FEAST OF THE FEAR
Four horrifying tales by Mark Edward Hall
Includes a sneak preview of the upcoming novel
SOUL THIEF
© 2012 Mark Edward Hall
http://www.markedwardhall.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
THE FEAR
When Mitch Redlon woke up with The Fear inside him, he could only lay in bed, frozen in terror, as his throat, nearly closed from a vicious assault of nocturnal screaming, gagged and convulsed in its struggle to admit fresh air. For a long time he lay on his back staring up at the dark ceiling, trying to get his breathing and his nerves right again. When he was finally able to throw his legs over the side of the bed, he sat with his head in his hands, all sweat-soaked and feverish, trying to decide what his next move should be. Unwilling to try and make any immediate sense of the dream, Mitch struggled unsteadily to his feet and left the bedroom. There were no lights on in the small trailer house, but the moon was bright and its ambient light through the windows was sufficient enough to allow Mitch safe passage to the kitchen. There he stood at the sink, running a glass of water with trembling hands. He poured aspirin tablets into his mouth from an open bottle on the counter-top and chased them down with a swallow of the lukewarm water. Putting the glass atop the pile of dirty dishes there, Mitch limped to the door, moved the curtain aside, and peered out into the night. He surveyed the driveway and the ramshackle garage beyond. Nothing looked out of place, at least from his vantage point inside the house.
But why should anything be out of place? His rational mind asked.
It can’t see you in here. Not with the lights out.
What the hell are you talking about? What can’t see me in here?
It!
It?
Yeah, the thing you felt while you were sleeping. The thing that made you . . . scream. The thing that used to make you shit the bed, and tear at your scar trying to get it out of you. The Fear. It’s back!
Oh, God, no!
If you felt it while you were sleeping then it must already be inside the house, Mitch. Or maybe it’s already inside . . . you . . .
Mitch whirled, as he caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. A tiny bent form scurried across the living room carpet. Mitch screamed as his heart hammered into a gallop. “Oh, Jesus!” he said. “Oh, Jesus Christ, this can’t be happening.”
Mitch stood stark still, staring at the place where he thought he’d seen the tiny scurrying form. He saw no more movement, but that didn’t mean anything. The house was dark, and filled with shadows, and there were plenty of places for . . . it to hide.
Mitch bent over, resting his hands on his trembling knees as his breath sucked asthmatically through constricted airways. That’s when he noticed the dark stains. They were all over the front of his sweats and his nightshirt. He straightened up, raising his hands, holding the palms close to his face, straining to see them in the dim light. The dream intruded on him suddenly, in all its gruesome detail.
“Oh, Jesus no,” he said, turning sharply and limping quickly down the corridor. In the bathroom Mitch flipped on the light and gawked at himself in the mirror. It was worse than he could have imagined. The blood was everywhere, smears of it on his face and clots of it in his unkempt hair. The front of his shirt and sweats appeared to be finger-painted with the stuff. They looked like a macabre map of some unknown continent. Most of it had dried, leaving his pants and shirt stiff, like a second skin frozen with rigor. On his face, however, the blood was still wet; it had mixed with his sweat and tears and the combination looked like a haphazard watercolor painting on the face of a ghoul.
Dear, God, what has happened here?
Certainly what he’d experienced had been a dream. Gruesome as it was. But if that was true, then where had all the blood come from? And what had he seen in the living room? Jesus Christ, I must be losing my mind?
Mitch stumbled back into his bedroom and turned on the light. Sure enough, the sheets where he had lain tossing were covered in blood and there was a small pool of it on the floor beside the bed. Mitch peeled off his bloodstained garments and surveyed his body. Finding no signs of injury, other than the long, familiar scar that ran the entire length of his right torso, he got down on his hands and knees and tentatively peered under the bed. He didn’t really expect to find anything. He’d seen the small bent form before, of course, dozens of times. It always accompanied the dreams. But he’d never been able to catch it with his full vision before it disappeared, thus, he’d never been able to identify it.
Probably a good thing.
After searching the house thoroughly Mitch went back into the bathroom and ran a hot shower. When he was clean he dressed and walked slowly back into the living room.
The Fear!
Is that what this was about?
The Fear!
It was as familiar as an old acquaintance, as welcome as cancer.
The Fear had gone out of him years ago, right about the time he had moved out of his mother’s house. He couldn’t remember the exact moment. The point was, just like that, one day it was gone. And he had been so grateful, so damned relieved. But now somehow it had found its way back to him, only worse. Before there had never been any blood. The dreams, yes, in gruesome detail, but never any real blood. None that he’d known about, at least. God almighty, now he would have to learn how to deal with that horrific thing in his life again, that feeling that there was something not in his house or his room, or even his bed. It was the sick and dreadful sensation that there was something inside him, some invader or infestation that made him go along and be a part of something unspeakable.
The Fear had visited Mitch on a regular basis when he was growing up; his mother had had to get up in the night and comfort him, but no amount of comfort had been sufficient enough to stem Mitch’s night terrors. The episodes had resulted in psychiatric counseling, but they had not ended there. How do you explain to a doctor, a mother, or anybody else, for that matter, that it wasn’t the dark or the boogeyman that you were afraid of? It wasn’t what was waiting under the bed or hiding in the closet that frightened you. How does a kid explain something that he himself doesn’t even understand, could never hope to understand? That there was something getting inside of you at night and forcing you to . . . see things . . . maybe even . . . do things. Acts so unspeakable that they would always be with you, flawlessly remembered, each room and each body, frozen forever in your mind’s eye. Yes, Mitch had seen them all, through nightmare eyes, had he had watched as the butcher knife did its dirty business.
In those days, The Fear, as Mitch would come to know and name the infestation, would enter his body at night and take him along on its macabre journeys, force him to experience the horrors of murder and blood and evil. Mitch had never actually done any of those things, of course. He’d just been a reluctant witness to the atrocities, an unwitting partner-in-crime to something evil beyond articulation.
At least that’s what he chose to believe.
Nobody had ever been able to explain any of the deaths adequately, not even the police. Supposedly there was never enough evidence at the crime scenes to put a case together; a suspect had never been arrested, the cases had probably been filed away in the archives where they grew col
der as years passed.
And Mitch had never dared mention the swelling of his torso scar following each incident. And what about the accompanying pain? Just like now, a terrible deep-rooted agony that no amount of medicine could quell.
I can’t stand to go through this again, Mitch thought. I need to talk to Ma.
No, Mitch! That’s exactly what you don’t need.
Why don’t you want me to talk to her?
Because she doesn’t have anything to tell you.
I think she does. I think she . . . knows.
Mitch, Don’t!
Don’t tell me what to do! I’m sick of it. And I’m sick of you! I’m going to talk to her.
Listen, Mitch, do you want the bitch to die?
What?
If you say one fucking word to her, she’s dead. I promise.
You’d better not hurt her, you son of a bitch?
I won’t make any guarantees, Mitch.
I’m going over there in the morning. I don’t care what you say.
Okay, Mitch, but remember, I warned you.
Mitch walked slowly to the couch and gingerly sat down on its worn upholstery, wondering what to do next. The aspirin was starting to work. The ache in his side was receding in slow, radiating waves. That was something, at least. He looked up at the clock. It said three twenty AM. Maybe if I just sit here and don’t fall back to sleep, everything will be okay, Mitch thought. After the sun comes up I’ll go and see Ma, make sure she’s all right, and tell her that The Fear is back, and that I need some answers. There’s no reason to believe that any harm will come to her. That other voice is just me talking to myself, nothing more. It can’t harm me, or her.
Mitch suddenly felt a small tug on his lower, right torso. He stiffened and sat upright, panic causing his respiration to accelerate. The tug turned into a finger of unpleasant sensation as it moved up the length of his torso, tracing the scar there, as if a worm crawled beneath his skin. Now the worm had moved into his chest, toward his heart. Mitch gave a small squawk of panic as the sensation blossomed into something otherworldly. He imagined a hand squeezing his heart, the pressure intensifying until he thought it would explode.
“Noooo!” Mitch screamed, as he fell to the floor writhing in agony. The sensation stopped suddenly. Mitch lay on the dusty carpet for a long time, his breath coming and going in painful bursts, his entire body bathed in cold sweat. When he opened his eyes, a ray of sun slanting in through a nearby window nearly blinded him. He had fallen asleep. God, as much as he’d tried not to, he’d succumbed to sleep’s dreadful summons, and under its spell he’d experienced another terrifying bout with The Fear. He’d seen his mother! Jesus Christ, no! It couldn’t be!
Mitch clawed his way to a sitting position, keenly aware of his aching torso. When he realized he’d soiled himself he began to weep.
“God Almighty!” he cried. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
But of course there was no answer to his pathetic pleadings. Why should there be?
The Redlon home was a late nineteenth-century two-story building in a badly dilapidated state. Paint was peeling off in large sheets, and shutters hung askew. The grass all around the structure was three feet high and filled with booby traps. Several old cars sat rusted and wheel less in the tall grass, unpleasant reminders of years gone, and best left alone, of mother’s occasional boyfriends, of drunken rages and brutal fists.
Mitch parked his battered truck out in front and got out, slamming the rusty door behind him. He stood for a long moment looking up at the building in trepidation before making his way slowly along the cracked concrete walkway to the front door. The house beckoned darkly behind soiled windows that were like mirrors that no longer cast reflections. A sick knot began forming inside Mitch’s gut. The torso scar ached along its entire length. Mitch had to fight with himself to keep from digging at it with his fingernails.
After Mitch had left home, the State had had to step in and care for his mother. She’d had minimal income, had only worked sporadically in her life, most of which had been under the table as she’d read charts and told fortunes. She’d been in a wheel chair for several years now; having lost the use of her legs in a fall down the cellar stairs a year after Mitch had bailed out. The State had tried to guilt Mitch into moving back in, which would have saved them the expense of home care, but Mitch had flatly refused. He’d told them that he was having trouble supporting even himself, which was true. Although Mitch was smart, with a high IQ and a community college education, he’d always had trouble getting along with people. He’d been told on more than one occasion that he was a social misfit. He’d been fired from three jobs in the past two years and at the present time he was unemployed. In reality, Mitch had no longer been able to stand his mother and her narcissism. She was a beautiful and mysterious woman; everybody said so, to the point where she actually believed the myth. But more than that, Mitch had become disgusted with her constant fawning over him, treating him like an unhealthy child. More than once he had wondered if the accident on the cellar stairs had been staged to play on his sympathies. It didn’t matter. After leaving her, the horrific dreams had stopped.
Until now.
Recently the state had warned him that they would soon have to remove her from her home and put her into supervised care. She’d become depressed and had stopped caring for herself. They would have to seize her property, of course, and sell it at auction in order to recover part of the cost of her care. Mitch couldn’t have cared less. The house and the property represented only bad memories for him. Good riddance to it all.
He had visited her on occasion over the past several years, but it was always an awkward and uncomfortable thing for Mitch to do. Rarely did his mother take an interest in his visits. Since his rejection of her she had shut him out. Mitch supposed he didn’t blame her. But he was okay with it. At least she wasn’t fawning over him, treating him like a neurotic.
When Mitch reached the front door he hesitated as fear seized him. The door was standing wide open. He stepped up onto the stoop and put one foot across the threshold when an enormous shadow descended over him. Mitch screamed and fell back against the door jamb.
“Hey, Mitch, is that you? Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me.” A skinny old man with greasy gray hair and a tanned, leathery complexion stood staring at Mitch with wild green eyes. He had on grease-stained kakis tied around the waist with hemp rope and a green flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off at the shoulders.
“Aw, Christ, Al,” Mitch said, recognizing the source of the shadow. “You almost gave me a goddamn heart attack. What the hell are you doing here?”
Al’s green eyes remained wide open in inquiry, bulging like a man with serious goiter problems. “Oh, I guess you haven’t heard yet, huh?”
Mitch’s heart rate accelerated. “Heard what?” Mitch’s eyes drew down on Al McKinney, one of his mother’s oldest and dearest friends. Al lived a quarter of a mile down the road from the Redlon’s, in a house that was more a sprawling shack than a real house; the place was a single story tarpaper structure surrounded by heaps of scrap and the skeletons of old automobiles. Al was in the salvage business, had been all his life, and he proudly wore the scars of his profession like shrapnel wounds. His wife Mildred was ten years in the grave. They’d raised six kids in that tarpaper palace. All of them had gone off to college and made something of their lives.
“Someone broke in last night,” Al said. “Your mom got cut up real bad.”
Those two sentences slammed into Mitch like bullets. He thought he might drop dead right there in front of Al. He had to fight with everything inside him to quell his rising panic. “Oh, God,” Mitch said. “Is she dead?”
“No, no! Relax, boy. They took her to the hospital.”
“Well, how bad is it?”
“Looks like whoever did it, didn’t intend to kill her,” Al said. “I don’t know what the hell they were thinkin’. Scrawled a bunch of skin-deep slashes all ove
r her body. Like it was some kind of game, or warning or something.”
“Game? Warning?” Mitch said.
“The cops have already come and gone,” Al said, avoiding Mitch’s stare. “They tried to call you but the operator said your phone was disconnected.”
Mitch avoided Al’s gaze. “Lost my job,” he said. “Couldn’t pay the bill.”
All nodded in understanding. “I think they’re gonna want to talk to you later, Mitch. The cops I mean.”
“What on earth for? My God, I wouldn’t hurt my own mother!”
“I know that, Mitch, but they don’t. They took some prints and stuff from the blood in her bedroom. Said they might have a better idea later in the day as to who might’ve done this. You can relax, Mitch, I saw some of the prints and they’re smaller than yours.”
“How much smaller?”
“A lot,” Al said, and his buggy eyes swam in his head. Mitch thought he saw a species of fear in those eyes. His own heart hammered inside his chest.
Listen, Mitch, do you want the bitch to die?
Just remember, I warned you.
Jesus, Mitch thought, the panic swelling in him like a tide. It couldn’t be. Mitch tried to move past Al, but Al stepped in his path blocking him. “Get out of the way, Al.”
“There’s nothing for you to see in there, Mitch. The cops put a barricade up at her bedroom door. No one’s allowed in until they’re through with the investigation.”
Mitch stood staring at Al, remembering the terrible night he’d just gone through, remembering dozens of other past nights and their accompanying nightmares, not knowing how he felt, not knowing how he should feel.
Mitch turned and made his way back outside, Al following behind him. The two men walked in silence to Mitch’s pickup. Mitch leaned over and gagged, nearly puking. His heart raced and his head swam.
Feast of Fear Page 1