by Various
"He can!" Bjoern cried out. And for the first time, a strain of emotion accompanied it. "And with your blessing?!"
Father Dunne sat back down. He leaned forward and picked the glass up off the rug. Luckily, it hadn't broke.
"Mr. Kurz, we encourage the faithful to follow God's healing according to His timely wisdom. And we encourage His followers to seek out means of secular, modern medical assistance as well as treatment for emotional suffering."
Bjoern began to pace the floor again.
Unsuccessfully, the priest tried not to notice the gruesome effects of the burns that had ruined so much flesh when the unbuttoned shirt waved open as Bjoern moved.
"I want you to attend Mass tomorrow. Wednesday begins the penitential season of Lent."
"Ash Wednesday," Bjoern stated, still moving around, eyes aimed directly at the floor.
"Yes. The Day of Ashes." Father Dunne nodded. "On this day the faithful begins the season of repentance and mourning with the observance of ashes . . . a reminder of our mortality and our need for God's saving grace."
"Fire purifies," Bjoern asserted. He stopped walking.
The priest's eyebrows raised curiously. Then, after a moment of silence he stood.
"So, I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Kurz?" he said, offering the empty glass to Bjoern.
Bjoern took the glass-his face stale with expression, eyes unwilling to meet the priest's.
The young man of the cloth bent over to gather up his coat.
"No!" Bjoern shouted.
Every undamaged muscle in his body became suddenly tense as he came forward swinging the glass.
Openmouthed, the priest turned his head just in time to see the assault, but with no time to defend against it.
The glass burst in his face, creating nasty bleeding cuts on his forehead, the bridge of his nose and around his right eye. As well as a few scratches on his lips and chin. The attack knocked him off balance. He dropped to the chair, disoriented.
"You're my redemption!" Bjoern growled, standing over the injured.
Moaning, blood blurring his vision, flowing freely down his face, dripping onto his coat, his fumbling hands, the chair and the rug, the priest struggled to stand up.
Bjoern pounced on him. Seized him by the neck.
Wrestled to the floor, the priest desperately clawed and pushed to gain freedom. He forced Bjoern's head back, worked hard to pry the ironlike fingers away from his throat with his own blood-slippery hands, but soon death's weakening cover swept over him.
Bjoern stood, saw the priest's lifeless look-bluish-pale skin drenched with glistening crimson, one visible eyeball rolled into the back of his head, mouth wide open.
Bjoern took a bath.
Afterward, he grabbed some towels, wrapped the dead priest's legs in them, and then dragged the body into the bathroom where he lifted it into the tub.
"You have blessed me, Father," he said, kneeling naked before the tub with a dozen metal lighter fluid cans, some matchboxes, and a knife sitting close by.
He'd already placed the priest's coat over the body.
The narrow bathroom window was open, and he glimpsed the night sky.
He stood, walked, and turned out the light. Then he sat down in the same spot.
He would pray until midnight. Then, he would perform the ceremony. He would burn the body. And with the priest's charred, severed hand he would mark his forehead in the shape of a cross saying "Remember, man, that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return."
As he sat waiting silently in the darkness, he grinned confidently. Convinced that this year he would receive God's absolute forgiveness and healing. That his madness would be driven away once and for all.
There had been other priests, other observances, but this one was different, he told himself.
HORNS
A member of the Church of Satan, Horns has written and published horror fiction online for the past four years.
The Official Horns Web Site contains up-to-date information on this new, creatively diabolic writer: http://members.tripod.com/~hornshorror
Hard print credits include: COLD STORAGE (antho of the undead) that includes an introduction by Graham Masterton; PEEP SHOW MAGAZINE 2; EXIT THE LIGHT (a collection of 34 horror tales); ATROCITAS AQUA; THE TRIDENT.
He's currently a subsidiary editor for HellBound Books Publishing and has many projects in the works. Some upcoming titles: KILLER, DEATH GRIP: Legacy of Terror, DEATH GRIP: It came from the Cinema.
LABOR DAY HORROR TALE
There are two types of Labor Day in modern times: one which remembers historical events (on May 1), and one that signifies a last dash to the beach or department store sales (on the first Monday of September). The United States celebrates the latter, while the rest of the world remains interested in the first holiday.
The late 19th century saw corporate power grow exponentially, dictating how the populace lived in many areas, while human rights in the work place were unheard of. Often working conditions in the factories and mines were such that modern people would consider the descriptions the stuff of outlandish horror fiction. Although organized opposition to this was forming, nothing really happened until the Haymarket Riots.
The American Federation of Labor called for workers to strike on May 1, 1886, and over 350,000 workers across the country complied. The city of Chicago was particularly hard hit and basically ground to a halt. On the third day of the strike Chicago police fired randomly at the workers, wounding many and killing four. The following day, when police attempted to break up a rally in Haymarket Square somebody threw a bomb that wounded seventy officers, killing eight. Eventually the eight local labor leaders (the "Chicago Eight") were charged with the crime on the basis of their political beliefs, resulting in most of them being executed.
This resulted in annual May 1st, or Labor Day, unrest in the USA and abroad. In the 1890's many states began to officially acknowledge Labor Day, but for some it was marked in May and others in September. It was decided that there needed to be a holiday sometime between the Fourth of July and Thanksgiving, so they went with the September date. This also separated the day from the more "subversive" date it was intended to celebrate. Largely, though, people continued to celebrate May 1st with picnics, rallies, and riots.
Amid fears of spreading communism during the emergence of the Cold War, the US Veterans of Foreign Wars decided "Loyalty Day" would make a holiday of higher moral quality. The US government agreed and in 1947 May 1st labor rallies and parties were supplanted by Loyalty Day parades. It was considered a time for every US citizen to reaffirm their patriotism. This worked very well throughout the 1950's, and even the long-standing Union Square rallies in New York Cities dwindled away due to the popularity of the Loyalty Day parades. Loyalty Day was short-lived, however, coming to an end in the 1960's due to the unpopular Vietnam War.
While the Loyalty festivals are forgotten, they did accomplish their task: the American heritage of May 1st has been erased from the collective consciousness of the country that spawned safe working conditions, sane work hours, and the end of child labor. The United States of America remains the only industrialized country that does not commemorate any form of Labor Day in the month of May, opting instead to celebrate the beginning of summer. See May Day.
-John Edward Lawson
Camper's Legend
By Nicole Thomas
Michael held the opinion that Labor Day was the last day for die-hard campers to wander into the "wilderness" and live like Daniel Boone. He laughed as he thought of all the people around the country packing their gear and heading for the woods, leaving behind their TVs, cell phones, and headaches associated with "city" living. He never could understand the logic of leaving a luxurious bed with satin sheets for a trash bag with a zipper. Then again, he wasn't a camper. That's not to say he'd never been camping.
However, he had his own opinions about why people come here. He believed all the comforts of home were a sacrifice of sorts because of the mystery and
intrigue their National Forrest held. Sometimes people just like to live dangerously, haunted woods and all.
Burkittsville, MD has the Blair Witch. Once the two movies came out, that small town was flooded with tourists from all over, just to "look" at the town. It seemed whether based on myth or history, folks were naturally curious. Those here in Batesville, Indiana, understand the distraction and frustration tourists cause.
Michael thought the townspeople sympathize so much because they have their own version of the "Blair Witch," Aaron, the Crazed Camper. He smiled as he thought of 'ole Aaron and as he looked at his wife and their best friends unpacking their gear, he knew this was the best idea for a last 'get-together' before winter set in.
That night after the tents were set up, dinner cooked and they sat warming themselves around a crackling fire. David began talking "shop."
"So, how about you Michael? Ever defended someone you knew was guilty?"
"David, you know it's against lawyer-client -"
"Privilege … yeah, yeah … I know the drill Councilor. Now answer the question," David said.
Michael looked at his wife, Melanie, before answering. Then nodded.
"Oh this looks like a story all right," David said as he clapped his hands together and rubbed them.
"Honey, maybe Michael doesn't want to talk about it," David's wife, Gina said.
"It's ok … naw … I'll tell the story. It's a good campfire story, or so the paper's said."
"Campfire story … wait … that was you?" David asked.
"Yeah, that was me," Michael said as he looked at his wife again.
"What campfire story?" Gina asked.
"Oh honey, you gotta hear this story. It's better than the Lover's Lane Hook story!"
Gina shot her over-zealous husband a look, and then said, "Michael, if you don't want to talk about this, we'll understand."
"No, I'll tell you," he said. "It's just been awhile since I thought of Aaron." Michael drifted off into thought for a moment, then snapped back and began his tale.
Deep in the forest, among the pine trees and endangered species, tents dotted the area. The tall trees, dense brush, and forest inhabitants had adapted to this intrusion. In one of the lone clearings, two dome tents surrounded a blazing fire. Laughter and music sliced through the night until an unquestionable rumble had broken the party up, sending the two couples scurrying for shelter. After they had yelled their "good nights" and promises of a hike tomorrow across the clearing, the two couples had entered their respective tents.
The rumble of thunder and crackle of lightning had awakened the campers. Another flash had revealed a mysterious figure standing on a small slope overlooking the campsite. Rain had pelted the tent; each drop would explode in the unnatural silence. The occupants shot from their sleeping bags still half-asleep. Rachel had immediately grabbed Aaron's arm, as they listened intensely, leery of whom or what was outside. At each unruly rumble, Rachel had dug her nails deeper into his arm, drawing blood and causing Aaron to wince. Their imaginations ran wild as chills coursed through their bodies and deep-seated alarm settled into their bones. The bolts zigzagged across the sky, revealing nothing, but a campsite drenched in rain.
A strained laugh had burst from Rachel's lips as she and Aaron realized they had been holding their breath. Thinking their imaginations had bested them, an embarrassing giggle pierced the silence as they snuggled back into their sleeping bags. Rain and wind had mixed, and whipped and beat the small dome tent-the unknowing couple slept.
The raindrops had begun to grow. They crashed and plummeted unmercifully as they soaked the flimsy shelter. Like a bowling ball rolling down the alley, the thunder roared as the lightning cracked. Unexpectedly, a scream cut through the night. Aaron and Rachel bolted from their sleeping bags; shivers of terror had begun to race through their veins. What the hell?
Aaron had hurriedly put on his shoes and groped in the darkness for his hunting knife. Shit! I lost it this afternoon.
"Aaron! What are you doing?" Rachel said in a harsh whisper as she grabbed his arm again.
"Rach, honey, I'm just gonna see if everything's ok. It's all right. Really. It's just a fall thunderstorm."
"Please, Aaron don't leave me here alone." Unseen by Aaron, one tear had rolled down her cheek. "I have a bad feeling, please Aaron."
"Hush, love," he said gathering her in his arms. "It's going to be fine. I'll be right outside. I'm just gonna have a look."
He hugged her tight in gentle reassurance then he reached for the flashlight. The deafening sound of the zipper echoed through the woods, before another rumble sounded. Aaron shined the flashlight toward their friend's tent. Looks fine to me. He shrugged his shoulders and checked the area surrounding the camp. Everything was as they left it, although Aaron could not shake his paranoia … a feeling of being watched.
He felt like a white mouse in a weird science experiment. He imagined giant people were watching and taking notes on a huge brown clipboard while he walked through the maze of their campsite. He wished for lightning to see his surroundings clearer. The flashlight was little help.
Again, he shrugged his shoulders and decided all was well. Wet and cold, Aaron made his way back to his tent. The wind had calmed to a gentle breeze, caressing his cheek as he walked. He felt as if eyes bore into his skull, reading his thoughts. And as if the Heavens heard his plea, the sky lit up. In the distance, the silhouette of a figure appeared. Aaron blinked. Again, lightning lit up the site like a ballpark. The figure on the small hill was gone. Aaron shook his head. Damn, my imagination is on overload.
He walked back towards Rachel, past their friend's tent, through the entire site. Unzipping the entrance, he found Rachel asleep. You sure were scared, weren't you? Exhausted, he lay on his sleeping bag. Fucking great! Damn tent leaked. Well, this piece of shit is goin' back to the friggin' store. No leak guarantee, my ass. The thunder rumbled, the rain fell, the wind began to howl. Sure is gonna be a bad storm. Hope this piece of shit holds up. Aaron shifted his position then drifted off to sleep.
The next morning he snuggled closer to Rachel. "Mornin' love. See we made it. Nothin' but a good 'ole fall thunderstorm."
He had draped his arm across her waist. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck began to rise as paranoia overtook him again. He shook himself mentally and rolled to his back, his arm lay across his forehead. Lazily, his eyes wandered to the ceiling. Boy, my mind is havin' a ball with me. Aaron let it slide as he stretched and yawned. Deep brown eyes frowned then widened. He rubbed them to clear the crusted sleep; finally, what he missed last night met him square in the face.
The ceiling was a deep burgundy, a high contrast to the white canvas of the tent. Burgundy striped unevenly down the sides. His eyes focused intensively on the ceiling, mouth agape as he raised himself up on one elbow. Aaron reached out, without looking, and shook Rachel.
"Rach, wake up!"
Silence.
"Rachel!" His eyes glued to the overhead crimson canvas.
He saw nothing except the ceiling. He couldn't understand what happened and why Rachel was so quiet. He stopped and listened. There were no sounds, no birds singing, their friends were quiet, no crickets chirped, nothing … just silence. He froze as reality suddenly hit him. His eyes moved from the ceiling to the form next to him, horror slammed into his brain. Instinctively, he grabbed her and hugged her to him.
"Oh God! Oh God! Rachel! Nooooo!" Fear such as he never experienced consumed his thoughts and actions. His hand flew to his mouth, covered in blood.
Aaron looked at his hand, and then to the woman in his arms, his face locked in eternal horror. Laying her down, he fell all over himself as he scrambled out of the tent. Wildly, he screamed for help. His eyes flashed randomly over the campsite. In the daylight, Aaron discovered everything he had missed last night. Blood smeared and dripped from everything. He looked at himself. He had blood all over him. Her blood. Aaron started shaking violently.
"Dear God! HELP!" His h
ands flew to his head.
Silence.
"Rachel! My sweet Rachel!" Rocked to his knees, he held his arms out to her.
Silence.
Clawing at the ground on all fours, he swiveled, sinking further into the mud. What should I do? His eyes looked everywhere, but saw nothing. As he looked down again, a glint of silver caught his attention. He recognized it as his lost hunting knife.
He snatched it from the grass. Damn bastard! He held the knife as if it were all he had left on Earth. He gripped it so tightly he cut himself. The blade sliced through his hand. Fresh blood mixed with Rachel's and dripped down his hand. His mind and body were numb from shock. His mind locked up, he knelt paralyzed with fear. He tried to look at the whole campsite, but his mind blocked the massacre.
Stupefied, his eyes moved to the tree branch that hung over his tent - dangling upside down were their friends. It wasn't rain. Fascinated, he watched one lonely drop of blood as it rolled off his best friend's fingertip then fell an eternity onto the tent. The drop echoed into the forest and violently pierced Aaron's soul. One sound penetrated his numbed mind. A slow drawn whistle.
His head jerked toward the whistle. On the hill, the mysterious figure from last night raised his hand. As Aaron watched, covered in mud and blood, his mouth hung open and his hand pointed at the dark cloaked stranger, he saluted then disappeared. Aaron blinked then rubbed his eyes. It finally made sense. Oh God! It wasn't rain! Aaron's tormented mind screamed run! Kill the bastard! The knife had sliced deeper into his hand. But his fear and grief held him in place, sunk knee-deep in mud, caked with dry blood.
It wasn't rain. He made himself focus on the sight of his slain girlfriend. Her head had rolled off her pillow in his rush to get out of the tent. Her eyes were open, staring right at him. Oh God! Rachel … I … It wasn't rain! He looked from Rachel to his friends. It wasn't rain. Continually, this flew through his head until finally it erupted from his mouth in a primal scream.
"It wasn't rain! It wasn't rain." He struggled to stand then began to walk in a circle. "Dammit! It wasn't rain." He ran his blood soaked hands through his ash-blonde hair. "It wasn't rain. What the hell is going on?"