Shock Totem 8.5: Holiday Tales of the Macabre and Twisted - Valentine's Day 2014

by Shock Totem

  It was raining so hard that he could barely see a foot in front of him. His uniform was sodden and heavy. David slipped between the tents, seeking out the largest one, where Pembroke slumbered. When he reached the tent he paused, gathered his breath. His nerve endings were on fire, his vision bathed in red. Finally he ducked down, shoved aside the tent flap, and entered.

  He could see nothing inside the squat enclosure, but he could sense Pembroke in there, lying on his side and snoring not three feet away. David grabbed a soggy pack of matches from his pocket and inched closer to the sleeping man. When he could feel Pembroke’s breath on his knees, he struck a match. It guttered to life, casting faint, eerie light throughout the tent.

  Pembroke’s eyes snapped open.

  Before the larger man could react, David tossed aside the match, ripped the knife from his belt, and drove it deep into his right eye socket. Again, and again, and again.

  In the darkness, warm fluid poured over his hands. David gritted his teeth and brought the knife down one last time, into Pembroke’s heart. “I hope it hurts,” he whispered. “I hope it fucking hurts.” Tears streamed down his cheeks.

  David’s anger and sorrow slowly waned, replaced by an emptiness that would follow him for the rest of his life. He rose to his feet and grabbed Pembroke’s corpse by the legs. He hauled the body out into the rain, trudged past his fellow soldiers’ tents, silent in the deluge, and approached the river’s edge. He stood there, alone except for his dark thoughts. He leaned over Pembroke’s gnarled face. “For Percy,” he said.

  He shoved the body down the riverbank. The splash it made when it hit water was drowned out by the pouring rain. The rain that would wash away the blood in the same way the downpour and thunder had washed out the sounds of his crime. None would know what he’d done. None could point a finger. It could have been any one of them. The whole platoon had stood there and watched Percy die. No one had spoken up, no one had intervened. They all knew they were partly responsible for Percy’s death, and they all knew that any one of them could’ve been next. They all had motive...

  David stood there by the river’s edge, watching the corpse roll over as it slowly floated away.

  “Toi loi,” he said under his breath. Fittingly, it was the only Vietnamese he knew.

  Toi loi.

  Guilty as sin.

  Robert J. Duperre is an author of horror and epic fantasy, as well as a part-time contributor to Shock Totem magazine. He has written the post-apocalyptic series The Rift, as well as the stand-alone science fiction/fantasy mashup Silas. Robert has also edited the short story collections The Gate: 13 Dark and Odd Tales and The Gate 2: 13 Tales of Isolation and Despair. His latest novel, Dawn of Swords, the first book in the new three-book series, The Breaking World, written in collaboration with David Dalglish, was just released by 47North. Robert lives in northern Connecticut with his wife, the artist Jessica Torrant, his three children, and Leonardo, the one-eyed wonder dog.

  HOLIDAY RECOLLECTION

  HANGING UP THE GLOVES

  by John Dixon

  My first love was boxing. Every girl played second fiddle to the sport through my teens and early twenties—until I met my wife. Things with her were different—and I mean instantly—and six months into the relationship, when I was poised to go pro, I abruptly hung up the gloves.

  I quit on a Tuesday night, after demolishing a kid from Jersey over three ridiculously bloody rounds. That night, my friend, who happens to be a paramedic, pointed out that Tommy Morrison had just contracted AIDS. Think about the guys in the gym, he told me, think about HIV and hep. And for the first time, I did start considering those dangers...and in the back of my mind was Christina, the life I could see us having together, the life, in fact, we were already building. That was it. I never competed again.

  It’s funny how love can put past infatuation into perspective. Just as some guys say about past girlfriends, “I’ll always love her,” I will always love boxing...but it wasn’t until months later, perhaps around the time that I asked Christina to marry me, that I really had the distance to understand how disastrous a professional boxing career would have been to me. Now, almost twenty years on, I’m thankful every day that I settled on the correct love.

  GOLDEN YEARS

  by John Boden

  “Good Morning, babe,” Larry said, leaning to give Mary a peck on her cheek. Her skin tasted like the soap she used, and he hated it. He wished he could gouge out her eye with his grapefruit spoon. He smiled.

  “Morning, Love,” she replied, sipping her coffee and envisioning the butter knife separating his head from his shoulders. The small silence between them filled with the scritch-scritch of the knife spreading butter on her toast.

  Larry picked up the paper and started on the local news section. He reached under the newsprint and grabbed a slice of toast from the tray. Clutching the knife, Mary watched as he raised the toast to his mouth, and she wished she had the nerve to sever fingers from hand.

  “What time must you go in today, Love?” she asked, licking her thumb and using it to pick up crumbs from her tablecloth. She looked at the paper wall he sat behind and thought about smashing it with the meat cleaver.

  “I ought to be there by nine or so, but I’m the boss, so...whenever.” He chuckled at the quip—and at the image he held of strangling Mary with the telephone cord. He folded the paper and laid it beside his empty plate. “Better get a move on.” He stood and leaned forward to give his wife another little kiss on her cheek. He thought about how simple it would be to turn slightly and bite off her nose. Chew it and swallow it. He smiled and whispered in her ear: “I love you.”

  Mary stood in the doorway to the bedroom and watched as Larry pulled his work pants on; they were to his knees and he was bent over, pulling them higher.

  Hefting the iron skillet in her hand, Mary raised it and stepped forward...

  “I love you more,” she said.

  John Boden lives in the shadow of Three Mile Island, where he bakes cakes and cookies for a living. Any remaining time is unevenly divided between his amazing wife and sons, working for Shock Totem, and a little of his own writing. His unique fiction has appeared in 52 Stitches, Metazen, Weirdyear, Black Ink Horror 7, Shock Totem, and Psychos, edited by John Skipp. His not-for-children children's book, Dominoes, was published late last year. He has stunning muttonchops.

  HOLIDAY RECOLLECTION

  AKAI

  by Jassen Bailey

  I’m going to tell you about my very first love. She was a true beauty. Dependable and boy...was she smooth. By today’s standards, some would categorize her as full figured and elderly. I loved her just the way she was. Being a youth, I had never seen anything like her. Her name was Akai.

  Akai was the first VCR my parents ever purchased. It was the mid-eighties and this was such an exciting purchase. She was a massive gray box that had a plug in remote control. At this point TVs did not have remotes, so this was also my introduction to remotes. She sat on top of our floor model television set, which was encased in a finished wood cabinet. I sat inches from the screen to make it easier to stop/pause the VCR and adjust volume. The cord on the remote was ridiculously short. My sweet Akai lasted for over a decade. She was such a beauty, she introduced me to a whole new world, opening my eyes to the glories of VHS movies and video stores.

  As a child, I remember my mom taking me to see Friday the 13th Part III 3D in the movie theatre, and to the drive-in to see Jaws. Those were such great times, but to have the ability to see favorite movies whenever you wanted to watch them? Now that was something special.

  Video rental shops started popping up all over the town. I was mesmerized by all the horror posters and video covers displayed in the stores. Horror had its own section in each of these establishments. I became obsessed with all the various films and video covers. Movies such as I Spit on Your Grave, Basket Case, Sleepaway Camp, and Rabid cooed me in. I coaxed my mom to rent them all for me. And Akai never let me down...
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  There were weekends I would take in up to seven horror films. I had never known so many existed. My only other exposure to horror films had been on HBO and in the movie theaters. Akai introduced me to Cronenberg, Romero, Gordon, Fulci, and Hooper to name just a few. I started spending more time with her than I did with the boys around the block.

  On one particular weekend, I rode my bike to the closest video store with a friend to rent some horror films. Looking forward to spending some serious time with Akai, I ended up stealing the Texas Chainsaw Massacre Part 2 and Slumber Party Massacre box covers. My obsession with these covers led me to fantasize about having the covers displayed around my room at home. My mom (who knew I took the covers) told me when she returned the rentals that the owner had inquired if she knew who could have possibly done this. (I suspect the owner knew as well.) She offered a reward of seven movie rentals to the person who returned the box covers. It didn’t take me long to collect the reward. And yes, she gave me the seven free rentals.

  My relationship with Akai lasted several years. Though she was eventually replaced in my house with more modern video viewing equipment, she was never replaced in my memory and heart as my first true love.

  SHE CRIES

  by K. Allen Wood

  Under the soft amber glow of the descending moon, the cracked ground stretched away into darkness like crooked timber, and it beckoned David Hardwick to follow.

  Setting down his fishing pole and backpack, David stepped out beyond what once had been the edge of Larme Pond, a spring-fed body of water situated north of Lake Quinisonnett. He tested the dry ground with his boot, scuffed it, dug his heel into it, thrust his weight downward. To his amazement, the earth was solid and dusty, as if it had been long deprived of water.

  Many things had come and gone from David’s life: family, friends, lovers. Jobs and cars and hobbies, and countless other things. Such is life, one might say, and David would agree. Barring major droughts, dams, and aliens invading Earth for its precious resources, ponds and other large bodies of water generally were permanent fixtures a man could rely on being present—and in the same place—his entire life.

  For most of his thirty-eight years, ever since his old man had first brought him to this place, Larme Pond had been a constant presence in David’s life. He had been out here just last week. Then, the water had been high for this time of year.

  But now...

  Fascinated, heart racing, David took a tentative step forward.

  • • •

  Cradled in her arms, Anna Triste watched her son sleep, his tiny chest rising and falling in smooth cadence, much like the silky waves that lapped against her toes.

  Above, the sky was almost blurry for so many stars. A warm summer breeze tousled her hair, tickling her neck. She giggled.

  Thomas, her husband, her love, lit a cigarette and inhaled. She turned toward him, and nuzzled up closer to his warm body.

  “I love you,” said Thomas, putting his arm around her and kissing the top of her head. “I’ll never leave you again.”

  Anna closed her eyes and smiled...

  When she opened her eyes again, the dream faded to four cold, heartless walls—her prison. A single candle burned low on the table before her. Its meager light revealed the nightmare that sleep, somehow, always kept at bay: Thomas was gone, and she was alone.

  How long had it been now? Thomas had left in spring, said he’d return at the turn of winter, but it felt as if centuries had passed. God, she missed him. Tears bloomed, but she blinked them away. Like the painful memories that shadowed her every move and filled her dreams, the tears were always right there at the edge of her vision, an unwanted, threatening presence.

  But she was done crying. She had shed too many tears already.

  Beside her, the child slept in his cradle. Sometimes, when she looked upon her son, this small reflection of her beloved Thomas, it was as if all were perfect in the world. But when she looked away, she knew her son could never fill the aching hole Thomas had left behind. The babe was a mockery of her misery, his cries silent, his stare accusing. Or maybe he screamed out for her but she was simply too tired to hear his cries.

  Or maybe she didn’t care. This had often occurred to her, tormented her.

  Tonight, though, all Anna cared about was Thomas. Tonight was different. Thomas would come home, finally. She felt it in the air, sensed him drawing nearer to her. She knew. He loved her, and she would be here waiting.

  She licked her dry lips. She was thirsty, and hungry. Her body ached. But she couldn’t leave. If Thomas were to come back while she was away, she would never be able to forgive herself. What if he found the cabin empty and thought she had left him? She could leave a note, but she had nothing with which to write, and Thomas had never been good with reading, anyway. No. She had to stay, had to wait.

  And so she remained, holding on to a fine thread of hope, while a small, insistent voice in her mind demanded of her the unthinkable. Stand! it seemed to say. Leave this place, for Thomas has left you, never to return. The voice echoed through her mind, escalating into a many-mouthed scream.

  Anna covered her ears and screamed with it.

  • • •

  Slowly descending toward the middle of the pond, David determined a sinkhole was the only explanation. Mother Earth must have opened up and took a big gulp. He warily continued forward with that in mind, knowing full well that a sinkhole would swallow him as easily as water. A little meat for Mother’s drink.

  His thinking changed when he came upon a pool of water at the pond’s center, maybe fifty feet across. Its surface roiled as if boiling. He saw, however, that it was teeming with life, as if every fish in the lake were here, stuffed into this small pool. Turtles and frogs and crayfish flopped among the aquatic throng.

  “Fuck,” he said, unable to come up with anything more fitting for the moment. He repeated it a few more times.

  David caught himself glancing toward the sky, looking for those aliens that had invaded Earth for its water. Thankfully, the sky revealed no alien presence, only stars and the moon, which was now a mere sliver above the trees.

  On his knees, at the edge of the pool, he tried with his bare hands to catch a trout—some of which were bigger than any he’d ever caught. He laughed like a child as he missed fish after fish, their slimy skin proving too slippery for his grasp. He wished his father were here to witness this phenomenon; he would have gotten a kick out of it, and maybe he’d have had an answer for it all.

  As he knelt there in awe, a sound broke across the sloshing water, echoing between the trees along the shoreline.

  Standing, David wiped his wet hands on his shirt and brushed dirt from his knees. He looked around, listened. The sound did not come again.

  He cautiously moved off in the direction from which he thought the noise had come, a noise which he was now almost certain had been a scream.

  • • •

  Her screams echoed through the tiny room, bouncing from wall to wall, taunting the waiting silence.

  When the screams—and the memory of them—faded, Anna reached down and picked up her son, his limbs and head dangling limp as if his bones had turned to dust. She ran her fingers through his soft hair. “I’m sorry for not being strong,” she said. “Daddy will be home soon, and everything will be perfect again. Worry not, my dear boy.”

  Anna unbuttoned her nightgown, let it fall to her waist, and guided her son’s mouth to her withered nipple.

  • • •

  David climbed out of the dry and dusty carcass of Larme Pond. The northern shoreline bordered hundreds of acres of thick, overgrown state forest. He’d explored these woods countless times as a child, looking for leprechauns, digging for buried treasure, playing Manhunt with his friends. Here, it was as if only infinite wonder existed, and it offered a child plenty of inspiration to conjure the fantastical.

  He continued to listen, but heard nothing save for the faint rustling of insects and small animals in the und
erbrush. The soft carpet of grass and pine needles hushed his footfalls as he moved forward through the trees. In the distance he saw a faint yellow glow shimmering in the darkness like a ghost. A camp fire perhaps; he couldn’t tell. He approached slowly, and as he got closer saw that it was light coming from a single window on the side of a small log cabin.

  “What the hell?” he whispered, fully convinced that talking to oneself was a sure sign of sudden onset schizophrenia. And coming upon a cabin in woods where previously there never had been a cabin before did little to dissuade that sort of thinking.

  He wondered if he were losing his mind, for in all his years he’d never seen the cabin that clearly stood before him. Lichen and weeds and small saplings filled every crevice, the roof was spotted with large islands of dark green moss. The smell of damp rot permeated the air around the cabin, indicating to David that it had been there for a long time.

  Which defied logic.

  Dreaming, he thought. You, sir, are obviously dreaming. But wasn’t the dreamer supposed to be oblivious to the dream?

  He sidled up to the dirty window and peered inside.

  If the cabin appeared small from the outside, the space within was tiny. Inside, to the right of the window, stood something out of time: a cradle made from a hollowed-out log. It rested on a wooden frame, which itself was adorned with an intricate carving of the sun. A thing made out of love, and a sharp contrast to the dirty, unkempt blanket and small pillow that lay inside it. A lumpy stained mattress sat in the corner next to the cradle, its blankets and pillows in equal disarray and squalor.

  Crouched in the corners of the room, shadows swayed hypnotically as the flame from a single candle danced in the middle of a rough-hewn wooden table. A woman sat staring into the candle’s flame as it burned low. Pressed to her left breast was a small child; her right breast lay bare.