The Best of Horror Library: Volumes 1-5

by Bentley Little

  “It’s almost time. You should prepare your defense.”

  The voice jolted him awake and Rob jumped from the couch, his sweaty chest still heavy from the nightmare. He scanned the room, not realizing he was still clutching a pillow. Cletus stirred at the foot of the sofa, looked up at Rob, then closed his eyes again. There was nobody else there.

  It was just part of the dream. Relax, he told himself. The clock showed 2:15 a.m. He’d hoped to head out much earlier. He cursed himself for not setting an alarm, put on his t-shirt and shoes, grabbed his camera and dashed out the door.

  At least he was able to catch the last bus. He settled in for the fifteen-minute ride. He had the bus to himself, except for the homeless guy who got on at California and headed to the back row for a nap, his pungent odor eating at Rob’s nostrils as he passed.

  The bus approached the underpass. Rob pulled the cord and headed to the back door. He looked over at the homeless guy, who opened his eyes as the lights above the door turned green.

  “Good luck,” the man said before rolling over to go back to sleep.

  “What did you say?” Rob asked, hesitating at the bottom step. The man ignored him. Rob could hear him snoring already.

  “Let’s go, in or out?” the driver shouted. Rob stepped down, the doors creaking shut behind him.

  After the bus passed he could see the shrine across the street, bathed in a soft glow from the candles people left behind. The crowds were gone, but Rob could make out one lone figure kneeling at the wall.

  He approached quietly, not wanting to interrupt anyone in mid-prayer, though he questioned why someone would be coming out in the middle of the night to pray to a stain on a wall, even if they were convinced it was the Virgin Mary. As he got closer, he realized that it was the large black man he’d run into the morning before.

  The man was not praying, just whimpering.

  “Please stop. I’m sorry. Please stop. I’m sorry,” he said over and over, staring at the stain.

  Rob thought about leaving. He had lived in the city long enough to know that it was not smart to engage crazy people on the street, particularly late at night. But he felt a need to help, so he eased up beside the man, who turned and looked at him, wild-eyed.

  “Help me…I can’t stop. Help me,” he whispered.

  Rob looked down and noticed the blood pooling around the man’s knees and a pile of what looked like strips of old leather.

  He followed the trail of blood up to the man’s hands. He was holding a knife in his right hand and was cutting into his left arm, working the blade down from his elbow to his fingers, like he was peeling a potato. Most of his arm and hand was a pulpy mess, his fingers stripped to the bone.

  “Please help me,” the man begged.

  “Jesus Christ, man, what the fuck!” Rob cried, then instinctively grabbed for the man’s shoulder and elbow, hoping he could grip them hard enough to make him drop the blade.

  But the man turned and slashed at Rob instead, getting off three quick swings, the first of which sliced through Rob’s right forearm, though not too deeply. Rob backed off.

  “Dude, you asked me to help you.”

  “I’m sorry…it’s not me. It’s not me…” the man cried, still slashing the blade in Rob’s direction.

  Rob grabbed his camera bag, figuring he could use it to deflect the knife while he tried to get hold of the man, but then another voice spoke.

  “Do not interfere. His sentence is being carried out.”

  Rob turned to the wall, and it suddenly lit like a movie screen. The dingy highway underpass, stain and all, disappeared as the wall gave off a blinding, golden hue. Centered on the screen was a large, robed figure that looked part man and part…something else. It was large enough to fill most of the height of the screen, and had long, flowing hair with thick strands, each moving independently, like wriggling worms. It gazed down at Rob.

  “Your trial will begin once we’ve completed with him.”

  “Who the fuck are you? What do you want?” Rob said, fumbling to get his camera out of his bag, hoping to capture this on film.

  He did not answer. His face changed as the moments passed. He was an old man with a beard and mustache, then a young black woman, then the Virgin Mary again. The face morphed every few seconds, but the eyes, glowing with hatred and anger, never changed.

  “What do you want from me?” Rob asked, stepping back and turning his camera on.

  He looked through the lens, but this time all he could see was the same, dingy old wall. He lowered the camera and looked up into the light, shielding his eyes with one hand.

  “You are accused of grave sins and you must be tried before this court and the throne of the Lord!” the thing shouted.

  Behind the creature, a primitive courtroom scene unfolded on the wall. There was a witness stand on one side, next to a large, ornate throne in the middle facing the street. Both sat empty.

  There was one row after another of wooden benches, filled with spectators turning to their right to watch. Some appeared human, some had wings…some had horns. All were focused on the man who knelt on the ground, flaying away at what was left of his arm. They cheered each time a strip of flesh fell to the ground.

  The man, having done all he could do to his arm, took off his shoe with his good hand and started rolling his pant leg up, his face contorted in agony.

  Rob turned his camera off and backed away slowly. Then he started to run.

  “You cannot hide!” he heard behind him as he sprinted down the street, his heart pounding in his throat.

  He didn’t stop for several blocks, until he was too tired to continue. He realized he didn’t even know where he was going. He rested, his hands on his knees as he struggled to regain his breath and orient himself. He took out his cell phone and called Mitch, hoping he was still awake.

  By the fifth ring, Mitch picked up, annoyed.

  “Dude, this better be important. I’ve got company.”

  Rob realized he had no idea what to say. All he could do was cry into the phone.

  “Hey bud, what’s goin on? Calm down,” Mitch said.

  “I think I’m losing my shit, man. I think I’m going crazy,” Rob stammered.

  “Okay, bro. Settle down. Where are you?”

  “I’m not sure. I went the wrong way home,” Rob said, looking around for a visual clue. “That looks like the Logan Square monument up there. I’m near Kedzie.”

  “Okay, can you make it over here? We’ll talk it out and you can stay here. We’ll call the doctor in the morning.”

  “Yeah the Blue Line is right over there,” he said, his voice calmer. Mitch always had that effect on him. “Can you meet me at the station?”

  “Of course. I’ll see you in a few, bro. It’s going to be fine, Okay?”

  “Okay. See you there.”

  He hung up and took a moment to calm himself. He hit rewind on his camera, his hands still shaking, and then hit play. There was still nothing on the wall. Just the same dark stain. In the background, he could hear the man crying as he cut himself.

  Rob turned the power button off and headed toward the train station.

  Rob walked in, swiped his transit card at the turnstile, then walked down the stairs to the train platform. Despite the hour, there were plenty of late-night revelers still out.

  He passed a group of men and women in their early twenties, all with either tattoos or lip piercings, some with both. They stared at him indifferently as he passed.

  In the middle of the platform, a skinny, long-haired man was playing “Hotel California” on his guitar, and doing a fairly decent job of it. Next to him, a Hispanic man sang along with him, pumping his fist as they harmonized about not being able to “kill the beast.” The singer didn’t seem to mind the stranger intruding on his performance. In front of them, a guitar case sat open with a few dollars and a couple dozen coins scattered inside.

  Rob opened his cell phone as he passed them to check the time: 2:59. He
began to check to see if he had any messages when the screen went blank. A familiar golden light began to shine from it, then a face appeared. It was the thing from the wall.

  “You cannot hide from us. Your trial begins now,” the image announced in a grave tone.

  Rob snapped the phone shut and threw it to the ground. It bounced and skidded toward the group of teens nearby. They turned and looked after it hit a tall boy’s shoe. The kid picked it up and tossed it back to him, and Rob caught it.

  “Sorry about that,” Rob said, then hurried farther down the platform, stuffing the phone into his pocket.

  The phone rang.

  Impossible! There was no cell service down here. He took the device from his pocket, opened it, and the golden light glared out at him. He tossed the phone into a nearby garbage can then continued down the platform.

  “Enough!” a voice boomed. Rob stopped in his tracks. The wall off his right shoulder lit up and the impossible scene from the underpass appeared. The creature emerged from the bottom of the wall, its wriggling hair crawling around its ever-changing face, and soon rose a good twelve feet above the rest of the courtroom spectators, who were staring to their left at the witness stand, where a young girl no more than five years old sat next to the still-empty throne. She appeared to be of Arabic assent, and by her headdress and blouse, maybe Iraqi. She sat nervously, eyes down, clutching a one-armed doll in one hand.

  “Your trial begins now,” the thing said again before turning its attention to the girl. “Of what doth the witness accuse this man?”

  The girl looked up. Her eyes turned vacant and she slumped forward in her seat without saying a word. Another screen appeared above her and a scene began to unfold.

  It showed the inside of a small, modest house. There were eight people in the room, four adults, three teenagers and a little girl. It was a tranquil scene of a family going about their daily life. Then a door was kicked open, breaching the silence and awakening Rob’s memory.

  Three U.S. soldiers entered the dwelling, shouting orders and pointing guns. The women and children in the house were screaming. A young man who Rob guessed was the little girl’s father turned to run upstairs, but one of the soldiers opened fire, cutting him down from behind. The women and children went into hysterics.

  “Sit down! Shut the fuck up! Shut the fuck up!” one of the soldiers screamed and Rob shuddered as he recognized that soldier. It was him.

  The soldiers corralled the rest of the family, dragging them into the center of the living room and shoving them to their knees. The elderly woman fell to the ground hard and a soldier yanked her back up by her hair.

  “Who did it? Who set up that bomb? Tell us!” a soldier yelled. Rob recognized him as his friend, Lieutenant Anderson.

  In broken English, the old man said, “It was not us. We are no fighters.”

  “He’s lying, man. It was one of them. It’s right in front of their house for Christ’s sake!” the other soldier said. Rob couldn’t remember his name, and in fact it was their first time out together. “You heard that witness out there. He saw someone run inside just before it went off. What else do you want?”

  “Just do him, man. Those are your friends all charcoaled out there,” the soldier urged.

  Anderson hesitated, then took the butt of his rifle and cracked it into the old man’s nose. His frail face caved in on impact and he slumped to the floor. Anderson delivered two more blows to the man’s head.

  The women and children screamed louder. Anderson moved over to the only remaining male, a young teen, maybe fifteen or so.

  “Was it you, you little fucker?”

  “Come on man, he’s just a kid,” Rob saw himself say.

  “That don’t mean shit, man,” the other soldier retorted. “I seen children and women blow themselves up just to take a few of us out. You can’t trust any of em!”

  “He’s right. We gotta do ‘em all. It could have been any of them. I ain’t doin’ this myself. You gotta help me,” Anderson said, staring at Rob.

  After a moment, Rob nodded his approval.

  The soldiers moved behind the family, who sat cowering and crying on the floor.

  Anderson looked at Rob.

  “You ready?”

  “No.”

  “Enough talk. Just do it!” the other soldier boomed, and Rob now recognized the voice. He had not heard it before that day and had not heard it again until today. It was the thing from the wall. Its eyes brimmed with hate.

  Rob watched as he and Anderson pumped the family full of bullets, except for the girl, who was shrieking now.

  “You gotta shut her up, man. Do her too,” the other soldier urged him.

  Anderson started to point his gun at her, but Rob pushed it away.

  “We’re done here,” he said. “Let’s check out the house next door.”

  The soldiers made their way out the front door. Rob stopped and looked back, making eye contact with the girl. Watching it now, he recalled hoping that she would be able to forget what she saw.

  The door closed but the scene still played behind the little girl on the stand.

  She ran up to her mother, whose face was frozen in a mask of horror. The girl prodded her, but realizing her mother wasn’t asleep, slumped to the ground and started screaming again. The sound was drowned out by the gunshots next door.

  Then the screen faded to black and the girl on the stand suddenly awoke. The creature and the spectators turned to face Rob.

  “How do we find the defendant?”

  “Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!” the crowd shouted.

  “What should be the sentence?”

  Rob snapped out of his trance and ran down the platform before they answered.

  “Help me please. Help me!” he shouted to the other riders, who either stared at him or looked down at their shoes. It dawned on him that he now seemed like the crazy person that people should not engage in the middle of the night.

  He slowed down and looked back. The spectators on the wall were still watching and shouting “Death!” but the people waiting for the train seemed oblivious.

  Then he started running again, but he lost control of his motor functions, and his body turned back in the direction of the courtroom scene. He was running full speed down the platform, his legs churning forward despite his brain’s orders to go the other way.

  He heard a train approaching at the far end and saw its light appear in the tunnel. Passengers closed their books and gathered their belongings, some moving out of the way as Rob ran past.

  He was picking up speed and was on a collision course with the train. The wall was dead ahead, and as he looked up, he could see the creature, its arms outstretched and its head turned skyward as it roared, the jury around it cheering. It looked down and locked eyes with Rob, as it morphed back into the Virgin Mary, its wild hair suddenly covered in white linen. It clasped its hands and bowed, as if in prayer, then grinned, two rows of sharp, black teeth stretching its mouth wide as its face began to morph again.

  The train grew louder, its headlight burning his eyes, and Rob reached the edge of the platform, now nearly airborne, save one step. He closed his eyes as he leapt onto the tracks.

  * * *

  “What do you think it is?”

  The woman rubbed her hands over the stain on the desk, then turned to the man next to her and took a sip of her coffee.

  “I think it’s exactly what it looks like.”

  He let out a nervous laugh.

  “It does have some resemblance.”

  “Some?”

  “OK, maybe more than a little bit.”

  “Has he seen it yet?”

  “No, he hasn’t been in yet, and it wasn’t there last night.”

  “Who found it?”

  “The lady from the cleaning service. She almost fainted. I don’t know how we’re going to keep her from telling people about it.”

  “Maybe we should tell people about it. I mean…these have been showing up every
where lately. This is proof, isn’t it?”

  “Proof of what?”

  “That he was chosen for this job.”

  “How do you think that would go over?”

  “Well, I…wait, here he comes.”

  Footsteps and voices echoed outside the room. The door flung open and a man entered, trailed by a small entourage.

  The man and the woman by the desk straightened up. The woman hesitated, then covered the stain with a pile of folders left on the desk before turning to greet her boss.

  “Good morning, Mr. President.”

  The Healing Hands of Reverend Wainwright

  by Geoffrey L. Mudge

  Another night, another show, another chorus of cheers and applause and unbridled joy that we will never hear. In the darkness and silence, only the rumble of the diesel engine roaring to life lets us know our part has been played for the evening. This night’s showcase was relatively slow and tame. The only serious injury to come from the affair was a dislocated shoulder suffered by the blind kid, Augie. The sickening sound, somewhere between a pop and a crunch as muscle and bone tore apart, still echoes in my mind. There’s not much to listen to in here, and the few sounds that aren’t screams tend to linger a little longer than they should. The only other noise is the wet, hacking cough coming from Juliana’s corner. I think she may have contracted emphysema or TB, but she won’t live long enough to be bothered much by whichever.

  However, experience, the harsh mistress that she is, has taught me that the good shows are tragedies in disguise. Having been here the longest, I’ve seen the patterns through a dozen of them. Through pure luck or divine intervention, I’ve survived longer than all those that were here when I joined. Most of the kids travelling with me now were picked up in Memphis and are generally unfamiliar with the ins and outs of the business. In my time with the Reverend I have found that slow nights are almost inevitably followed by horrendous ones. Those nights, the anguished cries reverberating in my skull make me long for the cavernous silence between one and another.