  Renny growled. “I’ll throw a sheet over him, godammit! Stop it with the fucking jokes!”

  “It’s hard, man!”

  Renny looked around the garage for some rope, but only found some cheap fishing line. “This is gonna have to do.” He tied the trunk closed.

  “You forgot to put a sheet on him,” Casey said, snickering. He could see the Santa suit peeking out from the half open trunk.

  Renny picked up an old blanket and shoved it through the crack of the trunk. “Happy now?” He waited until his friend nodded and then muttered, “Asshole.”

  Renny opened the garage door and they got into the car. He pulled out into the snow-covered road and watched the white flurries bounce across the windshield as they drove. Many of the houses on the streets flashed with festively colored lights.

  “Dashing through the snow, with a one corpse we did slay,” Casey sang in a surprisingly good Sinatra-like voice. “To a field we go, laughing all the way.”

  Renny turned to his friend, saying nothing, his face reddening.

  Casey looked over and tried his best to hide his smile. “I’m really trying. But it’s too ridiculous. Look, it’s Christmas, you shot Santa Claus and now you have him stuffed in your trunk. Not to mention he had five fat blunts in his pocket. Five of YOUR fat blunts. All of this and you expect me not to laugh?”

  Renny actually smirked. “It is kind of funny I guess.”

  “Kind of funny? It’s hysterical. I can’t wait to answer the inevitable question, ‘How was your Christmas, man?’ I’ll be like, well, Renny killed Santa in front of the Christmas tree and I helped him get rid of the body.” Casey noticed a glowing 7-11 off in the distance. “Hey, can you stop there? I need to grab some smokes.”

  “Uh…are you sure that’s a good idea considering what we have in the trunk?”

  “Oh please. Who the hell is going to look in the trunk? It’s fucking Christmas, for Christ’s sake!”

  Renny turned into the parking lot of the 7-11. He waited impatiently and watched the snowflakes as they danced around the windshield.

  As he watched in pure, unadulterated horror, a police car pulled into the parking lot. Renny stared straight ahead and tried to act as normal as possible. Out of his peripheral vision he noticed the cop get out of the car and walk directly towards him. At the same time, Casey came out of the 7-11, nodded at the cop, and got back into the car.

  Renny kept a passive face as the officer knocked on the glass. He rolled the window down and tried his best to smile. “Hello, officer.”

  “Merry Christmas, guys. Remember me?”

  Renny squinted. It was the same cop who arrested him last year on a misdemeanor charge of marijuana possession at his Daddy’s hoedown.

  The cop smiled. “I can tell by your face you recognize me. Staying out of trouble on this fine Christmas night?”

  “Actually, we killed Santa Claus and stuffed him in the trunk,” Casey said, his face keeping a deadpan expression as he lit his Kool cigarette. Renny imagined himself wrapping his fingers around Casey’s throat and squeezing until the veins popped.

  “Cute,” the cop said, looking towards the back of the car. “You know, that trunk can’t be sticking open like that. It’s a hazard and may distract you. What the hell you got in there anyways?”

  Renny swallowed heavily, his smile growing weaker. “Just some presents I’m taking home to my kid. I haven’t seen him in six months. I’m hoping this Christmas will give us a chance to get together.”

  The officer nodded. “I hear ya there. I got the same problem.” He pulled his pants up over his beer belly and straightened his shirt. “Well, have a Merry Christmas guys.”

  Renny nodded, hoping desperately the cop didn’t notice he was starting to sweat. “You too, officer.”

  When they pulled out of the parking lot Casey howled in laughter. “Oh my god was that fucking funny. You should have seen your face when I said that about the Santa in the trunk! That was priceless!”

  “Are you a goddamn retard!” Renny screamed. “Do you want us to go to prison?”

  “Calm down, man,” Casey said, a giggle escaping his lips. “Like he was going to believe me when I said that.”

  “That’s not the point, dumbfuck! You made him take notice of the trunk. That wa
s stupid.”

  “You’re going to make me laugh even harder, stop. Think of it as a funny story you can tell your kids.”

  Renny turned off on a barely plowed side road. “Man, you need help. What kind of story would this be to tell a freaking kid? And then, little Jimmy, we couldn’t fit Santa in the trunk.”

  Casey chuckled. “That’s the spirit, man! See, you’re even starting to find humor in this.”

  Renny sighed. “Yeah, I am. It’s just too messed up of a situation for it not to be a little funny.” He pulled off to the side of the road. “Okay, this should be good enough. We can bury the body out here and hope they don’t find him until spring sometime.”

  They exited the car and untied the fishing wire. Santa’s eyes were open and he groaned.

  “Oh shit!” Renny hissed. “Now what?”

  “Oh no,” Casey said, backing away from the car like it was wired with explosives. “I thought you said he was dead.”

  “He looked dead to me. Didn’t he look dead to you?”

  Casey pulled a wool hat from his pocket and stuck it on his head. “We’re going to have to leave him here.”

  “Are you kidding me? No way. It’s Christmas, man!”

  “He tried to steal your blunts. Did he not?”

  “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I can murder Santa Claus. No way, no how.” Renny stared down at the corpulent man. Santa was watching them fearfully, his eyes white in the darkness of the trunk.

  “It’s not Santa Claus,” Casey said, leaning forward. “It’s some fat bastard who broke into your apartment and tried to steal your blunts. Think of it that way, and it’s not so hard to leave him out here, is it?”

  “I’m not leaving him out here. I can’t. Especially not on Christmas night. And don’t you think I KNOW it’s not goddamn Santa Claus for real, whipdick?” He looked up into the sky and squinted. The snow was starting to fall heavily.

  “Are you forgetting you already shot the fat bastard?”