Gleefully Macabre Tales

by Jeff Strand

  "Help! Help! Somebody help!"

  "Be quiet!" I whispered. "Grandpa, shut up!"

  "Heeeeeeeeeeelp!"

  So, I jumped on his back. I had no choice. I leapt into the air as high as I could, and came down on his back with a crunch that made me cringe more than the previous crack.

  Grandpa shut up, except for a soft moaning.

  I did it again, just to be sure.

  I stepped off his back and surveyed the damage. Certainly there had to be some sort of believable explanation for Grandpa falling down the stairs and then having somebody jump up and down on his back. Over-enthusiastic CPR?

  No, no, I was screwed. Utterly, totally, completely, 100%, nice-knowing-you-buddy screwed.

  Unless I hid the body. I’d be a suspect for sure, but if I could get rid of all the evidence, maybe I wouldn’t be charged with anything. I just had to find a good place to store him, a place nobody would ever look.

  I had begun to brainstorm possibilities when I glanced over and saw Ms. Rawmet peering in through the living room window.

  The seventy-five year-old woman’s horrified expression indicated that she’d just witnessed an ample helping of homicide.

  She ran off.

  I bolted into the living room, but instead of heading for the front door, I went for the gun rack. Grandpa kept them loaded—at least that’s what he’d told me as a kid when he was giving me strict instructions not to touch them. I smashed open the glass case with a couple of solid kicks, retrieved a rifle, then rushed over to the front door and threw it open.

  Ms. Rawmet had made it across the street. Though she had always been a grouchy old hag who made me pay for each and every window I broke, I didn’t feel good about what I had to do.

  She looked back at me. We were about a hundred feet apart. I raised the rifle, peered through the sights, and took aim. Then I pulled the trigger.

  And missed. Big-time.

  She took off running toward her house again, though her mild limp kept her from moving very quickly. I fired again. Missed. Fired once more. Missed, but put a nice hole in her mailbox.

  I lowered the rifle and ran after her. She finally found her voice and began shrieking. "Harvey! Call the police!"

  This would have worried me, but Harvey was her pug. She hadn’t lived with anyone besides a dog since she was eighteen. As she hurried onto her front porch, I raised the rifle again, fired, and missed yet again. Her window shattered. I sure as hell wasn’t paying for that one.

  Aside from Ms. Rawmet, the nearest neighbor was at least half a mile away. The stretch of road between the two homes was rarely used. I know it was rarely used. I’d spent many afternoons playing kickball and softball and Red Rover on that stupid road and we could play for hours without anybody driving past. In later years, during my less and less frequent visits, we could sit outside most of the evening and only be interrupted once or twice by a car driving by.

  So, yes, I was surprised when a car came into view at the exact moment that I finally succeeded in shooting Ms. Rawmet in the back.

  She cried out and fell. I immediately dropped the rifle and tried to look nonchalant. The car was about two hundred feet away and driving fairly quickly. Maybe they’d look at me, smiling and waving, and not notice the bleeding woman on the opposite porch.

  The car came closer. I smiled and waved. The driver, a man about my age, smiled and waved back.

  The woman with him screamed.

  The car braked to a halt. Now I could officially say that I was getting frustrated and more than a little pissed. I grabbed the rifle and took aim.

  The man ducked down and floored the gas pedal. The tires shrieked as the car sped past me.

  My first shot kept up with my tradition of lousy aim. The second shot blew out the rear windshield. The third and fourth shots missed completely. But it didn’t matter, because the driver was paying more attention to not getting shot than to steering accurately, and the car went off the road, plowing into the cornfield.

  I ran toward the car. The driver’s side door swung open, and the man got out, hands in the air.

  "Don’t hurt me!" he begged. "I won’t tell anyone!"

  Yeah, right.

  I aimed the rifle at his chest, pulled the trigger, and was rewarded with a click.

  The man turned and began to run, not even glancing back at the woman he’d left cowering in the automobile. I swung the rifle behind my head like an axe about to chop wood, then hurled it as hard as I could.

  My throwing aim was a lot better than my shooting aim, and the rifle struck him in the back of the head, knocking him to the ground. I hurried over to his fallen body, picked the weapon up by the barrel, and finished him off with several solid blows to the head. The wood didn’t even splinter. Grandpa bought good guns.

  I was feeling really sick, and my arms were sore, but if I still wanted to be married by a Justice of the Peace rather than a prison warden I had to finish the job. I went back to the car, where the woman had finally opened the door and was pushing her way through the cornfield. Her high heels weren’t making the process easy. I caught up to her and got ready to bash her skull.

  And then I did it.

  The next hour or so was not particularly enjoyable. First I went over and finished off Ms. Rawmet. Then I covered her with garbage bags to keep the mess to a minimum, and dragged her body into Grandpa’s house and put it down in the basement. I carried Grandpa and the woman in the cornfield down there as well, storing the bodies in a corner for the time being. The man wasn’t exactly skinny, so he took longer than the others, but eventually all four corpses were out of sight. After gunning the engine a few times, I managed to get the car out of the cornfield and parked it out of sight behind Ms. Rawmet’s house.

  I got a broom and brushed the broken glass off the road, and adjusted the rug on Ms. Rawmet’s front porch so that it covered the bloodstains. Then I returned to Grandpa’s house, closed the curtain so nobody could see inside, straightened everything up as well as I could, sat down on the couch, and fell asleep.

  Falling asleep is generally accepted as a poor tactical choice in situations such as these, but I couldn’t help it. One moment I was sitting there trying to figure out what I was going to do, the next I was having that dream where you’re naked in school. I’d always kind of liked that dream. Just call me a sicko.

  I was awakened by the doorbell. I sat upright, and a glance at the clock told me I’d been asleep for over an hour. I didn’t move.

  The doorbell rang again. Then again. And then I heard Pauline’s voice: "Is anyone there?"

  I got up and hurried over to the door. Pauline certainly had seen my car parked outside, so I couldn’t pretend that I wasn’t here. I had to get rid of her.

  No, not kill her, just make her leave.

  I opened the door.

  A group of approximately two dozen of my friends and relatives stood outside, holding presents and party favors. Pauline stood in front, holding a cake with twenty-five burning candles.

  "Happy birthday to you…happy birthday to you…" they sang in energetic tones. Pauline had that wide grin she always got when she felt she did something wonderful. I think the fact that I was able to force a smile and keep the urine inside my bladder is worthy of knighthood.

  I basically just stood there, stunned, as the uninvited guests moved past me into the house, patting me on the shoulder and wishing me many more happy birthdays in the future.

  "Is Grandpa upstairs?" my mother asked, giving me a kiss on the cheek.

  "Umm, no, actually. I don’t know where he is. Nobody was here when I arrived."

  "Really?" Mom looked a bit concerned. "That’s unusual."

  "I know. I guess one of his friends picked him up." I feigned an expression of disappointment. "He must have forgotten about my birthday."

  "Well, he is getting up there in years, and he probably just thought you were trying to brownnose your way into a larger share of the inheritance." She smiled.

&nbs
p; For some odd reason I found myself unable to have fun at my birthday party. The chocolate cake was probably delicious, but I couldn’t taste a damn thing. Everyone asked me about Grandpa, but I just told them what I’d told Mom. The guests were in almost every room of the house, but I stayed in the kitchen, making sure nobody tried to go down into the basement for any reason.

  After about half an hour, Pauline thrust a large glass of sparkling fruit punch into my hands. "Are you feeling all right?" she asked.

  I shrugged. "A little worried about Grandpa, I guess."

  "I’m sure he’s fine."

  "You’re probably right."

  She put her hand on my shoulder. "Sweetie, it’s something else. You look like you’re feeling sick to your stomach."

  "No, really, I’m fine. Never felt better." I took a huge gulp of the punch to show her just how fine my stomach was.

  "You need to relax." She leaned forward and whispered in my ear. "You know, I bet we could have some privacy in the basement…"

  I drank some more punch to give my mouth something to do besides let out a terrified yelp. "We’ll be missed," I said. "Not a good idea."

  "Mr. Ever-Ready turning me down? Should I be offended?"

  "No, of course not, it’s just…well…there are too many people around."

  "That didn’t bother you during the six other parties we snuck off at."

  "I know, but…look, I really am feeling kind of bad. Maybe it’s a virus or something."

  "Want me to drive you home?"

  "Nah, I’m gonna hang around and wait for Grandpa to show up."

  She kissed me on the mouth. "You really do need to relax. And I have a really good way to relax you…"

  "I’m sure you do."

  "I’ve been naughty, sweetheart." She gestured to my punch. "I spiked it with a glass of wine I found upstairs in the den. You really do look like you need something to calm you down."

  So, anyway, this explains why I’ve been such a party pooper.

  A Bite for a Bite

  "How many zombies outside?"

  "Not sure," said Scott, peering out the window of the apartment. "Thirty, thirty-one, maybe."

  Rick sighed. "Sorry I threw away my gun after it ran out of ammo. I had no idea you had more in your backpack."

  "That’s okay."

  "I just didn’t want to carry it around, you know? But I feel bad letting you do all the shooting. Maybe we’ll find another gun somewhere."

  "Maybe."

  They sat in silence for a while.

  "Know what I’d like to do?" Rick asked.

  "What?"

  "Eat one of those things. The same way they’re eating us. Just take a great big bite out of one, to show ’em what it feels like."

  "Why don’t you?"

  Rick shrugged. "Dunno."

  "I’d like to see that."

  "Nah."

  "I’m serious." Scott stood up. "I’ll drag one of them in here and hold him down while you dine away."

  "Yeah, right."

  Scott opened the door and peered outside. "Ooooh, there’s a nice big fat one! He looks scrumptious!"

  "What the hell are you doing, man? Close the door!"

  "Sorry, you were watching your cholesterol, weren’t you? Here, this one—" Scott stepped outside and returned a moment later holding an elderly zombie by the back of the neck "—looks perfect."

  "Get it out of here!"

  Scott kicked the door shut and threw the zombie to the floor. "Mmmmmmmm. Tasty."

  "You’re gonna get us killed!"

  Scott knelt on the zombie’s back, pinning it against the floor. It opened and closed its mouth, teeth scraping against the tile. "Get over here," Scott demanded.

  "You’ve gone completely—"

  "Get over here!" Scott shouted, pointing his pistol at Rick.

  Rick slowly walked over to Scott and the writhing zombie. "Scott, c’mon, this isn’t funny."

  "You don’t have to eat the whole thing if you don’t like it," said Scott. "Just take two bites and I’ll let you have dessert."

  "But—"

  "Eat, you incompetent piece of shit, before I put a bullet through your face!"

  Rick knelt down, his entire body trembling, tears beginning to pour down his face. "I can’t do it."

  "Yes, you can. Just take a bite out of its arm."

  "I’ll get diseases!"

  "Tough!"

  Now sobbing openly, Rick opened his mouth and pressed his teeth against the zombie’s upper arm.

  "Bite it!"

  "I can’t break the skin!"

  "Yes you can! Don’t be such a fuckin’ coward!"

  Rick bit down harder. A gout of blood sprayed into his mouth. He gagged, spat it out, frantically wiped his mouth off on his sleeve, and scrambled away from the creature.

  "That wasn’t a bite."

  "Fuck you, you sick—!"

  The bullet pounded into Rick’s forehead and exited through the back of his skull, taking plenty of brain matter with it.

  Scott shot the zombie in the head as well, then stood up. He wandered into the kitchen to find a meat cleaver. He certainly wasn’t enough of a freak to eat a zombie, but Rick would provide plenty of nourishment in the upcoming winter months.

  Glimpses

  Patricia stared at the odd new visitor. He was her size, which was a nice change of pace, but wasn’t very communicative. He just sat on his mother’s lap, bouncing a bit, staring at Patricia with a blank expression.

  She tried again to speak to him. Nobody else seemed to understand her, but maybe he would.

  He didn’t.

  Patricia’s own mother made a loud sound of displeasure and carried her into the bathroom to change her diaper. It was about time.

  ««—»»

  "WAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!" sobbed Dennis, rushing through the back door, pants around his ankles. "Patti pulled my pants down! She did it on purpose!"

  "I did not!" shouted Patricia from the backyard.

  "Yes you did!" Dennis shouted back. "She did, Mom! An’ Bobby was there an’ Stacy was there an’ the lady who sells us milk was there an’ Kyle was there—"

  "Kyle was not there," shouted Patricia.

  "Calm down, honey," said Dennis’s mother, crouching down beside him. "Did you really run all the way home from school with your pants down?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "Didn’t you trip?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "Why didn’t you pull them up, and then run home?"

  "‘Cause she pulled them down! On purpose!"

  "I did not!" shouted Patricia.

  Dennis’s mother smiled. "You know, she only did this to you because she likes you."

  "I do not!" shouted Patricia.

  ««—»»

  Dennis cracked his knuckles and waited for his prey. Soon she would arrive. Oh yes, very soon indeed.

  "Admiral Tim, is the ammunition ready?" he asked his second-in-command.

  "Aye-aye, sir," said Admiral Tim with a salute. "I have inspected all of the snowballs and they are ready for throwing, sir."

  "Good work, Admiral. Give me three of the ice ones. No, make that two ice ones, and one with a rock in the middle."

  "Aye-aye, sir," said Admiral Tim, selecting three prime specimens. "Sir! The target approaches!"

  Dennis peeked over the top of the fort. Yes, there she was, ready for extermination. He hoisted the various snowballs in his hands, testing the weight, and decided to begin the assault with the rock snowball.

  Target Patti was almost in range.

  Almost…

  Almost…

  Fire!

  Dennis flung the snowball, and his aim couldn’t have been better. It struck her directly in the face, knocking off her glasses and making her drop her books. She screamed, threw her hands to her face, and ran crying down the sidewalk.

  "Excellent shot, Captain!" said Tim.

  Dennis bit his lip nervously as he watched her run away. He was pretty sure he’d given her a blo
ody nose. He hadn’t meant to hit her in the face—well, yeah, he had, but he’d expected to feel better about it.

  ««—»»

  "Why would I want to do that, zit-boy?" asked Patti.

  Dennis rolled his eyes and scratched at one of his pimples. "I’m not asking you to do anything big, just find out if she likes me."

  "She hates your guts. All of ’em, even that long gooshy one under your stomach."

  "She does not. She doesn’t even know me. Look, all through fifth and sixth grade I passed out love notes to all those boys for you."

  "But you refused to hold them down when I wanted to kiss them."

  "C’mon, I just want you to find out if she likes me."

  "Oh, all right."

  "But don’t let her know that I’m the one who wants to know."

  "Well who else would want to know?"