Best New Werewolf Tales (Vol. 1)

by Wilson, David Niall; Lamio, Michael; Newman, James; Maberry, Jonathan; Everson, John; Daley, James Roy

  Probably not getting enough sleep, he assumed.

  A bell rang. He opened the microwave door and retrieved the formula. The bottle was too hot, way too hot. Crazy hot. He tested it on his arm and felt the milky fluid burn like liquid fire.

  Good enough.

  He opened the door to the basement, walked down a rickety staircase, and clicked on a florescent light, spooking a cockroach from its resting place. The roach scurried across the wall in an arched line and Nicolas tried to catch it between his finger and his thumb. He missed. The cockroach fell to the floor. Its tiny legs hustled towards a crack in the wall and in it went. The bug was gone.

  Oh well, he thought. Better luck next time.

  The basement smelled bad, much worse than the inside of the fridge. It smelled like piss, shit, sweat, blood, and rot.

  The crying was louder now, much louder. If he had neighbors they’d complain for sure. This was a nugget of information that didn’t sit well with Nicolas, not in the slightest. Neighbors shouldn’t have to put up with such nonsense. It just wasn’t right. If he lived next to a noisy house he’d be seething in anger and out of his mind with rage.

  Nicolas walked through a room that housed hundreds of shoes, countless jeans, shirts, socks, underwear, hats, wallets, belts, watches, and coats. He opened a cellar door and turned on another light.

  The crying stopped immediately.

  He walked down a second staircase. It only had nine stairs and none of them were very big. The unfinished room at the base of the staircase had a very low ceiling. Walking inside the room meant that you had to crouch down and tuck your head into your shoulders like a turtle. The room was cold; it was always cold. In the wintertime it was freezing. The walls were made of rock and seemed permanently moist.

  The smell of shit and piss was strong now, strong enough to make a healthy man sick and a sick man pass out.

  And there she was: Cathy Eldritch.

  Cathy was thirty-one years old; her birthday fell on New Years Eve. She was right where Nicolas had left her… fourteen years ago––

  Inside a cage.

  2

  Cathy Eldritch was naked and covered in scars. Her ribcage stuck out from her skin and her muscles had wilted to noodles. Her large and unsightly nipples were dry and cracked, centering breasts that were non-existent. Her arms and legs were nothing more then sticks, elbows, and knees. Her few remaining teeth were black and rotting; her hair was long and crawling with bugs. Below the pits that housed her bright and sunken eyes––eyes that seemed far too alive and knowing, like Sun Gods buried in an apocalyptic badland––her nose had become as thin as a wafer and crusted with dehydrated wounds. Lips that were so tragically withered and cracked made her look like a mummy, or a living corpse, or like a horror story monster that needed to be buried in the earth and forgotten, a ghoul that lurked in the darkest corners of the most twisted and perverted minds. All of her toes and three of her fingers had been amputated, proof she had been a bad girl thirteen times.

  Nicolas named Cathy Eldritch: Kathy the Kitten.

  She was a trooper and he knew it; nobody lasted fourteen years. It seemed damn near impossible.

  Nicolas Nehalem approached the wire cage, which was nothing more than a modified, three-foot by three-foot square. He smiled a strange and outlandish smile, laced in twisted logic and perverted reason.

  After opening a small door on the right side of the pen, he dropped the bottle of formula inside. The bottle rolled between two walls of wire and landed on the caged floor.

  Cathy couldn’t reach the bottle. Not yet. Not until Nicolas released a lever that would unlock a small door inside the coop.

  “What do you say, Kathy?” He adjusted his glasses and slid a hand beneath his housecoat. He began stroking himself calmly.

  Cathy’s eyes were filled with starvation and madness.

  At one time she wanted to kill this man, make him pay, make him bleed. She had despised him more than anything else in the world. Now she only wanted her nightmare to be over. She wanted to die. Not in theory, and not in some exaggerated way that people say it but don’t really mean it. She wanted to die for real. She wanted this life to end and whatever was waiting for her on the other side to begin. And she was close, so close. She had been clinging to death’s front door for as long as she could remember. All she had to do was stop drinking the formula and she would cross over. All she had to do was die. But she couldn’t. She just couldn’t. She was famished––and her hunger wouldn’t allow her mind to say no to the bottle. She needed the bottle, the formula. And for this reason she didn’t hate Nicolas. Not now. She hated herself for needing him.

  She said, “Thank you daddy. I love you.”

  “Very well done,” Nicolas replied, knowing she hated expressing her love. His voice sounded calm, yet agitated; it always sounded agitated. “You’re a good baby today, yes you are; yes you are.”

  Nicolas wrinkled his nose playfully, raised his shoulders and opened his housecoat so Cathy could see his semi-erect penis. He released the lever on top of the cage.

  The bottle rolled another two inches.

  Cathy rammed a hand through the small cage door and grabbed the formula; flies buzzed around her. She put the bottle to her mouth and drank greedily, burning her mouth and tongue. She hardly even noticed.

  On the other side of the room were two more cages. One was empty. It had been empty for three weeks. The other cage had a young girl in it. The girl’s name was Olive Thrift. She was fourteen years old, might have been Asian. At this stage, it was hard to tell.

  Nicolas named her Pumpkin.

  Olive said, “Daddy, may I have a bottle too? I’ve been very good lately. I didn’t cry tonight or anything. Honest I didn’t.”

  “I’m sorry dear,” Nicolas said, stepping away from Kathy the Kitten. “I only brought one bottle with me. I guess I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Oh.” Olive’s eyes slipped down to the stumps on her hands. She only had three fingers left; she didn’t want to lose them. A multi-legged insect walked across her face and she swatted it away thoughtlessly. “Okay daddy. I understand. I love you.”

  “I love you too, Pumpkin. Have a nice night. I’ll see you tomorrow, or maybe the next day.”

  “Daddy?”

  “Yes dear?”

  “Can I please have some water? Both of my containers are empty.”

  “Mine are too,” Cathy quickly announced. “Can you fill mine too?”

  Nicolas approached Olive’s cage with his housecoat wide open and his genitals exposed. He put his knuckles to the wire.

  Olive suspected that he would. He had been doing that a lot lately. She figured it made him feel like royalty.

  She crawled toward Nicolas on her mangled digits and knobby knees, closed her dark and cheerless eyes and put her lips to the wire. Flies flew in circles around her. She kissed his hand as gently as she could manage.

  “You’re a good little Pumpkin,” Nicolas said. “Yes you are. And if you keep being a good little girl I’ll never have to smash your face in with a sledgehammer. Or set your cage on fire. Because you don’t want that, do you? No. Of course not.”

  Nicolas walked across the room, smiling insanely. He lifted a hose from a hook on the wall, turned a faucet, and approached Olive spewing hose-water where it fell. As he stood over Olive’s cage, she held out two water jugs and he filled them. He made his way to Cathy’s cage and poured water inside her coop for a little more than twenty seconds. She was able to fill one container and wet her hair before he dropped the hose and turned the faucet off, deciding enough was enough.

  At the top of the stairs he clicked the light switch on and off, several times. He was tired. He hadn’t been sleeping well plus he had to get up early. He had things to do, although he couldn’t quite remember what those things were.

  “Oh yeah,” he whispered. A grin that could have given a slaughterhouse butcher nightmares crept across his face like a spider on a corpse. “Now I remember.
”

  Closing the cellar door, he thought he heard a whimper.

  Sounded like Pumpkin.

  Pumpkin was a good girl; she was trying. And that’s what counted most in his books: trying. He hadn’t been forced to punish her lately, which was a nice change. Not since the incident with Pauline Stupid-Head had he been forced to perform one of his little operations. Not since he emptied the third cage.

  Thinking about Pauline’s empty cage made him sad and lonely.

  Empty cages need to be filled. Sure they did. An empty cage was wrong; everybody with a lick of sense knows that. But Nicolas was a busy man, he had things on his mind and his work was never done. The cage would have to wait.

  Nicolas crawled into bed wearing his housecoat. He lifted his cup from the nightstand, smiled at the clown holding the balloon, and slowly emptied the cup’s contents on the floor. Water splashed, creating a miniature lake where no lake had once been. He named this lake, Lake Empty Cage. He wondered how long the lake would last, and when he would be forced to make a new one.

  The clock beside him read 4:19 am.

  It was late, too late for feeding babies and making lakes. Maybe tomorrow he would punish Kathy the Kitten for waking him––maybe, but maybe not. He wasn’t sure yet. He would see how he felt in the morning.

  * * *

  Nicolas woke up early, went to the kitchen and mixed another bottle of formula. He warmed it perfectly, added a little chocolate and brought it to Olive; he apologized for not giving her a bottle the night before. Afterwards, he cleaned the basement and found each of his babies something to read. He gave them fresh blankets, a rice-crispy square, and a nice cup of coffee. Shortly after, he stepped inside a closet, stripped naked, and screamed for twenty minutes while pushing his fingers into his eyes.

  Want to keep reading?

  Check out the rest of the story here:

  JAMES ROY DALEY - TERROR TOWN

  * * *

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  MATT HULTS - HUSK

  STILLWATER, MINNESOTA

  Five Years Ago…

  Black.

  The suspect had painted every inch of his house black.

  Obscured by snowfall, it looked like nothing more than an apparition in the storm, but through the binoculars its sinister presence loomed as large and solid as a monolithic tombstone.

  Homicide detective Frank Atkins lowered the binoculars and handed them to his squad partner as the remaining S.W.A.T. officers took up positions to their left and right.

  “This is it,” Frank said. He unslung the HK sub-machinegun from his shoulder and flicked off the safety. “We’re going to need to move fast to cross that field without being spotted. This psycho is a slippery son of a bitch. We can’t give him the slightest opportunity to get past us.”

  Martin DeAngelo peered into the binoculars. “You do your thing, Detective. We’ll do ours.”

  “I mean it,” Frank replied. “I want this bastard taken down once and for all.”

  The officer smirked. “Just because you’re qualified for this shit doesn’t make you my commander. Follow my lead and leave the noble quest for vengeance up to the prosecutors, okay?”

  Frank looked to the house with the word on the forefront of his mind. Vengeance. That’s exactly what it came to. Vengeance for Christine Mitchell. For Katie Hart. For Sean Edwards. Vengeance for the adolescent boy they still couldn’t identify. Vengeance for all of them.

  “Jesus,” DeAngelo commented, still gazing through the binoculars. “I can already hear the insanity plea.”

  Frank racked the first round into the breach of his weapon. “If I find him first, he won’t be going to court.”

  Maybe it was the hiss of contempt on Frank’s tongue, or the soft squeak of rubber as his hands wrung the handle grip of is weapon, but DeAngelo’s stare broke from the house and regarded him with a creased look of uncertainty.

  “You don’t really mean that, do you?”

  Frank held his gaze. “Like you said, lieutenant: You do your job, I’ll do mine.”

  The man opened his mouth to reply when the voice of the taskforce commander came to life on their radio headsets.

  “Move in! Everyone, move in!”

  The tactical team plunged out of their cover of evergreens and charged toward the farmhouse, plowing through snowdrifts to the war-drum beat of the twin air-units approaching fast from the south.

  The black house loomed ahead. No lights, no sign of movement.

  They’d closed within yards of the target when a cataclysmic blast of thunder exploded overhead, shaking the air with the concussive force of a bomb. Three serpents of lightning slithered earthward through the flurries, striking a canted weathervane atop the killer’s rooftop. Sparks showered in every direction.

  Several of the men stopped in mid-stride, dropping into defensive postures.

  “Jesus!” someone yelled over the radio.

  “What the hell was that?”

  “Everyone in formation,” Frank roared.

  Praying they hadn’t lost the element of surprise, he crouched behind DeAngelo, staying close when the man hefted his riot-shield and rushed up the front steps to the porch. Another officer, Sergeant Rice, heaved a battering ram against the front door, pulverizing it in a hail of splinters and paint chips.

  “Police! Search warrant,” Rice shouted as a second officer tossed a stun grenade into the farmhouse’s foyer.

  Inside, the decoy device exploded, sending out a mild concussion to disorient anyone in the immediate area. The tac team rushed through the smoke in a stacked, two-by-two formation, spurred on by Rice shouting, “Go, go, go, go!”

  Frank followed in line behind DeAngelo, moving fast and low. He kept one hand on the S.W.A.T. officer’s shoulder and held his breath when they crossed over the threshold.

  Smoke swirled in the air.

  Combat boots hammered the floor.

  Three groups of officers, all entering the house from separate locations at once, began calling off cleared areas of the home. Frank and his squad entered a brightly lit foyer flanked by open doorways. Ahead lay a staircase and a long hall that extended toward the back of the house.

  Contrary to the exterior paintjob, the walls and floors inside the home appeared immaculately clean. The walls looked smooth and unblemished by age, dotted by dozens of pictures in decorative frames. Ornate woodwork made up the baseboards and trim. Hardwood floors gleamed, exuding the scent of fresh polish.

  From the hallway, Frank glanced into the living room on his right. He spotted a host of nick-knack covered end tables, chairs with white doilies draped over the armrests, and a plastic-sealed couch with an eye-sizzling floral print.

  “That room’s clear,” DeAngelo said. “Stay with me, Detective.”

  Frank’s hand had come away from the officer’s shoulder while he contemplated the dichotomy of their suspect’s strange dwelling, and he rushed to catch up. The forward half of their twelve man team raced up to the second level, leaving Frank and DeAngelo to lead the remaining squad members deeper into the house.

  A third of the way down the hall, they came upon a half closed door yet to be checked.

  “Basement,” DeAngelo said. He kicked the door open, and the stairwell beyond expelled a hot breath of putrescence. The stench of decay invaded Frank’s lungs, causing his chest to heave with a reflexive cough.

  “Police,” he yelled. “We’re armed.”

  He followed DeAngelo down the stairs, passing between mortar-caked stonework that brought to mind the crumbling tunnels of a subterranean tomb. A bare light bulb over the lower landing cast a fiery glow on the walls, and combined with the smell of death assaulting his nostrils, Frank imagined he’d not only trod into the domain of a killer but had descended into Hell itself.

  Four steps from the bottom Kale Kane lunged into view. Their suspect sprung from an open doorway to the right of the landing, brandishing an automatic weapon that exploded to life in a blaze of fire and noise.

 
; “Look out!” Frank cried, but it was already too late.

  The first barrage of gunfire hit DeAngelo’s shield center-mass then trailed up the stairs toward the other officers behind them. Bullets cut a dusty trail of destruction along the walls and risers as stray shots whined off the house’s cave-like foundation.

  Hot lead cut the sleeve of Frank’s uniform. More screamed past his helmet.

  DeAngelo fired two rounds from his sidearm. It was all he had time for. Following the second shot, sparks leapt from the stone on his left and a ricochet tore ear-to-ear through his head. Blood and brains sprayed Frank in the face.

  He fired a burst from the MP-5, but the shots went wild as DeAngelo’s body collapsed backward against him.

  The other officers higher up the steps erupted into a fury of shouts and hollers, everyone struggling to flee the cramped stairwell and retreat toward safety. Return fire sputtered overhead, amplifying the chaos and adding to the cries of several men shrieking in pain.

  Half-blinded by the rain of debris coming off the walls, Frank shoved DeAngelo’s corpse toward Kane with all of his might, slamming the killer back into the room he’d emerged from.

  The gunfire ceased.

  Frank charged after Kane before he could regain the advantage. He rounded the corner in time to see the madman slap a fresh clip into his weapon.

  Frank rammed him in the chest, tackling him to the ground.

  Kane’s weapon roared, spitting fire inches from Frank’s face.

  The two struck the floor and rolled apart, each coming up into a half-crouch with only a few feet between them.

  Both snapped up their weapons. Their gazes locked over the gun sights.

  “Drop it,” Frank shouted.