Horror For Good - A Charitable Anthology

by Jack Ketchum

  "What now?" Marge asked Tom, holding tightly to the polyester reins that kept Heather within touching distance. She was trying to get away on her sturdy little legs, but the harness kept her in check, despite the occasional whining complaint.

  "Well, there's a war memorial next to the Village Green. We could take a look, and maybe get a photo of you and Heather standing next to it."

  Marge grinned. "Oh, don't we have such exciting and decadent holidays?"

  Tom shook his head, resigned to her wry comments. "I know, I know. My fault. Next time, I promise to do more research. But remember, tomorrow we're heading for Bronté Country—that should be much more interesting!"

  She slipped her free hand into one of his, squeezing his fingers. "Don't worry, hon. I know this place doesn't exactly live up to its promise. But it did look lovely in that film—by the way, can you even remember what it was called?"

  Tom stared at her, his eyes wide, lips slightly parted; they both giggled.

  "Shit," he said. "You know, all I remember is that it was filmed here, and yes, it did look wonderful. The film itself was rubbish."

  They walked on in a comfortable silence, both watching Heather's back as she struggled against her bonds, drawing smiles and appreciative glances from the few other pedestrians they passed.

  The film that acted as such a good advertisement for Rosegrave was on television a year ago. Both she and Tom were so enamoured with the location (if not the film itself, a cheesy and instantly forgettable love story) that when they'd decided to come to Yorkshire, a detour here had immediately sprung to mind. Unfortunately, they didn't expected the village to be so sedate.

  The war memorial consisted of a squat stone slab standing upright behind a low wooden bench on a few square feet of neat turf. Several people milled aimlessly on the grass, some of them reading the list of names etched into the side of the monument.

  As they drew level with it on the opposite side of the road, Marge sensed rather than saw two slender figures stand up and quickly move away from the site, their outlines shimmering like sunbeams caught in an updraft of warm air. A small boy raced across the grass, chasing a football into the road; a man on a moped swerved to avoid the child, honking his horn and shaking his fist as he hiccupped by.

  Flowers were laid across the footpath and around the fat legs of the bench, a carpet of them leading up to the modest stone monument. Posies. Bouquets. Bundles. Wreaths left in memory of a traffic accident.

  Marge tensed; she tightened her grip on Tom's hand. Heather instinctively fell back alongside her parents, and Tom picked her up and carried her the rest of the way, looking both ways as they crossed the road.

  "There seem to be a lot of road accidents in Rosegrave."

  Marge did not respond; she couldn't find the words. She was too afraid to even look for them. But afraid of what?

  Slowly, she moved around the war memorial, studying the flowers attached to the grainy stone, tied to the bench, scattered on the trimmed turf. Hidden amid the blooms were sympathy cards and hand-written notes bearing messages of grief—"Miss you", "Rest in peace, mummy", "To my beloved", "We love you with all our hearts".

  When she saw the photograph, Marge could barely move; just a hand raised slowly to her mouth, a slight tilting of the head, a tiny stumble as she almost lost her balance. The world seemed to slow down in its revolutions around the sun, gravity turned to sludge. Time came to a halt around her, and even the grass stopped growing as she bent down to pick up the weathered Polaroid.

  It would be incorrect to state that the woman in the picture only resembled Marge. It was Marge, right down to the slight cast in her left eye, the tiny scar on her chin she'd picked up from falling down two concrete steps when she was just four years old, the way her hair sat on her scalp in a manner that Tom often jokingly referred to as looking like a wig.

  "What's wrong?" Tom's hand fell onto her shoulder like a rock. His voice grated in her ears, sounding like it didn't even belong to him.

  "This photo," she managed to say, her voice breaking along with her heart.

  Tom took the Polaroid from her shaking hands, held it up to his face, and peered at it with great deliberation. "That poor, poor girl," he said, no recognition on his face, in his eyes. Nothing. "And she was so pretty."

  When Marge tried to speak she found that the words had stuck in her throat. So she picked up her daughter and held her, held her as tightly as she dared without causing pain.

  ***

  Tom was bathing Heather before putting her to bed, so Marge took the opportunity to slip downstairs unnoticed. The dumpy receptionist was still on duty; she recognised Marge, and her tight smile was guarded.

  "Did you check?"

  "I'm sorry, madam?" The girl's smile faltered, breaking like expensive crystal.

  "The flowers. The accident."

  "Oh, yes. Actually, I asked my boyfriend—he's a police constable. Traffic police. He said that there have been no serious road accidents in the area for years, since even before he was on the job. We're actually quite famous for our road safety record. The government has funded studies." Her eyes glittered, but it was a false glamour, like the joyless lustre of fool's gold or costume jewellery.

  "What about the war memorial? We went there today, and there are flowers everywhere. Wreaths and messages and photos...of a young woman."

  "I'm sorry, madam, but you're mistaken. There are some lovely award-winning planting beds near our memorial, but there hasn't been any road accident. No wreaths. No sympathy cards."

  Marge was powerless in the face of such unwavering denial; there was no way of getting through to this girl, of reaching the truth, whatever it was.

  She spun away from the desk and headed for the cramped hotel bar, ordered a small brandy from a sad-eyed barman who looked, at most, a year or two out of his teens. The liquor burned a track along her throat but it did not erase the dread that nestled within her chest. She paid for the drink and went upstairs, determined to get out of there.

  ***

  Tom was sitting on their bed in his thick terrycloth robe when she entered the room. His eyes were locked onto the screen of the portable television perched on the dressing table, watching a sports show. His team had played earlier that day, and he'd been keen to catch the result of the game.

  "I want to leave." The words sounded foolish, but they needed to be said. They hung in the air, refusing to budge until he acknowledged them, hovering over his head like predatory birds.

  "Yeah, tomorrow." Tom's attention was still caught up in the show; football results scrolled down the screen, a surfeit of information he needed to plough through for what he required.

  "No, Tom. We need to leave now."

  At last she had his attention; he muted the TV and slowly turned to face her, his eyes flashing weirdly in the peculiar flat light from the screen. "What are you on about, love? What's the problem?"

  Heather was sleeping soundly on the sofa bed under the big window. The top pane was propped open, letting in a gentle breeze. Intermittent skirmishes of rain spattered the glass.

  "There's something happening here, Tom. Something's not right. I don't pretend to understand what it is, but we need to go. Now."

  He sighed; it was all she needed to hear.

  "You don't believe me, do you?" She urged him to contradict her, to get up, get dressed, and help pack their cases.

  "It's not that, Marge. It's just...well, is this like the time you thought our neighbours had it in for you? Or when you were convinced your mother was poisoning Heather's milk?"

  Marge winced; he'd hit a nerve—every exposed nerve she had. "No. That was the postnatal depression." She felt like she was speaking to a child. "This is different. This is real."

  When he stood and approached her she slapped away his hands, disgusted that his faith in her was so fragile. "Don't patronise me, Tom." She did not raise her voice; she needed to sound rational.

  Tom backed away, hands held palms-outwards. They
stood there in silence, facing each other across the miles of cheap carpet, both afraid of saying anything more in case they said too much. The moment seemed to last forever, and was broken only when Heather mumbled something in her sleep.

  ***

  She knew he was awake by the sound of his breathing, and when she slid her hand onto his thigh, he slowly moved his fingers across her knuckles, covering her hand with his own.

  "Remember last night, when we saw those flowers by the roadside?"

  "Mmm..." Was he falling asleep, or just faking it?

  "When you said that it's strange how we never see anyone putting them there; that the flowers just seem to appear overnight?"

  "Mmm..."

  "What if that's true? What if...what if whoever sees the people who put out the flowers becomes the next victim?"

  "Mmm..."

  She took her hand away from his leg. There was no resistance as his arm fell away from his side and onto the plastic mattress. When Tom began to snore, she almost screamed.

  ***

  She kept her speed under 40; she was unfamiliar with the controls of the four-wheel-drive and there was certainly no need to tempt fate. Safety was the byword.

  She'd left a note for Tom requesting that he meet her in the hotel near Otley they'd booked over a month ago. The holiday could continue as planned; the only difference being that she was travelling on ahead and he'd have to rent a car to catch up. It served him right. He should have listened to her.

  The hills rolled past as if on castors; darkness stained the landscape like spilled ink; shapes that might have been narrow, bedraggled figures twitched away from the headlights whenever she rounded a bend. The village was three miles behind; soon she would reach the spot where they'd first seen the flowers, where the warning had been ignored.

  She saw the crash barrier first, and when she slowed the car it became apparent that the flowers had been cleared up and taken away. Stopping in an adjacent lay-by, she switched off the engine and wound down the window. She stared at the metal barrier, looking for a clue to the mystery that Tom thought only existed in her mind.

  The shapes that bobbed in the darkness drew closer to the car, and only when she saw the flowers clutched in their withered hands did she realise they were upright figures. Swaying to some unheard rhythm of the road, they stepped up to the barrier and began to arrange their many tributes. The torn rags of clothing hung from their damaged frames; hands that resembled clusters of dried-out stems relinquished posies and wreaths and placed them on the ground at the foot of the barrier.

  As Marge started the engine, biting down the panic that was welling in her torso, she caught sight of snapshot images in the narrow beams of the headlights—dried, skinned parodies of faces, the dented helmets of skulls, shoulders shorn of so much more than off-the-peg shirts and jackets.

  The rear wheels skidded on loose gravel as she pulled away, refusing to look back, denying the magnetic pull of the sights that beckoned from the mirrors. The road ahead seemed to close in like a throat in the act of swallowing, restricting her route towards salvation, and when Heather stirred on the back seat, Marge sent out a silent prayer to the gods of the road that her daughter would not wake.

  She stepped on the brake, more shocked than afraid, until the fear became solid, tangible, a living thing contained within the feeble coat of her skin. Figures lined the carriageway. They stood in ragged lines and unruly groups, hundreds of victims clutching their own floral tributes—the wilted flowers they needed to bequeath to whoever came next.

  Marge reversed the car and spun it around in the middle of the road, a ferocious manoeuvre designed to warn off her passive assailants. She headed back the way she'd come, planning to reach town and wake Tom, show him the reality of what was happening here. And as she approached that same spot in the road—the glinting serpentine crash barrier—a sudden and undeniable urge overtook her mind and body.

  She watched as the last of the flower-bearers placed their burdens on the ground, near the road; and as she watched she knew exactly what was expected of her. Marge had finally witnessed the grieving, needing, remorseful figures, and now she must join their ranks.

  Without thought, without delay, and wary of any sudden movement that might wake Heather, she calmly and deliberately turned the wheel and swerved her vehicle towards the barrier.

  —Norman L. Rubenstein

  Upon graduation from Northwestern U. (B.A. in Philosophy & Political Science) and Loyola U. of Chicago Law School (J.D.), Norm spent 20+ years as a litigation atty., then was appointed as an Administrative Law Judge for the City of Chicago, presiding in thousands of trials and hearings.

  He currently resides in Surprise, AZ, with his Retrievers, Sunny & Coco. He's an Active Member of both the Horror Writer's Association (HWA), and of the International Thriller Writer's, Inc (ITW).

  He's a prolific Horror & Thriller Genre book and film reviewer and magazine columnist and has extensive experience as a freelance Editor for numerous Specialty Presses.

  His most recent published works are in the nonfiction reference, Thrillers: 100 Must Reads and as co-author with Carol Weekes of "The Closet," in the fiction anthology, Fear Of The Dark. Norm's busy writing screenplays and stories.

  —Steven W. Booth

  Steven W. Booth decided in early 2010 to finally use his MBA (much to his mother's delight) to start a company that helps authors self-publish. After a few years of learning the how to build books for other authors, he decided to become a publisher and build books for himself. Steven's first novel as both publisher and an author, The Hungry (co-written with Harry Shannon), was released in 2011, and has helped pay the rent. The sequel, The Wrath of God, will be released in mid-2012. Genius Publishing, his imprint, has upcoming books from Gene O'Neill, Brian Knight, Carol Weekes, Tim Marquitz, Christopher Conlon, and Karl Alexander.

  Steven lives in Encino, CA with his wife and far too many cats.

  —The Widows Laveau

  By Steven W. Booth & Norman L. Rubenstein

  That Honore Laveau's crypt was in a common mausoleum surprised many in the community, given how he was known to be extremely wealthy, as well as very powerful. Some felt his untimely demise left his widow little time to have a proper, private mausoleum built. Others, however, speculated that Honore's widow, Desirée, was perfectly happy to let Honore rot in a crypt barely suitable for a coachman or baker, if only to save Honore's vast fortune for herself.

  It was widely speculated that Honore was related to the famous (or infamous, depending upon one's view) "Voodoo Queen of New Orleans," Marie Laveau, a widow in her own right, and they'd been seen frequently together in public enjoying each other's company. While Honore officially claimed to be a cousin of the formidable lady, rumors from respectable sources identified him as one of the many bastard sons of Marie's—and by all appearances, one of her favorites. Honore's reputation as a ruthless businessman earned him respect, and the whispers that Honore was Marie's disciple, and a powerful Houngan, a Voodoo priest, meant that he was almost universally feared.

  His young wife—now widow—Desirée was the only daughter of a powerful tobacco and cotton tycoon from Mississippi, who knew nothing of voodoo and even less of New Orleans. But in the five years of their marriage, she had blossomed into a socialite of great reputation for generously supporting orphans and the poor. Desirée dedicated as much energy and effort in giving away—some said squandering—Honore's fortune as he invested in creating it.

  Consumption had overtaken Honore in the course of a few days. The doctors shook their heads and wrung their hands, but there was nothing they could do for Honore, and he was dead within a week. Some said it was just deserts for an evil man practicing the black arts. Others went on with their lives. One, however, did not accept his untimely demise with the same casual attitude as the rest of New Orleans society.

  Though the Funeral Mass had been a roll call of New Orleans elite, the interment was, by design, sparsely attended. Only the priest
, Desirée, Honore's servant François, and two cemetery workmen were present. Much gossip spread through the city as to why the Widow Laveau refused to have even the pallbearers stay for the committal. The reality, however, unknown to almost all, was that Desirée wanted nothing more than to deprive Honore of the respect he had earned, rightly or wrongly, throughout his otherwise charmed life.

  The priest executed the Rite of Committal as rapidly as his vows would allow, as the widow and her newly inherited servant were anxious to be as far away as possible, and as soon as dignity would permit them to leave.

  When the priest had finished, he nodded to the workmen, who caused the casket to be lifted from the ground and inserted into the crypt that would be Honore's last resting place. Desirée and François were already gathering their things as the workmen began sealing the crypt. They did not bother to read the inscription.

  HONORE ANTON LAVEAU

  JANUARY 19, 1809 – OCTOBER 7, 1849

  REST IN PEACE

  As widow and servant made their way to the waiting carriage, Marie approached from the shadows. She pointed a finger at Desirée and scowled, causing François to step in front of his mistress, shielding her from whatever spell Marie might cast. Marie cackled at this futile display.

  "The dead know all secrets," she said softly, "and I know the dead. For he wrongly taken, know you my curse—he shall return and do unto you, worse. For she who robs a mother of her son, let the agonies she suffers never be done!"

  Marie made a quick, furtive motion of her hands and walking stick toward the younger woman, then abruptly turned her back to them. She smiled at the two startled cemetery workers standing awkwardly nearby and handed each a gold coin. She said, "Ferrymen, see that he gets safe passage," and walked away, soon to be lost from sight amongst the trees.