Gleefully Macabre Tales

by Jeff Strand

  That roach turned to look at Bob Halloran, and while scientific theory’s got nothin’ to say about a roach makin’ a sound like a lion roarin’, that’s just what that critter did. Bob Halloran, he went all white ‘cept for the crotch of his pants. Then that roach leapt right at him, and without a speck of exaggeration, that thing jumped thirty feet. He threw up his arms to protect his face, but that roach knocked him to the ground and just started munchin’ away. A couple seconds after that Bob Halloran was only fit for a cheap pine box.

  Now everybody was just screamin’ and runnin’ for their lives when those roaches suddenly took off down Main Street, tramplin’ poor Howie in the process. They moved so fast that it was only ‘bout twenty seconds before nobody could see ’em any more.

  For a few moments nobody said anything, ‘cept those who were wallowin’ in pain. Then Tim, the blacksmith, pointed at the swingin’ door of Doc Rollins’ pharmacy with white-hot fury in his eyes.

  "That Doc Rollins—I knew he’d be the death of some of us! Those experiments he’s been doin’ in his makeshift laboratory have gone too far!"

  The townsfolk shouted their agreement.

  "Let’s get him!" Tim cried out.

  The townsfolk shouted their agreement.

  "What if he’s got more o’ them roaches in there?" asked Howie from where he lay bleedin’ on the ground.

  The townsfolk looked questioningly at Tim.

  "I say we risk it!" Tim cried out.

  The townsfolk shouted their disagreement.

  "Listen to me," said Tim. "We’ve gotta stop that quack before he causes any more big bugs! If we leave him alone, who knows what’s next? Giant termites? Giant leeches? Madame Paula, what’s gonna happen to you and your girls if next time Doc comes up with giant crabs?"

  The townsfolk were silent. Tim was one of the braver folks in Spittin’ Hollow—he was the only one to actually drink an entire mug of Howie’s special Devil’s Drool brew—but he didn’t much relish the thought of goin’ in there alone.

  "Somebody’s gotta come with me," he said. "It’s only fair."

  Fair is one of those relative terms, and it doesn’t much apply when you’ve got a group of folks who don’t wanna get consumed by large cockroaches. So Tim, he had to go by himself into the pharmacy, after borrowin’ a couple six-shooters just in case.

  "Doc?" he called out as he walked through the center of the shop. "Hey, Doc, are you around?"

  The first thing to catch his eye was a metal cage, ‘bout six feet long and six feet wide, with the bars on the front bent wide open, like somethin’ had forced its way out.

  Suddenly a door in the rear of the pharmacy swung open and Doc emerged, his glasses fogged and his hair all messed up. "I did it!" he shouted. "My experiment worked! Pretty soon the name of Doc Rollins is gonna be known around the entire…say, that ain’t good…"

  Doc glanced at the cage, then at Tim, then began lookin’ around the pharmacy. "Say, Tim, I don’t reckon you’ve seen some cockroaches runnin’ around, have you? They’d be big fellas, ‘bout a foot long each."

  Tim took a purposeful step forward. "I saw your roaches, but they weren’t no one-footers. Those things I saw creatin’ a disturbance were a good ten feet!"

  The Doc’s eyes widened. "Then it worked…too dang well! What have I done? What fearsome enemy have I wrought upon humanity? Hell, all I wanted to do was create a bigger, better breed of cattle to make up for what the rustlers were stealin’, that’s all, and now this!"

  "Doc, you’re rantin’ and ravin’!" said Tim. "I need your help. We have to destroy them bugs before it’s too late!"

  "I reckon it may already be too late! Because before dark you won’t be dealin’ with cockroaches that are ten feet long, they’ll be a hundred feet long! And soon they’ll have all of mankind in their grasp! Oh, why couldn’t I just stick to sellin’ hair tonic like my father?"

  "Your father did sell high quality hair tonic, that’s for sure, but that’s neither here nor there," said Tim. "So what made these roaches so ample-sized and vicious?"

  "They’re mutated," said Doc Rollins. "I mutated ’em myself with my own special recipe. But I didn’t know they was gonna break out of their cages and start killin’ the Spittin’ Hollow populace like that, I swear I didn’t."

  "Considerin’ that I ain’t told you ‘bout any populace bein’ killed, I reckon your story ain’t the God’s honest truth," said Tim.

  Doc Rollins frowned. "You’ve got me there."

  "So what’re we gonna do ‘bout this predicament, Doc?"

  "Hell, I dunno. I s’pose I oughta start formulatin’ an antidote."

  "Sounds good. I’m gonna go keep the townsfolk informed, seein’ as how Sheriff Mason is now departed, and I’ll be back to check on your progress."

  So Tim, he told the citizens of Spittin’ Hollow to get in their homes and lock ’em up tight. But it did no good because when those roaches came back, lo and behold they were a hundred feet long if they were an inch. One of ’em broke right through a stable door and carried away two of Jake Smith’s best horses. Some folks with no sense stayed at the saloon, gamblin’ and drinkin’ just like there weren’t any giant cockroaches around, and ten minutes after the sun went down their death rattle was a-rattlin’ just as loud as you please.

  Why, nearly half of the Spittin’ Hollow populace was deceased when the sun come up the next morning, an’ Doc Rollins was no closer to formulatin’ his antidote than he was to growin’ a second nose.

  "Look, Doc, we do have somethin’ of a time constraint here, seein’ as how nearly half of the Spittin’ Hollow folk are swimmin’ around in them roaches stomachs," said Tim, tappin’ his foot impatiently.

  "Now, now, you can’t rush science," said Doc Rollins. "What if I were to administer this here formula and it made those roaches even bigger? We’d have a mighty heap of a problem on our hands, let me tell you."

  "I reckon you’ve got a point," said Tim, "but damned if I can’t help but feelin’ a bit antsy."

  Well, Tim sat there feelin’ antsy for a good long while, durin’ which time those cockroaches went and devoured enough members of the populace that Spittin’ Hollow was gettin’ dangerously close to havin’ less than twenty-five percent of its residents still alive. And those roaches, they just kept gettin’ bigger and bigger, until they was nearin’ two hundred feet in length.

  "Hell, Doc, why’d you have to go and do such a thing?" asked Tim. "I thought a medical professional such as yourself was s’posed to know the dangers of messin’ with science."

  "I already explained my reasonin’ and I don’t reckon I need to go repeatin’ myself," said Doc Rollins, holdin’ up a test tube with some greenish-blue gunk in it. "I do believe, however, that I’ve got the solution to our problems."

  "That’s a mighty small test tube for such mighty large cockroaches," said Tim.

  "Never you mind how big it is. This oughta react with the mutatin’ serum in them roaches and kill ’em up right nice. I reckon you don’t need more than a single drop per roach, but they’ve gotta swallow it."

  Tim took the test tube from Doc Rollins. "And just how do you figure we’re gonna get those mutants to ingest it?"

  Doc Rollins looked around as if to make sure that nobody was ‘round to overhear. "Well, Tim, just between you an’ me, if those roaches are eatin’ people anyway, I don’t see any reason why we can’t fix some of the townfolk up with a drop o’ my liquid beforehand."

  "Now, Doc, that’s just plain diabolical. Still, I reckon I see your point."

  So Tim, he went and asked the townsfolk that was still livin’ to drink a drop of Doc Rollins’ roach-killin’ potion. He had to be a mite deceptive ‘bout the whole process, considerin’ that he was plannin’ for ’em to get eaten, and it didn’t sit on his conscience none too well, but a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do in times of hardship.

  Well, those roaches, which was now up to three hundred feet in some cases, kept on eatin’ the Spittin’ Ho
llow townfolk, and damned if the potion didn’t work. A cockroach scooped up and started chewin’ on pretty Miss Bianca, and that thing was dead in eight seconds by Tim’s pocketwatch. Why, within the hour, eleven of those creatures was just lyin’ dead on the streets, not botherin’ a soul.

  "Doc, we’ve got ourselves a problem," said Tim, walkin’ back into the pharmacy. "There’s still one roach left, the biggest and meanest one of ’em all, and we ain’t got no populace left to feed ’em your potion."

  "Well, seein’ as how I’m the one who went and formulated it, I reckon the honorable thing would be for you to sacrifice yourself," said Doc Rollins.

  Tim shook his head. "I can’t abide by that line of thinkin’, considerin’ that it was you who mutated them things in the first place."

  "Aw, hell, I was hopin’ you wouldn’t go and bring that up. Yeah, seein’ as how I’m the one who done created this catastrophe, I’ll accept my just desserts." Doc Rollins took the test tube from Tim and swallowed down that last sip.

  At that very moment, the last roach busted right through the wall of the pharmacy and it ate Doc Rollins right up.

  "Ha!" Tim shouted at the roach, not knowin’ whether or not it had the word "ha" in its vocabulary. "You’re in for a world o’ death now, you damn fool critter!"

  But unbeknownst to Tim, that roach had attained a size of sufficient mass that just one drop wasn’t gonna do the trick, and before he knew it that roach had made Tim a meal.

  Well, that roach died of starvation not too much later, seein’ as how when you’re three hundred feet long it takes a lot of nutrition to keep you goin’. But that was about it for the town of Spittin’ Hollow. With no populace left there wasn’t anything to do but just let the dust settle.

  And that’s the story. I reckon you may be wonderin’ how I know all of these details, considerin’ that nobody survived to tell the tale. I guess, if you want to narrow it down, I’m either the ghost of a dead mutant cockroach or a liar, and I ain’t sayin’ which.

  Wasting Grandpa

  Before you start thinking I’m a total jerk, I want to preface things by saying that I was in Grandpa’s will for almost ten years before I decided to kill him. That’s ten years I was perfectly willing to let the old man die a natural, peaceful death in his own home, surrounded by those he loved and who loved him in return.

  Am I such a bad person for getting a little impatient?

  Now, it wasn’t like the guy was having an especially productive life or anything. He was on crutches and hardly ever left the house. Grandma had died eight years earlier in a car accident that had nothing whatsoever to do with me. I mean, what did he have to live for besides sitting by the fire, telling boring stories to his boring friends?

  I needed the money. I was getting married, and Pauline wanted a big wedding. Her parents refused to pay for one the third time around, so I had to take care of it. I was making decent money selling magazine subscriptions over the phone, but Grandpa had a huge fortune that he wasn’t using. Even divided among myself and my cousins, my share would be more than enough to get married in style.

  And so, on my twenty-fifth birthday, I invited myself over to Grandpa’s house for our own private celebration. He supplied the birthday cake and ice cream, and I supplied the cyanide.

  We sat in his annoyingly tasteful upstairs den, started a fire, and began to chat as we ate. He’d bought a vanilla cake with coconut all over it. I personally can’t see any reason why somebody would destroy a perfectly good cake by smearing it with that repulsive pseudo-fruit, but I was polite and said nothing.

  After Grandpa finished sharing an "amusing" anecdote about my youth, the one about the dead chicken I kept in my room for two weeks when I was six, I got up from the vibrating recliner. "You know, I think a cake like this calls for red wine. There’s some in the refrigerator, right?"

  "Always," Grandpa told me. He leaned forward and reached for his crutches. "Here, I’ll get it."

  "No, no, it’s my birthday, I’ll get it." I left the den, went down a short ugly hallway, and proceeded down the spiral staircase. I crossed through the living room into what an adorable little sign on the refrigerator informed me was "Grandma’s Kitchen."

  Grandpa knew me too well. The red wine rested in an ice bucket on the counter, with two glasses next to it. The ice had apparently melted and then been refrozen, because the bottle appeared to be enclosed in a bucket-shaped block of ice. With a bit of strain, I withdrew it and poured us each a glass.

  I took the cyanide vial out of my pocket and poured some into Grandpa’s drink. Then I added some more. And a smidgen more. I put a thumbprint on my own glass, just in case I got nervous and mixed them up.

  "Here you go," I said, returning to the den. I handed Grandpa his glass, and he took a nice big sip. I sat back down on the vibrating recliner and encouraged him to share another hilariously stupid thing I’d done as a kid.

  "This wine is exceptionally good today," he told me. "I don’t suppose you’d care to get me some without poison in it, would you?"

  I froze. This was, you might say, not good. "I beg your pardon?"

  "I know you put something in my drink. I’ve been drinking wine almost my entire life, and I know when there’s something wrong with it."

  I’d been under the impression that old people had vastly inferior taste buds.

  He sneered at me. "You haven’t wanted to spend a birthday with me since you were ten. I figured you were just here to brownnose your way into a bigger piece of the inheritance, but no, you’re trying to knock off the old man to get your cash faster. Well let me tell you something, you little bastard, you’ve never been in my will. The whole thing is going to Regina, because she can make the best damn sauerkraut I’ve ever tasted!"

  "I don’t know what you’re talking about," I said. Okay, it wasn’t much of a cover, but I was flustered.

  "I want you out of my house," Grandpa said. "And then I never want to see your adopted face around here ever again. Do you understand me?"

  "I wasn’t adopted," I protested.

  "Well, you should have been."

  "Grandpa, you’re tired. How about a nice long nap, and then we’ll talk about this later?"

  "If you don’t get out of my house this second, I’m calling the police."

  Now, I didn’t know whether or not he really intended to let me just walk out of there and keep it a secret. Maybe, if only to protect the family name. But maybe not…and being accused of attempted murder would certainly put a bit of a strain on my marriage plans. Besides, I had a feeling he was lying about the will just to save his life.

  I did know one thing. The phone was well out of his reach.

  I looked him in the eye. "Okay, Grandpa, I don’t want to hurt you, and I guess there isn’t a reason to now. Come downstairs with me so we can talk."

  "I’ve already said what needs to be said. Get out."

  "Grandpa, you can do what I say, or I can go into your kitchen, get one of those big carving knives out of the drawer, and demonstrate a total lack of respect for my elders. Understand?" I tried to sound sinister, and was pleased that at least my voice didn’t squeak.

  "You little—"

  "Understand?"

  He glared at me, then nodded. I gulped down my entire glass of wine in one swig. It didn’t make me feel any better.

  "Use your crutches. We’ll go downstairs, have a pleasant talk over a cup of hot cocoa, and hopefully part ways on good terms. Sound okay?"

  "You were an accident," Grandpa said. "Your mother didn’t want you. She called me up in tears when she found out your dad had knocked her up."

  "Do you want me to kill you right now?" I asked. "I’ll do it. I just forced myself to choke down that crap you tried to call a cake, so I’m in the mood to hurt somebody."

  Without another word, Grandpa picked up his crutches and got to his feet. I watched as he walked out of the den and toward the top of the spiral staircase. Normally he’d sit and scoot all the way down on his
rear, but I had a speedier alternative.

  I walked up behind him as he reached the stairs.

  Bye-bye, Grandpa.

  I gave him a violent shove, causing him to drop his crutches and fall forward. He cried out, struck the stairs, and tumbled all the way down. Thump, thump, thump. He hit the floor with a crack that made me cringe, then lay at the bottom and was still.

  For several moments I just stared at him, trying desperately not to hyperventilate. I certainly wasn’t going to have any problems sounding panicked when I called the police.

  "You little shit!" Grandpa shouted at me, his voice surprisingly strong for a guy lying face-down on the floor after a fall down a flight of stairs. "You rotten little bastard! I hope you burn in hell for this!"

  I immediately rushed down the stairs, almost falling myself, and stood next to him. Grandpa lashed out with his right arm, trying to grab my ankle, but I moved my foot out of the way.

  "I’ll kill you!" he shouted. "I’ll break your rotten little neck! Help me, somebody! Heeeeeelp!"

  "Grandpa, not so loud! It was an accident!" Grandpa lived in a fairly remote area, a farmhouse surrounded by cornfields, but he did have neighbors across the street who were possibly close enough to hear.