The Garden of Fear
Dane Hatchell
The stories are a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 Dane Hatchell
Cover Copyright © P.A. Douglas
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this story may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
From Severed Press:
From Severed Press:
From Severed PRESS
Other Titles Available from the Author
Resurrection X: Zombie Evolution
A Gentleman’s Privilege: Zombies in the Old South
A Werewolf in our Midst
Apocalypse³
Club Dead: Zombie Isle
Dead Coup d'État
Dreaming of an Undead Christmas
It Came from Black Swamp
Lord of the Flies: A Zombie Story
Love Prevails: A Zombie Nightmare
Pheromone and Rotten
Red Rain
Soul Mates
The Last Savior
The Turning of Dick Condon
Time and Tide: A Fractured Fairy Tale
Two Big Foot Tales
Two Demented Fish Tales
Zombies of Iwo Jima
Zombie God of the Jungle
Zombie’s Honor
The Garden of Fear
Charles Duncan could see the brick piers and shattered chimney stack of the old cabin on the hill while standing by the tree where his grandfather was murdered. The eroding waves of time had left its mark without the broom of a caretaker to sweep it back.
Magnificent Bald Cypress trees growing by Salt Bayou touched the western perimeter of the five-acre homestead. The cabin set on one acre. The other four were dedicated to growing sugar cane. It was some of the richest soil east of the Mississippi.
His grandfather, Sylvester Duncan, was a proud man who earned his living as a laborer on a nearby farm. It was hard work, sun up to sun down, six days a week. Coming home to his wife and four-year-old son made it worthwhile. The sugar cane went exclusively into the production of syrup. Sylvester cooked it the old-fashioned way in a large iron kettle and heated by a wood fire. The profits bought luxuries for special occasions, mostly gifts for his family during Christmas time.
The cool autumn breezes rattled the leaves of a mammoth water oak. Charles let his mind drift back to the day when his grandfather hung feet first from a branch on the cypress towering fifty foot above. Such acts of vigilante justice had been common for years. Disobedient slaves from Africa the common brunt of impromptu judge/jury/executioners.
His murder would have been deemed savage even if he had been guilty of his charge. The label ‘reprehensible’ paled to describe the wrong done to his grandfather that day. Not because he was treated no better than a pig gone to slaughter, but because his wife and two year old son had been forced to witness it.
Mary Nettles, the farmer’s wife, had accused Sylvester Duncan of attempted rape. Jake Nettles and two sons had left the field early and happened upon Sylvester lying on top of Mary over a pile of hay, inside the barn.
The two were struggling in an embrace. Mary cried rape as soon as the barn door opened and she caught the silhouette of Jake from the corner of her eye.
Before Sylvester had an opportunity to speak out, Jake and his two sons pummeled him with fists, elbows, and kicks. Beating him to within an inch of his life.
Mary lied that Sylvester followed her into the barn and tried to forcefully have his way. Of course she would say that. No one would want to hear the truth. No one would dare consider it. Even if Jake had known the truth the outcome would have been the same.
Another farm hand, Ezra Collins, was busy in the loft when Mary entered the barn and struck up a conversation with Sylvester. He heard the sweet song of her voice and watched the way she leaned into Sylvester, attempting to rub him with her ample breast.
He heard Sylvester say, “Please ma’am, no,” in a distressed voice before she grabbed the front of his shirt, falling backward as she pushed her open mouth to his. He was in the act of pulling away at the untimely arrival of the husband.
Ezra hid in silence. It all happened so fast his mind fought to believe it was real.
Sylvester was 23, nearly six feet tall, and blessed with the physique of an ebony god. Despite his strength, he never once lifted a hand against Nettles and his sons, knowing that no words would bear credence, and no act of defense justifiable in the eyes of a jealous husband.
He gambled for mercy and lost.
The men treated Sylvester no different than a sack of feed and tossed him in the back of a truck, and then hauled him to the homestead.
Ezra calmed his fears and went about his chores as if nothing had happened, having a wife and four other mouths to feed to be more concerned with. It wasn’t until he was on his death bed several years later as cancer waited to ferry him into the next life that he confessed to Annie Mae, Sylvester’s wife, the truth behind the murder.
With the shirt stripped from his chest, Sylvester hung from the tree with his face so swollen Annie Mae refused to believe it was her husband after she was dragged from the cabin while holding onto her son, and thrown to the ground before him.
Jake Nettles remove his belt and beat Sylvester relentlessly. The pig iron buckle flayed the skin with each lash.
Even though Charles’ father was only four, he remembered that day for the rest of his life. What he recalled was one frame frozen in time. It was a picture of his mother with the most horrified of expressions and splatters of fresh blood on her face. That feeling of loss had remained with him until he took his final breath.
When Jake determined Sylvester was numb to the pain, he pulled out his pocketknife and dug the blade deeply across the man’s throat. Blood spilled quickly, painting the ground and the cypress knees standing as innocent sentinels below.
Charles reached out and touched reddish-brown bark, running his fingers across the paper-like surface. This tree linked him in some spiritual way with his grandfather. A feeling some might find strange. But Charles was like that, living in constant fascination with things and events that occur over time, connecting the past with the future.
Satisfied with his commune, Charles returned to his primary reason for the visit, and removed the handsaw from a sack. After stepping off a distance to ensure he was far from the critical root zone, he began sawing a suitable size cypress knee for his next carving project.
*
The overhead light dimmed in rhythm as a large brown moth circled underneath, seeking salvation from the confines of the shop. Charles opened Duncan’s Carvings and Crafts in a small strip mall about a year after retiring from the United States Postal Service.
With the forty plus hours a week delivering mail a thing of the past, he filled his free time working on his hobbies. As his collection grew in number, his house began to shrink. With no family and only few friends he would see in church on Sunday, there was no practical outlet to share his passion. Opening a business was the answer.
Woodcarving was his favorite pastime. He prided himself in attention to detail. Little things the casual observer wouldn’t even know to look for but would make his creation radiate with realism. Small carvings of birds were his favorite. More than five shelves displayed varieties such as the bright Red Cardinal, the soft blue Eastern Bluebird, the yellow Goldfinch, and the blue-head-yellow back-orange-breasted Painted Bunting.
Waterfowl proved to be quite popular as gifts for the ‘man that had everything.’ Wood D
ucks sold the most because of their eye-catching iridescent chestnut, greens, and purple feathers.
Charles was hand polishing his latest creation with double-ought steel wool when the front door opened and a tall teenager stepped it. The boy wore a green hooded jacket three sizes too large and a pair of jeans with legs so long the cuffs dragged the floor. The hood shadowed his eyes. His lips were dry and chapped.
Time had gotten away from Charles, it was past nine P.M., and the shop hours were until seven. He had been so involved with his carving he had forgotten to lock the door.
“Hello young man,” he called from behind the counter. “I’m sorry you found the door unlocked. I’m closed for the night.”
The teen stopped and slowly turned his head around the room. “I . . . need to buy a gift.”
Charles wiped his hands on a towel, leaving his carving on the workbench. “Well, if you’re going to buy something, I guess I can stop what I’m doing long enough to get you fixed up. What did you have in mind?” He would have run the boy out if he were only looking for a place to kill some time.
“Uh . . . I don’t know,” the teen said, swallowing dryly afterward.
“What? Surely, you have something in mind. Who’s if for?”
“M . . . my mom.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“The occasion?”
“Yes son, the occasion. Do I have to pull everything out of you?” Charles glanced under the counter at the butt of his 357. It was in position to grab if needed.
“Birthday . . . it’s her birthday,” he said with a nod of confidence. “I’ve saved up twenty dollars to buy her something nice.”
The teen was lanky and frail, pasty white in color. He seemed sad, unsure of himself. Charles wondered if the kid had not been eating and saving the money to buy his mother a gift. It pulled at his heartstrings.
“Well, twenty dollars should buy you a fine present that she’ll just love. How about a basket of flowers? I have several by the window. The baskets are hand woven and the artificial flowers will always look fresh,” Charles said.
The teen craned his neck to look around Charles. “What’s that you’re working on?”
“That?” Charles picked up his carving and placed it on the counter. “This, my son, is one of my signature garden gnomes. I was just giving it some finishing touches before I paint it. I’ve made a display over there if you’d like to browse.”
Charles pointed to a collection of the 20-inch tall forest creatures posing on a log. Each sported a pointy hat, and many had beards. Their warm smile eternally etched brought cheer to even to those with the surliest of dispositions.
“We don’t have a garden . . . we live in an apartment,” the teen said, wiping his nose with his jacket sleeve. “Do you have any jewelry boxes?”
With a smile of delight, Charles raised his hands in the air. “Yes, yes I do. I have a number to choose from right here in the display case.”
The teen stepped to the counter and bent over as he perused an assortment of jewelry boxes through the glass case.
“Do any of these strike your fancy?” Charles asked.
“How about this one. The one with the flowers,” the teen said, pointing.
Charles removed it from the case and placed it on the counter. The teen ran his fingertips across the top along the small flowers dotting the branches.
“The rosewood is imported from India. It may not look like it, but I have almost ten man-hours in that box,” Charles said.
“Wow, that’s a long time.” The teen removed the top and smelled the inside, put the top back on, and set it on the counter next to the unfinished gnome. “How much is it?”
“It goes for twenty-five dollars,” Charles said, reading the sticker on the bottom, following with a grimace.
“Oh.”
“Listen, I was going to put all the jewelry boxes on sale tomorrow. I can make an exception tonight and let you have it for ten,” Charles said.
“Ten dollars? Really?”
“Yes son, but you will have to promise me one thing.”
“You want me to promise you something? What?”
“When you leave here, I want you to stop off at a burger joint or someplace and get something to eat. You look a little green around the gills. A boy your age needs to keep a steady supply of fuel in the furnace while growing.”
“Gee, Mister, I can do that. Thanks for being so nice to me,” the teen said, his eyes bright with life.
“Think nothing of it. You can pay me an even ten. I’ll take care of the tax,” Charles said with a wink.
The teen removed his wallet from his back pocket, pulling the chain taut that held it to his belt loop. He opened the wallet, and said, “How much is that carving on the shelf behind you?”
Charles turned, the teen dropped his wallet and picked up the wooden gnome and smashed it against the shopkeeper’s head.
Stumbling forward, the front of Charles’ upper body landed on the workbench. The blow had rendered him unconscious.
The teen vaulted the counter as a gymnast across a pommel horse. Grabbing the gnome tightly in both hands, he lifted it high in the air, and sent it crashing on Charles’ head again.
“You’re not better than me,” he said. “You’re not,” following with another whack.
The body remained motionless. Charles was no longer breathing, but it wasn’t noticed, or even a concern of the teen.
“I said you’re not better than me!” he said, lifting the gnome as high as he could, and slammed it down, sending shock waves up his arms. The back of Charles’ skull buckled bowl shaped. Blood pooled in the impression. Even though he was no longer breathing, his heart still pumped.
Repeatedly, the gnome rose and fell, cracking more of the skull until bits of grey matter dripping in fluids and blood jettisoned in all directions. The teen’s lungs heaved in his crescendo of madness, continuing to pulverize the head until it was no longer recognizable as such.
When he tired of crashing the gnome against the hard workbench, the void that invaded his mind and stolen his eyesight left. He returned to reality, seeing what resembled a pound of regurgitated hamburger meat, and a body without a head.
He let the gnome drop to the floor. The wood echoing off the Mexican tile rang hollow, ushering a foreboding sense of exposure. Gore caked his fingers and hands, recording the dreadful events his mind desperately tried bury.
Wiping his hands across the front of his jacket made them feel even dirtier. The man was nothing but filthy trash, just another leech on society profiting off others while babies cried in the night from hunger. Businesses were evil, banks even more so, enslaving the masses with false gods to pay homage while ignoring the poor and needy.
His inner core calmed, clearing his mind enough to focus on his mission. The cash register was bloated with fives, tens, and ones, nearly two hundred dollars in all. Lifting the drawer, eight twenties and two one hundred dollar bills waited as hidden treasure. This was a better haul that he had hoped and ensured a steady supply of crystal meth for the near future.
With the wad of bills neatly folded and nesting in his pocket, the teen turned to make his escape.
Searing fire streaked through his left Achilles as he stepped forward sending him crashing to the floor writhing in pain. Instinctually, his hand reached to discover what had brought him down so unexpectedly.
A large gash above his heel gaped open. His fingers returned smeared with his own blood.
Through the watery eyes of pain, the garden gnome loomed not far from his feet. The teen couldn’t imagine how an object made of wood could have sliced through him as it did.
The gnome’s face splotched with dark red masked it in ghastly war paint, sending a chill through the teen that penetrated beyond the pain. Something about its eyes kept his gaze from being unable to release. The eyes burned with madness and a hatred that reached out and paralyzed.
A smile started widening across the gnome’s mouth. Lips par
ted showing teeth, followed by a snarl of devilish delight.
This couldn’t be. It was but an inanimate object made of wood. The teen knew, he touched it with own fingers. As solid as any other piece of wood and as inanimate as the tree from which it was carved.
Its arm moved. A sparkle of light gleaned from an object in its hand.
It was with a grim realization the teen solved the mystery of his foiled escape. A carving knife knocked to the floor during the beating had found its way into the gnome’s hand. But that couldn’t be possible.
With the mirth of a cartoon character, it pranced forward bringing the knife high in the air held by both hands ready to plunge.
At the last moment the teen broke free of the chains of fear, smashing his foot from the good leg into the small creature.
Just before the shoe connected, the blade sank deeply through the canvas, penetrating between cartilage and bones.
A dull thud rattled figurines on a shelf above as the gnome crashed against the wall, forcing an insane cackle that cast an eerie net around the teen, making his sphincter muscle pulsate in uncertainty.
Up the workbench leg it scampered, faster than a monkey fleeing a lion.
With a cry of pain mixed with relief, the teen pulled the knife from his foot, and fell with his back to the floor. As he fought to catch his breath, the gnome dived off the workbench with arms and leg outstretched.
Without thinking, the teen raised his hand to block, still holding the handle of the knife in his hand.
The gnome came to an abrupt halt, the cold hard blade skewering it where its heart should reside.
The teen froze, staring at the lifeless figure with amazement. Wanting answers to questions he didn’t know to ask. The carving didn’t look like wood anymore, resembling something more or less made of leather. Reaching out with his free hand, he chanced a quick touch to the side of its face. It was unusually warm, firm, feeling like hard rubber.
A fresh pain from his Achilles reminded him of his predicament. His fascination turned to anger, and with a quick flip of his wrist, the gnome flew off the knife onto the floor.
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