by Brett McBean
Until the change.
A change that Craig tried to bear, tried to understand and accept.
But he couldn’t. He just wasn’t that strong.
If the change in her personality had been the early symptoms of brain cancer, he would’ve stayed with her.
She had the tests. No cancer.
Other than her personality transformation, she was in great health.
It was like she was a different person. The Rachel that once was, was dead.
That’s why Craig had left and travelled to America, to get away from it all…away from her. He had needed to get as far away as possible and travelling to another country seemed the best solution, if not the right one.
“I needed to find myself, just like in the movie,” Craig said to the woods.
But he was beginning to think maybe he was searching for something other than freedom.
Like an old tin?
Craig gazed at the Jeep parked ten feet away.
“What the hell,” he said and got to his feet.
He opened the back door and found the beaten old tin snuggled amongst the assorted junk he had accumulated thus far. He was again shocked at its weight, even for a tin of its size, and closing the Jeep’s back door, headed back to the fire.
He sat down on the log and held the tin in his hands, curiously hesitant about opening it.
There’s nothing in there, he told himself. Then why won’t you open it?
He didn’t believe Almus and all his talk about collecting souls from the dead animals, trapping them before they escaped. But there was something unusual about the man – that smile, that knowing look in his eyes – that Craig couldn’t quite figure out.
Would Almus really have sold him an empty tin?
Then he thought: what if there was something inside waiting to lash out with deadly fangs, or crawl out with eight hairy legs, or sting him with a lethal tail?
He was all alone out here, far from the next town, a doctor, or a hospital. The closest thing to civilization that Craig knew of was Almus and his roadside stand.
Not a comforting thought.
Craig didn’t recall seeing a car parked near the stand, or even a bike.
Either the old coot did live close to the stand, or he walked a long way to get to work.
Keeping a firm hold on the lid, Craig shook the tin. Nothing rattled inside.
He let out a nervous breath. Really is empty.
He chuckled.
Set the tin down, reached over and grabbed another can of beer. Opened it, gulped it down, listening to the crackling of the fire and the cries of the animals.
Not laughter anymore, Craig thought; their cries were more intense, beckoning.
They wanted him to open the tin.
This is what you’ve been searching for, they seemed to be saying to him. You paid for it, why not open it? It’s yours. Aren’t you just the least bit curious?
Might give you some answers. You want to put Rachel behind you, don’t you?
Open it and find out.
“Ah fuck it,” Craig muttered and exchanging the can of beer for the tin, pulled off the lid.
A rotten smell, like swamp gas and dead flesh spewed out and clouded Craig’s head.
“Ugh!” he gasped, throwing the tin to the ground. It rolled towards the fire. Craig jumped up, not wanting it to land in the flames, but the tin stopped short.
The stink remained.
Craig turned away from the fire and gagged, worried that he had inhaled too much of whatever it was he had set free from the confines of the tin.
What’s too much? Christ, I don’t even know what the hell it was I breathed in. Chemicals? Dangerous gas? Remnants of mouldy cheese?
He spat globs of phlegm to the ground, even washed his face with what was left of the beer. He could still taste and smell the rancid odor.
I spent thirty dollars on a toxic canister!
He was going to pay Almus back. He was going to drive back to that roadside stand and open up every one of those tins and shove Almus’s repulsive, money-grubbing face into each foul smelling tin until he choked to death.
At once the night fell silent.
All animal noises ceased; only the crackling of the fire echoed around the dim, shadowy woods.
Craig’s already racing heart sped up more, and cold sweat seeped out of every pore.
It was too quiet.
Then a voice: “Thank you.”
Craig drew in breath. “Who’s there?” He gazed out towards the trees, to where the voice seemed to have come from. “I’m armed, so show yourself.”
He didn’t have a gun, or a weapon of any sort; didn’t believe in them.
Now he wished he did.
Because out of the woods stepped Almus.
Only he looked different.
“Stay back,” Craig warned, his voice quaking.
“I knew you would open it sooner or later,” Almus said, grinning. “It’s human nature. I know.” As he ventured closer he winked, only this time, his eyeball rolled from his left socket, jolting to a stop as the nerve ran out of length. Like a gory yo-yo, the eyeball bounced up and down a few times, before coming to a stop against Almus’s chest.
Craig whimpered. The beer he had consumed threatened to come out unannounced.
“It’s funny you should pick this clearing. Back in those woods was where I buried my body. You see, I’m no different than the animals back at the stand,” Almus said. “I’m road kill, too.” Almus hobbled closer, the light from the fire revealing his true form.
His collar bone protruded from his neck, causing his head to lean to one side. One arm was missing, torn at the elbow, while the other was bent backwards and jiggled abnormally as he walked. His upper body was bloody, clothes ripped, exposing deep, nasty-looking scars that seeped a rainbow of fluids, while the bottom half offered an assortment of intestines, fat and muscle. Some shiny, wobbly organ slipped out of the wound in his stomach and slithered to the ground. Smiling, Almus squished it as he stumbled towards a stunned and nauseous Craig.
Almus sniffed the air. “Ah, the smell of freedom,” he said through a bulging black tongue. He touched the top of his head, which was a mess of blood-soaked hair and splintered skull. “Old Wilmer was quick, that he was. And you know something, his smelled a lot worse than mine. You were lucky. Wilmer’s soul had been trapped for nearly a hundred years when I came along. Paid a pretty penny for it too.”
Craig knew he had to get to the Jeep, or to the road; had to get away from this…creature, this madman.
“I’m not a ghost, nor a spirit. I’m sort of like a soulless, physical representation of my dead self. Without a soul, I can’t leave this world. But you’ll find all this out yourself. You see, you bought the tin, you opened it; you have to suffer the consequences. One soul replaces another. Like mine did Wilmer’s. Wilmer wasn’t the first and you won’t be the last.”
Almus’s mangled body ambled closer.
Craig no longer smelled the putrid fumes from the tin. All he could smell was Almus – a stronger and more disgusting emanation that was blood, faeces and death.
Craig’s mind screamed run!
“You’re my saviour, Craig. As I was Wilmer’s. There’s only one final act that needs to be done and then I’ll be totally free.”
Craig ran; he ran for the highway, leaving the maimed figure of Almus – or whatever that was back there – alone in its crazed world of souls and road kill, calling “Who will be your saviour, Craig?”
With the moon guiding his path to the safety of the highway, Craig dashed past pine trees and jumped over bushes. The night was still, as if all the creatures were watching, and when he spotted the road up ahead, he ran even faster, bladder full, eyes watering, mind a whirlwind of dismay and confusion; he heard Almus’s laughter, a joyful cackling, then a blinding light shone in his eyes, and the creature bearing down upon him gave a screeching cry, the lights grew bigger…
Craig felt incredible
pain, a sense of his body being torn apart…followed by something else being torn apart, though there was no pain, only the feeling of leaving his body, then a man’s smile, a sly, knowing smile…
* * *
A car pulled over to the side of the road – a station wagon full of kids in the back, and suitcases tied to the roof. The driver, a rotund, red-faced man, said something to the woman beside him, then hopped out and waddled over to the stand.
This could be it, Craig thought. Oh please let this be the one.
“Howdy,” the man said, wiping his face with a handkerchief. He was wearing shorts that were much too tight, a Yankees baseball cap and a T-shirt that said Support the troops. Support Bush.
From the car the kids laughed and yelled.
The man turned and shouted, “Quiet!”
The kids obeyed.
The man turned back, face pleased. “Sorry. Kids are restless and we’re, well, lost.” He shrugged, as if to say this kind of thing happens all the time and surely the poor sap behind the stand will know how to get back to civilization.
“You know how to get back to route seventeen?”
Craig ignored the constant pain that gnawed at his body and smiled politely. “Sorry partner. Can’t help you there.”
The man frowned, lines forming across his pudgy, sweaty face. “What the hell kind of accent is that? Canadian?”
Craig wanted to scream, to let this doughy conservative sweat-ball know how much pain he was in, that his insides felt like they were turned upside down and his head felt like a tomato that had been squashed, but knew he couldn’t. Not if he wanted to be free from this pain, from this void existence he was living. “Australian,” Craig answered. “Interested in purchasing something for the kids? The wife perhaps?”
The man looked up at the sign, then back down at Craig. He looked as though he had just sniffed shit. “You’re kidding, right pal?”
Steady, Craig told himself. Can’t lose it. There hasn’t been anybody by in at least a month. “Forget about the road kill. How about a soul?” He looked down at the large tin – dented even more now than when Craig had first seen it – hoping the man would follow.
Can’t ask him to buy it, he has to decide for himself, but hell, there’s nothing to say I can’t influence his decision.
“Fuckin’ weirdo,” the man huffed. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Selling this crap to people.” He wiped his dripping forehead and coughed. “And that hat, it’s disgusting; I’ve got kids in the car. And besides, who are you to make fun of our leader? You’re not even an American.”
With a scornful look, the man made his way back to the station wagon and drove off, the kids making faces at Craig as they left.
He sighed.
Not even an American.
Right.
Craig sat back down. The glaring sun was bright in his eyes, and it would’ve been hot, if he could feel it. All he could feel was pain.
His eyes fell to the money on the ground. His payment. Thirty dollars for a lifetime of hell.
He had tried tearing the bills up, burning them, even eating the money; but no matter how many times he got rid of the two bills, they always came back.
A constant reminder.
Just like the animals in the woods; unseen, but present at all times. Always waiting.
For someone to buy their tin.
For Craig to go mad and try and escape this godforsaken roadside stand. Then they would attack, seek their revenge; didn’t matter that Craig didn’t start it – he had continued it, just as Almus had.
Even now he could hear them laughing at him, knowing he had to stay behind the stand until that special person came along.
He hoped it wouldn’t be too long.
Surely someone wanted to buy a soul.
NOTES:
This story was written with the old E.C. comics in mind, like Tales from the Crypt. I’ve done a fair bit of travelling around the States myself, so I thought it’d be interesting to have my main character as an outsider, too (though I didn’t encounter anything as bizarre as the roadside stand in my travels). My third novel, Torment, is a continuation of this story, so if you’re keen on reading more about road kill and cheap souls, then check it out (Craig even makes a cameo appearance).
THE PROJECT
As a child he was deprived of the one thing he had wanted most.
It was only during the past month that he had thought of the perfect way to get that thing – he would make his very own.
* * *
Night one – the Snare
“How much?” Hartford said.
“That depends on what you want, darlin’.”
Hartford licked his lips and grinned. If only she knew, he thought. “Will five-hundred suffice?”
The hooker’s eyes lit up. “Five hundred? Holy crackers boy, you want the works, don’t ya?”
Hartford nodded. “Surely do. The works.”
The hooker leaned in close. She smelled strongly of perfume. “I’m gonna show you the best time of your life, darlin’. You’re gonna go off so hard N.A.S.A. is gonna want to use you for a rocket.”
Hartford gazed at her body. In this scorching New York heat, even the nuns wore skimpy clothing, so what this hooker was wearing almost gave Hartford wood. And that hardly ever happened.
Well, maybe I could fuck her, Hartford thought. Wasn’t in the plan, but what the hell.
“Anyplace you prefer to do it?” the hooker asked.
“I have this nice house in Newark.”
“Boy, you are a long way from home.”
Hartford nodded. “I know, but the best hookers are found in Manhattan.”
The prostitute giggled. “I like that. So, where’s your car, lover boy?”
“Not parked too far away. Come, I’ll show you.”
Hartford started walking down the darkened street. The hooker followed, high heels clacking against the pavement with each step. “Say, what’s your name anyway, big spender?”
“Name’s Ed,” Hartford called back. “Just call me Ed.”
* * *
Hartford crawled off the bed, stood up, and wiped his mouth free of the saliva. His penis quickly went limp. “Well, that was fun,” he said down to the naked hooker.
She lay on his bed, eyes half closed, the hand marks on her throat turning purple. Hartford turned away and headed into the kitchen, where he poured himself a glass of Sprite. He downed the drink in one noisy swallow. “Ah. That’s better. You want one, love?” he called, and laughed. “No, I don’t suppose you do.” Letting out a burp, Hartford strolled back into the bedroom to the dead hooker (Petula, she had told him her name was).
He grabbed her by the feet and dragged her off the bed. When her head landed on the carpet with a loud thud! Hartford cringed. “Damn!” he growled. He hoped he hadn’t ruined her cranium. That could fuck up his project. But he had read that the skull was a very hard object, so hopefully one knock wouldn’t do it much damage.
He continued shuffling backwards, out through the bedroom door and down the corridor.
His original plan had been to get her into the bathroom. It was completely tiled, plus he had the benefit of the bathtub. An altogether easier place to clean. But the damn whore had wanted to go into the bedroom. He didn’t think telling her he wanted to do it in the bathroom would’ve been a problem.
I think my biggest mistake was not saying yes when she asked me if we planned on taking a shower.
And Hartford didn’t know what the hell she was talking about when, after he told her he didn’t want to have a shower, said, “Hey, I ain’t into scat and golden showers or none of that shit.” After that she kept insisting on going into the bedroom. Cozy and romantic, she had called it.
As he dragged her body into the bathroom, he vowed that next time he would take no shit and demand they go into the bathroom. This was his first time, so he still had a lot to learn. He could forgive himself this once.
He switched on the bathroom
light. With a lot of effort, he got the body into the tub. Afterwards, he needed another glass of Sprite to cool down.
Never again will I let them persuade me, he thought. Too much hassle.
The sex hadn’t been all that satisfying, anyway. She seemed to have had a swell old time, but he had come lifelessly and only by imagining what his project would look like finished.
Hartford left the kitchen and went into the garage. He pulled the light cord and a dim glow filled the muggy, airless room. He shuffled over to where he kept his newly bought tools, and took the hacksaw and hatchet.
He headed back to the bathroom. He placed the hacksaw on the tiled floor, and with the hatchet, began whacking into the hooker’s neck. Her body jumped with each chop, and Hartford found it hard to get a good steady whack. So he hopped into the bathtub and, kneeling, straddled her belly. It made the job easier, and by the time Hartford had reached her spinal cord, he was covered in blood, flesh, and specks of windpipe. And he was hot. If he learned nothing else tonight, he had found out what a tough job it was severing a head. So he turned on the shower as he replaced the hatchet with the hacksaw. He leaned backwards and let the lovely cool water wash over his head and body. Sufficiently cooled and cleaned, Hartford got into a position of good leverage, then started sawing back and forth against the chipped and bloody spinal cord.
After a strenuous ten minutes, Hartford finally snapped the spinal cord from the body. He fell back into the shower spray and let out a jubilant cry. Sure he was tired, but he had done it. He had taken the first step. He reached forward to the wet, gore-soaked body and picked up the head. Dark blood dripped from the sinewy stump. The hooker gaped at him, as if utterly stunned by her current condition. Hartford brought the head close and kissed its blood-caked lips.
Soon the head would be nothing but a bare skull, its top sliced off and the brain removed. But in the meantime, Hartford sat revelling in his accomplishment, laughing at his joy – and marvelling at the severed head.
Night two – the Two Toms