The Best of Horror Library: Volumes 1-5

by Bentley Little

  “You want a piece of what’s ours, you’re going to pay with a piece of yourself,” Grayeyes said to Lisandros.

  He bent down and picked up the chainsaw from the floor. Lisandros’s expression did not change. He must have known what was coming.

  “You can do this?” Lisandros said to Grayeyes.

  “Fuckin’ rights I can do this.”

  Grayeyes looked to me. I shook my head.

  He spoke to me in a low voice. “Don’t you chicken out now, little brother. We don’t come down hard on this, we never hear the end of it.”

  “He doesn’t deserve this,” I said.

  Grayeyes grinned. “That’s the point.”

  He pulled the starter cord and the chainsaw roared. One of Lisandros’s men screamed. He was clubbed with the stock of a shotgun and collapsed to his knees. My brother Grayeyes didn’t notice. He turned to Lisandros, stepped closer, and brought the blade down on his shoulder. Blood sprayed, the saw roared.

  It went on for what seemed like hours, but was only minutes. Cutting a man to pieces with a chainsaw is not an easy thing; not to watch, not to do. I could see that even Grayeyes, who has no heart, was troubled. More so, because Lisandros would not die, not right away. Without his left arm, he spat in my brother’s face, the spittle clearing a sheen of blood down Grayeyes’s cheek. Without his right leg, he laughed, a high cackle that cut through me more than the roar of the saw.

  The only screaming in the room came from those of us who watched in disbelief, including me. When it was over and Lisandros was finally dead and quiet, the only sound was the retching of Lisandros’s men, and ours.

  My brother let the chainsaw die. He dropped it on top of the pieces of his enemy. He turned to face us. In the light from above, his eyes flickered, points of flame in his blood-soaked face.

  I thought he was going to speak, but it was one of Lisandros’s men whose voice broke the glassy silence.

  “Let me bury my brother,” he said.

  His eyes were on mine. I turned to Grayeyes. Grayeyes nodded.

  We unbound the four men. Silently, they gathered the pieces of Lisandros.

  Grayeyes kept a foot on one of Lisandros’s arms, the right arm. “This I keep,” he said. “To remember.”

  They picked up everything else. One by one they left, until all that remained on the floor was a sea of blood.

  Grayeyes surveyed his abattoir. “Burn it down,” he said.

  And we did.

  * * *

  My brother was right. The memory of that day had found a place in my mind forever. I could not sleep. I kept seeing Lisandros’s face looking at my brother. I kept hearing the screams, the roar of the saw.

  But Grayeyes, too, suffered. In the weeks that followed he slept little. At night, in our home beside the rail yards, I listened to him tossing, turning, moaning. Sometimes he would get up, open his bedroom door, and stand there. I could see him from my room, drenched in sweat, gasping for air. But I said nothing.

  Once, in the morning, he said to me, “I can’t stop thinking about him. Tough bastard. Can you imagine?”

  My brother was also right in that Tráiganos moved south again. We got our drug trade back, they left our girls alone. The message had gone out. Don’t fuck with us.

  But they didn’t need to be here to fuck with us. They were here in my brother’s mind, in his dreams. At night, he started screaming. His dreams, I knew, were haunted by the roar of the saw, the sudden grinding noises as the blade bound in bone, blood spraying. He slept little. He began to look sick.

  A chainsaw execution is an ugly, messy thing. It is a death that can never be forgotten, not by those who witness it, not by those who hear of it. And apparently, not by the executioner. By mid-summer, Grayeyes never left the house. At night, he tossed and turned and cried and screamed, haunted by that night in the garage and by what he had done.

  But it was more than that. I know that now.

  He burned Lisandros’s arm and buried the ashes, but that wasn’t enough to clear the memory from his head. The dreams got worse. His waking screams became louder, and longer.

  There came a night when I woke to silence. Although I could not see in the darkness, I felt that I was not alone. There seemed to be shapes in the room with me, slithering between shadows. I could not get out of my bed.

  Suddenly, the darkness was pierced by my brother’s screams. Not the screams that marked his waking from dream to reality. This was worse. I heard him speaking, pleading.

  Then I heard the terrible sputtering roar.

  I could not move. The roar filled the small house, filled my head. The screaming reached a pitch that was inhuman, and then stopped. But the roaring of the saw went on for a long time. It must have stopped at some point, but I was not aware of it. My bedroom window became pale with dawn, and I saw that I was alone. The house was silent.

  A dream, I thought. Only a dream.

  But when I opened Grayeyes’s bedroom door, and saw what they had done, I fell to my knees and threw up. Then I wept.

  In the first week of June, we buried what was left of Grayeyes. They left everything but his right arm. Like him, they wanted a trophy.

  By mid-June, Tráiganos was back on our territory. My men looked to me to make a decision, but it was Tráiganos who moved first. They called for a meeting. A meeting in a public place.

  To refuse would have been cowardly, and dangerous. That was not an option. But I am not a stupid man. I was well protected when I finally found the courage to go to the park on the designated day, at the designated hour.

  He was waiting for me there, sitting on a bench, his face turned up to the sun. His men, like mine, hovered at the edge of our vision, watching, wary. He turned to me as I sat down, and he smiled.

  “So, we are done with the silliness?”

  For three heartbeats I said nothing. Then, I nodded.

  He held out a hand for me to shake. I clasped it and squeezed. He squeezed back, firm and strong.

  My heart was pounding. His grip had a terrible, aching familiarity to it. I fought the urge to look down, but I could not. His hand, gripping mine, seemed to be a slightly darker shade than the skin of his face. The skull on his neck seemed to be smiling at me. The gold fleck in his eye seemed alive in the afternoon sunlight. The crescent moon scar on his cheek seemed deeper than it had that night in the garage. The dreamcatcher on his forearm bulged as the muscles beneath the skin squeezed.

  “Is time for us to put this behind us,” he said. “Time to do business, yes?”

  I nodded yes, yes, yes, but I could not find the strength to speak until my brother’s hand released me.

  I Am Meat, I Am in Daycare

  by Cameron Pierce

  When Ted Branson called to ask the rate for Susan’s daycare service, she didn’t realize his child was a hunk of meat. But that’s what the man who introduced himself as Mr. Branson, but call me Ted was dragging into her home.

  “Should I put him with the other kids, or will you take him from here?” Mr. Branson said.

  “Mr. Branson…Ted,” Susan said, “I can’t take your child. I’m sorry, it’s just not…”

  Not what? Susan wondered. She was paid to watch kids, and if this loon wanted to pay her for watching a hunk of cow, she would do it.

  “I don’t see what the problem could be,” Mr. Branson said.

  Susan smiled. “Problem? None at all. Bring your son this way and I’ll introduce him to the other children.”

  “His name is Scotty,” Mr. Branson said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “My son’s name is Scotty,” he said.

  “Oh, of course,” Susan said. “His name is Scotty.”

  For the first time, Susan was glad the two-, three-, and four-year-olds she watched were, without exception, idiots.

  She led Mr. Branson into the living room. The man dragged the hunk of meat behind him like it was a reluctant child. Where the hell had the meat come from anyway? Maybe it was just a large ri
b-eye steak, but Susan had never seen rib-eyes that size. Ever. She watched the six children watching Alice in Wonderland. “Everyone,” she said, “I’d like you to meet Scotty.”

  Haley, a little blonde girl, turned from the television and waved both hands in the air. More like calling for help than waving hello, Susan thought.

  Normally, there were over ten pages of paperwork to fill out for a new child, but since Scotty wasn’t really a child, she skipped it and concerned herself with getting Mr. Branson the hell out of her home.

  “Well,” Mr. Branson said, “I’m already late for work, so if there are any forms to sign, I’ll fill them out this evening, around five. Thanks again.”

  He walked out of the living room. Susan heard the front door shut.

  Easier than expected.

  She heard the door creak open. “I forgot to tell you, Scotty’s allergic to chocolate milk,” Mr. Branson called.

  The door shut again. Susan stared at the meat child.

  Allergic to chocolate milk…

  She expected to have an easier time lugging the meat into the kitchen. It couldn’t have weighed more than fifteen pounds, but felt like fifty, maybe more. When she picked it up, legs, which she hadn’t seen, uncurled from the thing’s red underside. Susan recoiled before hurrying down the hallway into the kitchen.

  She returned with oven mitts.

  None of the other children said anything as Susan dragged the meat into the kitchen by its legs. Susan wondered what the little idiots would tell their parents about Scotty, the new boy, or if they would even remember someone new at all.

  Scotty was too heavy for Susan to lift onto the kitchen table. Instead, she slid him into the corner, right beside Mr. Rat’s food and water. She emptied the water bowl in the sink and cursed her husband for the empty bottle of Jack he’d left out on the counter. She understood how much he loved Mr. Rat. She loved Mr. Rat too. They’d gotten the cat over ten years ago, before they were even married. Still, the cat had been dead for a month. Leaving food and water out was a harmless means of coping, but if a parent were to see the empty Jack bottle and complain to the daycare board, she could lose her business.

  Now that the bowl was clean, she searched the fridge for chocolate syrup. She realized it was no use. They were out of milk. Instead, she grabbed one of her Atkins chocolate-flavored protein shakes.

  It was close enough, right?

  Susan popped the tab and poured the liquid into the bowl. She set it on the floor beside Scotty. “Drink up,” she said, but who was she kidding? Of course he wouldn’t drink up.

  She lifted the bowl and tilted it just enough so that a small stream dropped onto the meat. Nothing happened, so she poured more. Then she let the whole thing spill.

  Still, nothing happened.

  Susan left the chocolate-soaked Scotty on the linoleum floor and walked out of the kitchen. She peeked into the living room to make sure the kids were still alive and watching the movie.

  While they seemed no less alive than before, Susan screamed when she saw these new children. She collapsed on the floor and covered her head. A nightmare, a very bad…

  “Mrs. Mackery,” said Charlie, the oldest boy she watched.

  Susan looked up. Her insides tightened. A trail of red ran from the sofa where Charlie had been sitting to where he stood. The child didn’t seem to notice that he was skinless. How could he be alive? How could he be without skin?

  “Mrs. Mackery,” he said.

  “What is it, Charlie?” she said.

  “That new boy, he hurt me.”

  Susan glanced at the other children. She looked at the cable box. 1:11 glowed green. How could it be over an hour past noon? Mr. Branson dropped off Scotty around eight. In that time, she’d done nothing but drag the meat into the kitchen and pour the chocolate shake over it.

  Something moved in the hallway. She looked at the children again, taking count. One was missing? Who? Haley.

  “Haley,” she called, “Haley!”

  The toilet flushed. Then the sink ran for a few seconds before the bathroom door opened. “Haley,” she said.

  The thing that scuttled into the living room was not Haley, even if it wore her face. It grinned, but the skull beneath didn’t smile in sync with the loose-hanging little girl face, and Susan wondered if more than one mind somehow existed behind that hideous thing.

  Susan awoke in the dark room. Her husband stood over her. He stared down, squinting, and she wondered how long he had been there. He held out a hand and she took it in both of hers.

  “Where are the children?” she said.

  He pulled her to her feet. “I came home for lunch. You were passed out, so I called all the parents. Are you hungry? I cooked dinner.”

  Her stomach grumbled. Susan wrapped her arms around her husband. “It was a terrible day,” she said.

  He kissed her cheek and walked out of the room. Susan followed. She tried finding the words to explain what happened, starting with Mr. Branson, but her mind felt foggy, scrambled.

  When she entered the kitchen, Mr. Branson stood from his seat at the table. “What the hell is he doing here?” she said.

  Her husband opened the oven and pulled out a tray stacked with burnt meat. He turned around. “Ted is my new partner. We’re going into a sort of business project together.”

  “What business?” she said.

  Her husband and Mr. Branson responded together. “Your new husband,” they said.

  Susan left the kitchen, passed through the lightless living room, and pressed her face against the door. She looked through the door peep. Outside stood Mr. Rat. No, even if that thing on the doorstep wore the face of their beloved cat, it couldn’t have been. Not Mr. Rat, not with his head on the body of a little boy.

  He held a platter of meat. All six of the children she watched stood around him.

  “Can we come in now?” said Mr. Rat in the voice of a boy no more than six years old.

  Susan looked into the eyes of Mr. Rat. Something was behind them, something familiar but terrifying. Two hands wrapped around her belly from behind.

  “It’s just me,” her husband said. “Don’t tense up like that.”

  She wanted to step away, but there was nowhere to go. Her husband kissed the back of her neck. “What’s the matter with you?” he said.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? If nothing’s the matter with you then why the hell are you letting our guests sit outside in the cold? We’ve got dinner to serve.”

  He tugged her inside and waved for Mr. Rat and the kids to follow. “Mr. Rat, take the kids in the kitchen. I’d like to speak with my wife alone.”

  Mr. Rat gave them two thumbs up and shuffled into the kitchen. The children followed close behind, as if they were afraid of what might happen without Mr. Rat’s supervision.

  Susan was crying now. “What the hell’s going on?” she said.

  Her husband said, “Don’t get upset over this. You’ve got no goddamn reason to cry, you know that? I should slap the shit out of you, that’s what a sensible husband would do. I know you’ve wanted us to start our own family for a while now, and talking with Ted, I realized that we’d have enough money, that we could support a child, if we introduced a few extra workers to our home.”

  “But where did you meet him?” Susan said.

  “Meet who?”

  “Ted Branson.”

  “I met him nowhere special.”

  Susan buckled over. She pulled at her hair and rolled around on the carpet, at her husband’s feet. “Nowhere special,” she said, “nowhere special. For God’s sake, what does that mean? Nowhere speci-”

  He slammed his foot against her mouth, cutting her off. Susan bit her tongue and tasted blood. Despite the pain, she wondered why her husband wasn’t wearing shoes since he’d just arrived home from work.

  “I didn’t mean that,” he said. “All I want is for you to understand that we can finally start a family. I want you to be happy. And if it’s reall
y that goddamn important to you, I met Ted in the grocery store years back. He was shopping for a child. I never mentioned him to you, then ran into him again a few weeks ago. He was looking for a daycare service.”

  Susan looked up at him. Was this really her husband? He’d never been abusive, at least not overly so. Never anything like this. And she’d always considered him the more rational of the two of them. She thought of Mr. Rat’s death. Had it really impacted him this much?

  “Ted and I decided that since Mr. Rat might have trouble acquiring a job, he’s the best candidate for fatherhood. Ted and I will provide financial support while Mr. Rat stays at home with you and the child. With Ted in the family now, you don’t even have to run a daycare service. We’ll be the perfect family, honey. Don’t you think?”

  Mixed in with the children’s laughter in the kitchen, Susan thought she heard something meowing. No, it couldn’t be. And this man could not be her husband. This house could not be hers, either. She was somewhere else. This isn’t my life, I cannot be Susan.

  Everything grew quiet in the other room. Susan listened to herself breathe. Her heart felt ready to explode.

  “It’s dinner time,” her husband said.

  She didn’t fight as he pulled her to her feet.

  Maybe she didn’t want a family anymore. Or maybe she did, just not this one. But she loved her husband, even if he was no longer the man she married. Susan also loved Mr. Rat, just not the one in the kitchen.

  Her husband guided her toward the kitchen and the stench of burnt meat.

  “What would it be like,” she said, “to start a family with the ones you love if they’re no longer who you thought they were?”

  “You should ask Ted about that one. He says he’s a philosophy professor.”

  The children broke out in laughter. Was Scotty among them? Something was meowing. Had to be meowing. Susan stepped into the kitchen, followed by her husband. She wondered how much time would pass before she no longer tasted blood in her mouth, and what, exactly, would be served for dinner.

  Trapped Light Medium

  by Sunil Sadanand