Horror Library, Volume 4

by Bentley Little

  "If I was in there," the woman whispered, "I'd run."

  There was a trace of something, a tingle of magic in her words. She winked at me and moved back. I felt her touch after there was space between us, but I felt her words for longer.

  And I ran. It didn't matter where. The further I got the better it became.

  ***

  Rick looks uncomfortable. I probably do too. How could someone not get upset, feel helpless at the tone of Meghan's voice? She's haunted, but Rick has shown a similar look and I probably have too. If we're broken, at least we're all broken together. Something drew us together. When we met we recognized each other in the uneasy night, though we're still working out what exactly that recognition means.

  She tenses up, and then I hear it. Shuffling, movement muffled by concrete walls. A shadow passes over the mostly buried basement window, lingering long enough to make us all feel that sick churning in our stomach. Above us, on what used to be the ground floor of an old house that collapsed on itself from a fire, something else moves.

  ***

  Sean

  I remember when I told my mom. She wanted grandkids so badly that when it was apparent that I would never bring her any, I expected her to disown me. Instead she smiled, patted my hand and said, "You've done what you can, son, now have another cookie."

  She made the best cookies.

  She loved me, and that was always clear. No matter what my flaws or choices were. Some people don't have that unconditional love, and for that much I can call myself lucky.

  The first time I brought a boy home I was nineteen. I had met him in college. I could have set off fireworks in the kitchen and done less damage. No one plays passive aggressive like a gay man, except maybe a sixty-year-old woman. Or maybe I was just lucky that way. They say straight men look for a girl just like their mom. So why can't it be true for gay men?

  I could barely get a word in through the catty bickering and half-implied insults. When I finally dragged Jeremy from the house he couldn't shut up about it. He said he wouldn't hold it against me, but we only lasted a month after that. I suppose those are the breaks.

  Mother never approved of any of my boyfriends. Not that I blame her. I made some really bad choices. I'd hidden being gay for so long that when I came out, I practically hung a sign around my neck, and so she took her frustrations out on the boyfriends.

  Once out of college I settled down some. College isn't that different from high school, except that there's more alcohol. After graduating I landed a job nursing at a decent private hospital. Because of work I have very little idle time. So my priorities changed, and the more time I spent on my own the more I mellowed from my college antics.

  I met Charles at a class on the nonviolent handling of aggressive patients. He worked first shift in the Psych unit. I worked third in Obstetrics. It's amazing we'd worked under the same roof for so long and never met. Of course neither of us had time for a personal life. Concurrently, we chose to give up the party lifestyle and one night stands for a chance at having someone to come home to at night.

  He moved in two months after we met, but a little quicker than either of us expected. His cantankerous roommate, an unpredictable maniac, hit the roof one afternoon over god-knows-what and Charles had to get his stuff out before he ended up with a size fourteen stiletto hole in his backside. He showed up as I was getting ready for work.

  Everything wasn't perfect, but our fights were usually over silly things, and easily forgotten. I was absolutely dreading having to introduce him to my mother. But it had to be done, especially when she found out we'd been living together. So we made plans for the traditional Sunday dinner. I had a few hours to sleep before we went, so mother could get home from church and prepare the meal.

  There was no reason for me to expect a pleasant Sunday afternoon meal. We brought flowers and a cheese and spinach quiche. But this was my mother and my boyfriend, the two most important people in my life, meeting, and I could expect nothing less than a disaster to ensue.

  I don't remember how it started. Their hackles rose as soon as they saw each other, and mutual resentment was evident in their eye contact, as each refused to look away. I gave up any attempt at keeping things civil, purely because this calamity was inevitable. The best I could hope for was for them to wear themselves out. I tried my best to eat, but mostly sat silent with a dumb little vacant stare on my face.

  When we finally left I felt like I was on the edge of a canyon. I started planning how I'd rearrange my apartment once Charles moved out. He took a deep breath—we weren't even in the car yet—and I cringed.

  "Wow, what a spitfire! If I was ever going to do a woman it would be your mom."

  "Thanks, I think," was all I could manage.

  "Is she always like that?"

  "Not to me, but to other people, yeah."

  "You mean to your boyfriends?"

  I nodded, still a bit stunned.

  "I bet they hated it."

  "Don't you?"

  "Are you kidding? I love a good argument. Why do you think I work in the psych ward?"

  I don't think I had ever loved anyone more than I loved him at that moment.

  Then came the accident. I don't remember a lot of it, and the doctor told me that's normal. Besides it happened so fast. . .

  We stopped at a red light. It turned green so we moved forward and a big old silver Grand Vic plowed through the intersection and T-boned us at probably more than fifty miles an hour. Our little compact spun. I remember the spinning, spider-webbed glass and the smell of vomit and blood. I remember babbling, but I don't remember what I said. I remember feeling like I was drifting in all the mess. I mean, I remember things I couldn't possibly have seen, like the soft, broken look on the face of the fire and rescue guy who pulled Charles' body from the car. I've been told that I was already on the way to the hospital by that point. I don't remember the ambulance, or the hospital, but the look on that man's face. . .

  I was in and out for a while. I have a vague memory of the hospital, but it could have easily been because I worked there. There was a woman. . .I don't really know.

  When I regained consciousness I was in the guest room at my mother's house. The television was on. It had been giving me strange dreams for some time, which led to a lot of confusion. I was lying there, struggling to recognize the room, when my mother came in.

  Tears welled in her eyes as she smiled. "Oh, thank God." The bed bounced slightly when she settled next to me. "I've been so worried. You've been in and out for a week."

  "What. . .?" My throat was very dry. I could barely croak out one word. Mother gave me a long drink of water and I tried again. "What happened?"

  Still it came out as a whisper.

  "There was an accident. You were hurt very badly. They released you a few days ago. We brought you here and have been praying for the best."

  "Who's we?"

  "Uncle Danny and me."

  "Where's Charles?" I asked.

  "He didn't make it, sweetie. You were hit by a drunk driver. The collision was on Charles' side."

  I didn't have enough—anything, moisture, emotion, energy—to cry for my loss. Mom made me drink weak tea with too much honey, then she told me to rest and I fell asleep again.

  I should have asked why they discharged me from the hospital. It didn't make sense. But I was lost in my grief and loneliness. The next morning, when I'd found the fuel to cry, my mom came in and held me through my erupting sobs.

  "It's okay," she said, running her hands through my hair like she had when I was a kid. "We still have each other. I'll take care of you, and you can take care of me. We don't need anything more than that."

  I can't say I was abused after that. And I'm sorry that you were, Meghan, for what it's worth. But it was like being a child again. Powerless. I had no choice over where I lived, or what I did, or even what I ate. And at first I thought I just didn't have the strength to care about those things anymore. But then my apathy to my own s
tate turned on me, and she worked her way in.

  My mom was good at it, giving a subtle command disguised as a request or a suggestion. But I never told her no. I had no desire to. Yeah, I know, it's obvious that I'd always had a controlling mother, but not like this. Never like this before.

  ***

  The only noise in the basement is my stomach, grumbling at me. Meghan's answers. Above us there are more sounds of movement. You could sustain yourself on the tension. There's a groaning then a crash. Meghan pales and Rick, wearing a face of stone, watches the hatch.

  I wonder how long we have. Things become silent and we stare at each other, waiting, knowing the stillness is only temporary.

  ***

  Rick

  They don't just make zombies out of people who're not ready to die. Of course you know that by now. Some people request it in their wills. Living wills have a whole new meaning now, don't they?

  They released you from the hospital because they can't waste medical time and supplies on a virtual corpse.

  And your loved ones don't complain, because they are worn out on it all. . .and because there are other options.

  I was shot, straight through the heart and raised again. It was about control, like it was with both of you. But a different kind of control. I was raised again as part of the judge's sentence. And that's pretty much it. You can't reform a violent criminal like me and it's not safe to allow us to live in society. So they give us a quick death, raise us back up and put us under the control of a handler. With a puppeteer in charge of us we can be good, productive members of society. We can be sorry for what we did. We can give back, and all that bullshit.

  What do you mean "tell you the truth"? I am telling you the truth. Not the whole truth? Well, what else do you want to know? I was once a man, and now I'm a meat puppet, sitting in a basement with a fag and Daddy's special pet.

  I'm sorry, I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. No, really I'm sorry. It's not you I'm angry with. See, I'm not a victim like you, or a nice person with a tragic tale like you. I don't doubt that I deserve to be punished, but this, this isn't punishment. This is hell.

  Yes, I know. I promised to be honest. I just, I was starting to like you guys and if I tell you the truth, well. . .

  Yeah, I'll start again. I'm not a good person. I have a disease. I have these. . . impulses.

  I don't remember an abusive childhood. I mean it was rough; I had two older brothers and also a sister and brother that were younger. We weren't rich, or even well off. We kept a rain barrel for those times when the water got cut off. It didn't happen often, but enough that we prepared. We didn't get beat, unless we damn well deserved it, like the time Bobby pulled a knife on a kid at school. His hide got tanned real good that night. But they weren't beatings. Dad was useless when he was drunk, too maudlin to take a belt or anything else to us, and Mom never had time to do anything more than care for us. We also had a parade of worthless relatives moving in whenever they ran into their own self-imposed misfortunes, and moving out as our own bills piled up.

  Chaotic, poor and overlooked, yeah, that was me, but not abused.

  You should know that I tried not to ever act on my impulses. I tried keeping a relationship with a real woman. I tried therapy, and even, you know, porn. But it was like holding back an avalanche with a teaspoon.

  No, of course you're not supposed to feel sorry for me. I screwed up and I got caught. And this was their brilliant solution. They should've just lobotomized me, or left me dead, because I still have those thoughts. I still remember tasting the cake. They didn't stop me from thinking about it, they just made it so I can't do anything but remember.

  So I ran away. That asshole handler, he could beat the shit out of us, then just heal us up like it never happened. He called them the perks. So I slit his throat and made for the hills before any of the others figured out what was going on.

  You wanted my story, that's it. Ain't pretty or tragic, like yours. But that's the truth.

  ***

  It's hard not to notice that Meghan has been scooting closer to me. She won't even look at Rick anymore. He's become invisible to her, like she just removed him from her scope of reality. Except he's not really gone, and I think she is still holding on enough to recognize that.

  So what are these noises above? Surely if it was kids playing in the rubble, they would have left by now. They wouldn't be digging through ashes and smoke-stained beams down to the crappy linoleum floor. Could it be our keepers?

  But I've been thinking about each of us, and our options.

  I love my mother, but I know she can't put herself aside to do what's right for me. Why should she mourn if she doesn't have to?

  Meghan. Not even death is fair, because even death couldn't save her from being stored away in her father's basement.

  And what of Rick? Yes, Rick. He thinks he's a victim of his impulses, and of a zero tolerance world. But a part of me—a big part of me—thinks he deserves it. I don't even have to ask Meghan what she thinks. I feel the tension as she takes my hand. I'm glad I'm safe for her. She deserves safe.

  Rick is not safe. Not for Meghan. The way he looks at her, leers at her. The uncomfortable way he tries to push at all her emotional wounds. There are times when I think he's purposely being crude, he turns a little when he pisses in a corner so he can see Meghan and she can see all of him.

  And last night I woke up to his grunts, a rhythmic moving in his sweat pants, as he inched his way toward Meghan, and she, fear in her eyes, trying to hide from him in the corner.

  Meghan squeezes my hand, tight. I don't know what to say, especially with Rick watching us. I can't read what's in his eyes. In part because I don't want to.

  And so I carry out the plan that's been brewing for a while. I move so fast it takes both of them by surprise. The sound of wood drawing across wood then clattering farther away covers the small grunt that slips my lips and the hiss that escapes from Rick as the pole that had been sitting next to me pierces his chest. It slides through his ribs smoothly. I drive it all the way into the concrete, as a loud crack reverberates around us. I pin Rick to the sheetrock. I bend the end up as much as I can without breaking the pole from the wall. Meghan only takes a moment to react behind me, picking up part of a concrete block and bringing it down on Rick's head. She sobs as the concrete connects and shakes for a while afterward. I reach out and grab her hand so she knows she's not alone.

  Rick slumps motionless on the rod and we both relax, until we realize that the rumbling above us has become hurried. And closer.

  Meghan takes out one of the windows, the glass falling around her and sparkling in the sunlight, and the rays catch her face just right. She really is a pretty girl.

  Three hard yanks between the two of us liberates the window frame from its mount. I make her go first because if I get caught, well, my mom doesn't mean any real harm. She waits for me, even though standing in the open is dangerous.

  Our hands entwine and we run as fast as our feet can hit the ground. We were once human, and after what I just did to Rick, I'm not so sure what's become of us.

  We're not what we used to be, alive or otherwise, and we may never be truly free, but as long as we keep running, together, they cannot keep us as their slaves.

  Michele Lee writes horror, science fiction and fantasy from the relative safety of her haunted house in the oldest section of Louisville, KY. Her work has appeared in Cthulhu Sex Magazine, Dark Futures, and Expanded Horizons. Her novella Rot is available through Skullvines Press.

  When she isn't writing, she reviews books of all genres, spends too much time on Twitter and grows monstrous vegetables. She can be visited at www.michelelee.net.

  —MOURNING WITH THE BONES OF THE DEAD

  by Gerard Houarner

  Albins looked small in his clothes, as if he'd shrunk in the time between diagnosis and his arrival at the hospice. Flesh had melted from his cheeks, revealing the bone beneath and giving him a stronger resemblance to his father,
Bernhard, who paid the taxi as the family got out of the car. The boy looked wrong, too much like a miniature version of his grandfather, who still lived in the old country and supported himself with his little garden and as a guide for foreign tourists and movie location scouts. When he'd been healthy, Albins had looked more like his mother, Gizela, with a cherubic face and thick limbs the bullies at school had learned to respect. Albins looked wrong because he was closer to death than Bernhard's father had ever been.

  "Come on, Daddy," Albins said, holding out a hand for his father to grab. Gizela already had the other one. "I don't want to be late for my appointment."

  His son's cheerful voice, strong and loud against the car engine's purr, skewered Bernhard. He took a breath, snorted at the engine fumes, straightened his sagging shoulders, paid the driver and joined the rest of his family on the steps to the old townhouse on the block of desolate urban wilderness. Gizela led them quickly into the building, as she was already fading under the harsh summer sun. The loss of children always hit mothers harder, Bernhard thought as he shut the front door behind them. He could spend hours in the heat if he had to, though he was relieved the rumble of buses and trucks, the honking of horns and gunning of engines was behind him. Familiar scents greeted him in the tiny vestibule. His ears pricked to the faint sound of crunching. Candles burned along the banister of a dusty set of stairs ahead of them.

  In the gloom, his son's skin still glowed unnaturally from his exposure to daylight; the boy could have stayed outdoors forever.

  "Are both of you going to stay with me?" Albins asked as two attendants emerged from opposing open doorways in the hallway that led from the vestibule. They smelled like freshly turned earth.

  "Yes, love," Gizela said, cupping her baby's head as the attendants stopped before them. Their teeth chattered, their blind eyes gazed past mother, father, son, through the steel door that had opened for the three after each had whispered the name they found in their mother's womb.