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

by Brian Hodge

  The doctor grinned. His teeth—dirty-green like his skin—chattered, and his eyelids stretched circle-wide beneath the lenses of his glasses. “Used to, but they irritated my eyes. It’s easier for me to wear glasses, yes it is.”

  “Thanks,” Sam said, ready to leave. He took the doctor’s card and exited into the strange new world, a world alive with brilliant colors and bright lights.

  4:25 PM

  Holding a bag of groceries in each arm, Sam entered the front door of his apartment and placed them on the kitchen table. A small three-roomer, it accommodated all his things with just enough space to spare for a gal’s change of clothes in case he got lucky. From one of the grocery bags, he grabbed the cleaning kit the optometrist gave him, shuffled to the bathroom and tore it open, carefully placing the contents on the porcelain counter.

  There were three small bottles: a can of spray saline, weekly cleaner, and moisture drops. Sam had a habit—albeit a good one—of going through the moisture drops excessively. He enjoyed the cool feeling of fresh, wet contacts.

  He unscrewed the cap, scanning the bottle. It read:

  Merman Rewetting Drops

  Use Only With Merman Lenses

  Sam painfully thought about the cleaners and drops left over from his other contacts. They’d go to waste now that he had Merman lenses.

  So what was so special about these lenses that they needed their own products? The big goof Walter the optometrist with the green teeth didn’t say anything about this.

  Worrying about how much these new products would set him back, Sam gazed into the mirror, stretched his eyes wide to appreciate the lenses upon his eyes.

  His expected admiration at once turned to loathe.

  The corner of each eye held a small dab of yellow mucous. Eye-goo, or eye-snot as he called it. These embarrassing little boogers were a common sight when he wore contacts, but only after a long tiring day when his eyes needed a break. Not now, just beyond a few hours wear. Perhaps his eyes needed to get accustomed to the new lenses.

  He cleaned his eyes with a tissue, placed a drop of Rewetting solution in each one. He then changed into shorts and went to the gym, allowing himself to disregard the unsightly stuff that had temporarily marred his looks as he escaped into the bright sunny world.

  6:38 PM

  Sam returned to the apartment, continents of sweat darkening his shirt. He had a damn good workout tonight—and why not? He knew he looked good with his new lenses. Well, felt good anyway. Didn’t make a darn of a difference. Seeing everything around him so crystal clear pumped him up real good, gave him that little extra incentive to push harder. And push harder he did, seeing all those girls—unblurred and sexy instead of gray and muddied—kept him around the gym all the much longer.

  He shuffled to the bathroom, gazed into the mirror.

  “Gah!” Did someone see him like this? One of the girls from the gym? God, he hoped not. But there it was, plain as pie, eye-goo, eye-snot, two big wads of it filling the corners of his eyes, so much that no pink showed, only blobs of yellow hugging the whites. Jesus, any more and it would start dripping out. He quickly scooped each globule out with his index finger and wiped it on a tissue.

  He took a deep breath, concerned more that someone at the gym might have seen him with snot wilding in his eyes, only somewhat that something might be wrong with the lenses, or even his eyes.

  He placed a drop of Rewetting fluid in each eye, revulsed but still hoping his eyes would get used to these new lenses. And soon.

  10:45 PM

  Sam startled awake, a siren tearing into his dream. It took a moment to realize the wail had emanated from the television.

  If he were able to see, his empty plate from dinner would have greeted him from the coffee table. But the contacts were dry and pasty from his unexpected nap, severely clouding his vision. He stood from the couch and floundered to the bathroom, feeling for the rewetting drops. He planted a drop in each eye, then looked into the mirror.

  His stomach churned.

  His eyes were red, irritated, veins carving the crescent whites like rivers on a map. Fat blobs of mucous packed the corners of his eyes, each yellow accumulation overflowing, streaking from his eyes down the sides of his nose like stray mustard trails.

  Grabbing a tissue, he dabbed at the gush of mucous plastered to his nose. The mucous clung to the tissue and peeled from his skin like a damp noodle, but did not tear free from the blob nestled in the corner of his left eye. Instead, as if the blob were tightly leashed to the string in the tissue, it produced a tiny wet sunctiony sound, and pulled free.

  Here he felt something very strange.

  As Sam gently pulled the tissue away from his face, he saw more strings of mucous attached to the rear of the blob—which now dangled in mid-air between the tissue and his eye—materializing from within his eye socket like thin strings of mozzarella cheese bitten from a hot slice of pizza.

  But more so alarming than the appearance of the innermost goo was the sensation of it as he pulled it out. Perhaps five inches in length, thinning but and still emerging, he could feel the yellow string skimming along the posterior surface of his eyeball (and perhaps beyond) as it made its way out. It tickled so much it hurt, leaving a strange itch back there he could no way scratch—even after the string finally snapped into the tissue and he feverishly rubbed his eye.

  After repeating the horrific act with his other eye, Sam placed a few more Rewetting drops into each eye. The cool liquid at once calmed the irritating anger within. The redness suddenly cleared.

  And the goo was gone. Like that, he felt fine.

  Can’t sleep with these, he thought. But damn it! The thought of having to wear glasses—even around the apartment—aggravated him, especially after purchasing brand new extended wear contact lenses.

  Still gazing into the mirror, he placed the tip of his index finger upon the lens in his right eye. It felt different than normal, kind of…soft, and if Sam had been entirely awake, he might know exactly what it was. But sleep suddenly threatened to take him away from the crystal clear world, as mysteriously as it did a few hours prior, and Sam, frightened only moments ago, at once found himself distracted, reaching for the cool, crisp comfort of his bed and snuggling beneath the covers, smiling himself to sleep, completely defying the horror that just ensued, thinking only of his dreams that would play out like high-definition movies on a wide screen TV.

  3:17 AM

  Sam awoke.

  His eyes hurt real bad.

  At once he cursed himself for not trusting his common sense earlier—for not removing the contacts like he knew he should have. Now, with those eyes of his clawing in pain as if red ants were trying to break out from beneath the corneas, he wondered what terrible instinct had persuaded him to ignore the gross effects of the Merman contact lenses and actually go to sleep with them in his eyes.

  He leaped from bed and ran to the bathroom, fumbled with the switch—something he wished he hadn’t done—and almost puked at the sight staring back at him from the mirror.

  First off, he couldn’t see very well because there was so much lumpy yellow matter within his eyes. A thick fibrous strand ran from corner to corner along the bottom lids, each one billowing like a cooked sausage link, entirely sheathing the lower lashes. It spread down from there, branching off in thin veiny paths, running across his nose and cheeks like sinewy, insect-like appendages. In the denser patches at the corners of his eyes, tiny bubbles curdled like milk blown through a straw, and it reminded Sam terribly of something he saw on TV not too long ago: the foamy materialization that accompanies amphibians during mating.

  In quiet panic, Sam gently peeled the wandering mucous from his face. It proved no problem, came away easily.

  Until he got to his eyes.

  A tug-of-war of sorts ensued, Sam gently yanking on the strings of solidifying discharge, the inside of his eye socket tenaciously holding on, as if the yellow strings had deeply rooted themselves into the membranous walls
within. Additionally, unlike this afternoon when the emission had been wet and soft, and had naturally smeared away on his fingers, this stuff, well, it was…hard, sticky, rubberlike.

  Sam managed to twirl a few longer strands around two fingers.

  He gave a tug, still gently, but more earnestly than before. Finally, it started to give.

  And lord did he feel it. It was so damn odd, as if he were yanking on the muscles and tendons that normally provided movement to his eye. His eye sank in slightly then pointed outward, away from the bridge of his nose. When he released his grip, the eye slid back straight. He pulled again. The eye responded, same manner. Back and forth, again and again, like controlling the strings on a marionette.

  Still, it wouldn’t entirely give. He pulled harder. His eyeball twisted further. Terrible pain darted through his sinuses.

  At last the web of mucous began to pull out.

  However, unlike earlier when it grew thinner as it strung out from the depths of his socket, this discharged fattened, sprouting thick, pea-sized globules that shifted his eyeball up and down as each one emerged.

  Sam clenched his teeth, grunted as pain wracked his face: burning, itching deep inside his cavity, ravaging his eyes. He pulled harder than ever. Flattened wads, twisting with blood, ripped out. His other eye suddenly started oozing, spilling its discharge on its own.

  Overwhelmed, Sam pulled his hands away from his face. They were covered, wet gloves of yellow pus patterned with meandering streaks of blood, dripping beyond his wrists to his forearms. His face, it was masked to his mouth. So much…stuff, pouring out, all from his eyes.

  Tastes like tears. No, not tears. Stronger. Salt water…

  Suddenly, he heard something inside his head. Just beyond the surface of his forehead. Behind his eyes.

  A…squeal.

  Sam felt an all-consuming fatigue slap him. He brought his hands back to his face, ran them through the thickening eye-excretions that dangled like wet mop strings from his eyes.

  And somehow, through the mess, he saw the card on the counter, amid the empty box, rewetting drops, saline, and weekly cleaner. He reached, picked it up, smudging it. It read:

  Poseidon Optical

  House Calls, 24 Hours A Day

  House calls?

  He staggered out from the bathroom, feeling his way to the phone in the kitchen.

  He pulled the handset, somehow managed to call. “Help me…”

  A familiar voice on the other end. And then perhaps a laugh. But Sam wasn’t quite sure because he had to drop the phone.

  Something was crawling from his eye.

  4:43 AM

  Three knocks at the door…

  Sam awoke, his back to the kitchen floor. He fluttered his eyes open. They felt sore, but he could see. He rose, leaning up on his elbows, gazing out across the tiny span of the kitchen floor.

  Dear God…

  The nightmare immediately revived itself, enhanced itself, and he knew at this very moment that if he found the fortitude to survive the shock of the sight before him, the sheer hideousness of it would no doubt torment him for a lifetime.

  Amid a great pool of yellow and green slime—perhaps five feet across and tiding well into the carpeted living room—swam a small creature. Wriggling like a salted slug, it blanketed itself in the gelatinous substance, utilizing a posterior fin that flipped wildly, splashing the stringy mess on its back like a frantic mud-skipper stranded in a sand puddle. It had taut gray skin, fibrous veins swelling and beating beneath its slimy surface. It could have passed for a newborn mouse, all bare and wrinkled. Except for the eyes, four of them, yellow and bulbous and fish-like, bulging on its skin. And as the creature slurped upon the matter it swam in, those eyes stared up at Sam, watching…

  The door suddenly slammed open. Walter the optometrist came in. But not really Walter. It had Walter’s face, that much was certain, but the similarities ended there. His eyes were lidless, flat and disc-shaped, his lips round and swollen, like balloons. He was unclothed and had wet green scales covering the entire scope of his body. Clumps of seaweed fell from him, a trail of slime streaking the floor as he trudged into the apartment. Sam caught a whiff of something miserable: the thick, rancid stench of low tide.

  Sam rose slowly, like a palsied child. His only defense.

  “You did well Sam. Poseidon would be proud.” His words were garbled and rotted.

  “Poseidon? What is this?” he managed to stammer. Not that any reasonable answer would suffice given the situation. The optometrist took another squishy step closer. Sam noticed his feet were…webbed.

  “Sure, Poseidon. You know. God of the seas. He’s my—my supervisor. He gives me the ovum. Those contacts you put in your eyes, well, let’s just say the vitreous fluid in the human eye is the perfect amniotic liquid for the Kraken embryo.”

  Sam felt faint.

  This can’t be happening.

  He thought back: the optical place smelled briny, the contacts were green. Walter, one letter away from…water?

  He peered down at the tiny creature. No longer tiny. The wild, wriggling thing was now the size of a guinea pig, now green, now six-limbed.

  It was growing.

  “And those drops I gave you…” Walter garbled. “Food.”

  Sam shuttered his eyes, prayed to his own God for it to go away. But it wouldn’t be that easy. No. When he opened his eyes, Walter the sea-thing was on his hands and knees slurping at the pool of fluid on the floor with his big sucker-fish lips. And the thing, the baby Kraken, it had grown even bigger in the passing seconds, to the size of a puppy.

  Sam, cowering, heard the chatter of his own teeth slicing through the cool mist rising from Walter’s body. He watched as the infant Kraken stopped feeding and wriggled its way through the sludge to his feet, its four twisted eyes pointing up, studying him, round sucker-like mouth riddled with needle-thin teeth producing an obscene slurping sound as it went for his toes.

  “I think it likes you, Sam,” Walter said, a hunk of mucousy seaweed falling from his…its mouth.

  Only dimly aware of his own sudden screams, Sam brought his foot up in a staggering motion and brought it down hard upon the creature. A combination squeal and flatulence sound blurted out as the thing smashed limply under his foot, flaps of rubbery skin tearing away, pancakes of viscera floating beneath its tatters.

  Instantly, Sam felt a welling of power, of revenge. He tasted escape. “Not any more.”

  Walter brought his gaze up from the dying infant. Smiled. “Sam…you have two eyes.”

  A deep growl emanated from the bedroom.

  Sam shuddered. He felt tiny again.

  Then the second Kraken appeared at the doorway, just barely squeezing its massive body through the frame before it lunged at Sam.

  And the last thing Sam Morrow saw before he himself became food were the dripping, grinning, razor sharp teeth of the Kraken nestled tightly inside its scaly, misshapen head.

  Crystal clear.

  The Startling Supplements to Brione Heloise’s Depictions

  I say, with unequivocal passion, that every object created with the consideration of defining it as an art form, deserves an equivalent work to parallel its implied significance.

  It can also be said, incontrovertibly, that the God of Art has arrived to fulfill my ongoing visions—to make them utterly complete, but not without, to my misfortune I might add, some explicitly offensive outgrowth. It could be that the repercussions of my creative exploits spur negativism as either a consequence or climax to fully rationalize an emergence from the norm into the darkness that is my world. Regardless, I have seen the arrival of evil in the form that emulates my creativity, I have touched its skins, and now, I must model my future on its own abhorrent ingenuities.

  It may appear as if I have decidedly bequeathed my soul to the curse that has beset itself into my work, into my world. Be that as it may, the episodes to which I will confer to you may shock, startle, or surprise—that being the obvi
ous intention of the interloper who has so ruthlessly meddled into my livelihood. Only at this final juncture will you realize that I must choose a pathway towards the pinnacle of my inspiration, despite the consequences.

  My name is Brion Heloise. As a young boy there was no mistaking the desire within me to become an artist, nor was there any doubt to the kinds of things I wanted to create. While other prejuveniles allowed themselves to be ushered through the universal learnings routinely emphasized by those so-called educators, whose aspirations settled into the soils of habit and salary-gathering, I fed upon the topsy-turvy, inside-out, awry, and sometimes sinister universe of my mind. A faithful mercenary of oddness, my mind and body buckled before normalcy, crusading to disclose even the slightest indication of something foul or swollen below its illusive surface. The demons hiding amidst the whorls of fog on a windshield; the bitter acids rising in a plume of cigarette smoke; the tiny creatures frolicking in the breading of my cutlets; or the landscapes in which I imagine they thrive. I conjured these and similar nightmares on canvas, embodying not the faceless evils themselves, but that of the husks with which they furtively hide.

  Far into the bowels of the village of Nyx, there exists a gallery, a thin slice of building enfolded between two abandoned brick-faced structures in a zone—ironically—overcrowded with roaches, rats, and rot. Still, for four days a year, tribes of people brave the decrepit environs to marvel at the legion of bizarre icons (apportioned by artisan) exhibited upon its peeling walls. Mine, comprised of four efforts, three of which bragged full completion, hung buried in the deepest pocket of the room, at the furthest reaches of the labyrinthian walls. A maze it would be for the enthusiast to finally locate my pieces, then stand in the paltry floor-space provided as the walls closed in upon them, threatening claustrophobia should they stay gazing too long.

  I’ve never the chance to encounter the leaser of the ‘gallery’ (I hesitate naming it just that, as for the remaining three hundred and sixty one days of the year the building is vacant, and to the common passerby looks not unlike any other sickly foundation infecting this stretch of Nyx), and find it mostly unimportant to do so, as long as my invite continues to arrive annually in the post.